Written by May Bea Sunshine.
After numerous invitations and taunts from House Black of my simply talking the talk (or type as the case may be), yet not having the gall to actually walk the walk through the doors of The Burlesque Underground, I took it upon myself, dear readers, to go right to the source. For what is any self-respecting journalist without the nerve to gather first-hand information from primary sources?
My suspicions about The Black Family from my years of research and award-winning journalism left me with little preparation for what I was to find in their revolting den of deviance. Upon approach I spied two intimidating, hulking figures smoking in the doorway, backlit by candles peeping through the curtains, with a gravel-throated soundtrack of a gentleman I could only assume to be Jack Lad, wailing his libertine troubles into the night. The figures in the doorway loomed out of the darkness, and much to my fright I slowly took in their attire from the ground up: Gestapo boots, combat trousers, and what I suddenly realised from the Totenkopf insignia on their military caps resting by the ashtray, were full Nazi Schutzstaffel uniforms.
Evidently, they welcome all kinds at The Burlesque Underground.
Least shocking seemed to be the servants of House Black, half-naked hired help wafting around in garters and with cleavage threatening to burst out of their very bustiers, a particularly buxom such employee sashayed herself over to me and showed me to my seat. My cabaret table, in prime position, seemed almost deliberately dressed. Small palm cards inviting guests to ask each other sexually provocative questions were scattered amongst tea light candles. Books of smut by such filth-merchants as The Marquis De Sade and Sybil Leek sat artfully arranged upon a bed of rose petals, and curiously, a single sprig of plump grapes. I surveyed the tables around me- not one other table had fruit offerings.
I took in the clientele. Young and old, businessmen sat with goths, a gentleman looking suspiciously like James Bond, a notable politician who shall remain unnamed for fear of litigation, gaggles of female twentysomethings egging each other on with champagne, gorgeous young men and women of the night- a true motley crew of people who, while on the outside may seem perfectly normal (save perhaps for our Nazi friends), all shared a deep lust for the dark and sordid offerings of “The Adult Playground”.
Suddenly, a smooth and sensual male voice came out of nowhere and announced the arrival of The Bohemian Belle, Bella Jade: The New Black. In her first performance as Mrs Jasper Black, Bella Jade sauntered through the crowd, clad in diamonds, fur, velvet, and most offensively, a crucifix. That the matriarch of a house of such ill repute can dare to don the image of Christ seemed too blasphemous for words. She took to the stage, and in a soft, husky voice, began serenading her children of the night.
Though her presence was like poison, they adored their new queen. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as she swayed and purred her song past me. I could feel every fibre of my being prickle with all her wicked plans as she slinked like a jewel-encrusted black panther. They say first impressions last- and that, my dear readers, was all I needed. The woman is pure evil.
Once Bella finished her satanic siren’s song, I endeavoured to explore my surrounds some more.
Shackles hung from the walls, alongside suspiciously vaginal murals and Art Nouveau nymphs covered in Swarovski crystals. As I entered the depths of The Adult Playground, I saw rows of seats arranged in somewhat of a theatre, but instead of a stage, dear readers, I saw a decadent bed. Adorned in rich velvet, lace, and gilded cushions, my mind raced with thoughts of what disgusting acts of sin took place in front of an audience of hellbound heathens. Suddenly, looming out of the corner and uplit like Bela Lugosi’s Dracula, a figure clad in an expensively tailored black velvet suit. Bourbon in hand, eyes lined in jet-black kohl, the reality of who stared up at me hit me like a lightning bolt.
***PLEASE NOTE – Due to impending libel lawsuits with the Black Family Inc. the remainder of this manifesto has been removed from print. Parties involved in the prosecution process and law enforcement may contact the Black Family lawyers at Bradbury & Co.
All characters and story lines remain the property of N.Ristovski and the Underground. All character writings within the Underground are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013. Natalie Ristovski.