Detroit Part II

And so Saturday's eve quickly faded into Sunday's morn and we set forth to a small inn dubbed simply "2 Dollar Breakfast." This Hut manufactured almost entirely of petrified Steak featured a lively jig-reeling festivity as we drank our watery coffee and ate our 2 dollar breakfasts that in actuality cost 2.69.

A Greek named Gus fried our eggs over an open skillet and asked us from whence we came. We told him of our harrowing escape from Denver by steam train, how the smell of cannon fodder and hound saliva trailed behind. Yes, of course we embellished slightly, but this was Detroit, where the blood of the slain stain the street rusty orange, where they import trash to burn it within the city limits so that the residents may attain higher levels of impenetrability. Gus was not impressed. He had narrowly escaped a few too many deaths for we posh Coloradanians to compete with.

We arrived that eve at Cliff Bell's, a hidden speakeasy with Ceilings of Mahogany cupping wafts of gray paisley cigar fumes. They asked us not for our documents but told us to lay our rail guns or other weaponry at the door. We admitted to having no such armaments aside from my novelty juggling knives. They chuckled, as if to type "rofl" at a "newbie" on the AetherWeb entering for the first time into a debate about the very Nature of Existence.

We were on edge. Would this sophisticated tank of ruffians, in their tophats and bowties succumb to our frilly stories of the apocalypse? Were they not already living the Apocalypse themselves?

"Such Socratic Method will get us nowhere, my dear Kayne," I said as I stuffed an apple, an onion and a carrot into my underwear. I took to the stage and began with a slight bit of banter before breakdancing with my eyebrows over hip hop beats provided by the same jazz drummer from the night before. I then erotically pulled the fruits and vegetables from my trousers, smelled them for good measure, then began to eat and juggle them simultaneously. I realized after a moment that I was near choking to death on a peice of onion. I was crying and I stopped, apologized to the audience, though they were rather delighted by my suffering. I had struck the right chord for this city of Sadists, perhaps. Then, for my awkward coup'd'grace I juggled knives above a young woman who seemed neither afraid of death nor of killing. The crowd exploded in Accolations and I left the stage amidst a shower of rose petals and fecal matter.

We finished the Eve with the harrowing tale of Robocat, Apocalyptic Feline Incarnate and the intoxicated audience didst quake with Fear!