35053668-Empire-of-the-Soul-Paul-William-Roberts

358
EMPIRE OF THE SOUL
gnawed sequins, much cheap, nettinglike gauze, and the kind of
satin that would be just about acceptable as coffin liner. Everything
was in a bilious and synthetic green.
Amps humbled considerably, Freight Train, now lurking in the
tenebrous void behind their equipment, struck up something fairly
approximating a bossa nova. Dimple began to flop around, as if
striving to shake loose some object lodged down the back of her
dress. Her legs were controlled by circuits unconnected to anything
above what, on another, would have been a waist. This risible
spectacle continued through the first number. As the band headed
off into curried salsa, Dimple unceremoniously tore open the Velcro
fasteners that held her party frock in place, revealing a bikini
produced by the same green conspiracy. The bottom was a good
two feet from crotch to waistband, made of material as thick as a
horse blanket. The top extended from collarbone to sternum, and
looked like a nun’s brassiere from the 1940s.
It was immediately apparent why her legs refused to cooperate:
they ended at her knees. Above that was really just one mighty thigh,
with a vague dent down the centre to suggest it might once have
been twins.
The crowd loved her. The Indian youths were leaning in rapt
attention, hands thrust into trouser pockets, mouths open, eyes
locked on Dimple’s every lumbering move.
I felt like shouting Put it on! Put it on! because I hoped she wasn’t
planning to take it off.
As this dancing tragedy proceeded, I noticed much coming and
going through a door at the far end, now visible thanks to Dimple’s
extra lighting requirements. I edged down the room to see better. A
couple of archetypical Indian big shots emerged from that door.
Both four-hundred-pounders, with long sideburns like straps
holding on the slippery quiffs of oiled hair decorating their small
skulls, they wore silk kurtas, many chains and rings, and polyester
trousers fashionably flared above white patent leather Gucci-style
loafers. I can guarantee they smoked Dunhills and drank Black
Label.
Emerging from a torrent of Tamil, one said in English to the
other, ‘I am preferring one with the big titty.’