Newspapers / The Guilfordian (Greensboro, N.C.) / Sept. 23, 1994, edition 1 / Page 10
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Ztx 10 Apocalicks Mao (icey) soft hands on quiet flesh the world eating itself *eternal regurgitation* bile denial — honey girls attracting swarms of eyes the wind slapping your face *a young child's monstrous clap * jaundice fear in your too close breath trumpeting the air in mighty triumph * existence explained by the successful tragedy of the titantic *possible death * flowers taking pictures us everywhere *wide angle* waves of metal teeth licking at our legs cats lapping up milk *the malady is absorbed* people burning flames drowning waves eating hunger *baroophing elephants * night swallowing you up in one gradual thunder *twinkie souls* day colliding much too fast with you *one hand manipulates the others* (i see) /4Uune SALON A Full Service Salon We now offer students (with a valid college ID) a 20% Discount on any of our services For appointment, please call Nancy Rhoades, Donna Wyatt or Donnie Paschal Color/Weavings Haircuts Perms Nails Massages 852-3211 515 College Rd. Guilford Square Building Suite 20 100 yds south of Harris Teeter —Chris Singler Jfeaturat Notes From the Underground: Part Two Andrews Howell London Correspondent As soon as I cleared customs, I noticed that London is a busy town. They zip around in their little four-bangers like they'll be in physical pain if they don't get to point "B" before the rest of London. Back in Mexico they were all in a hurry too, but they just enjoyed speeding. London ers have a psychological need to pass every single one of their co horts. One of those double decker buses took me to Victoria Station, where I grabbed a cab for Bayswater. I rode with my eyes closed and my seatbelt secure. In the roundabouts that govern most of the traffic in London, I kept expecting to see Charlton Heston pass our cab in a Roman Chariot I was glad it was not me driving. In. our cab, I tried to talk to the driver about the cold, damp En glish weather. That was when I realized that Americans have a ton of misconceptions about the En glish; the most important being the idea that people in England speak English the American ear has been lulled into laziness by smooth talkers like Peter Jennings and Joan London, people who enunciate each syllable so con cisely that one can comprehend with minimal concentration. That fast talking English cam driver did not speak any language I knew. In the hotel lobby, I realized that during the tourist season there were more foreigners in this town than there were Native London ers. Good! That would help me fit in. Jet lag struck, and I crashed until evening. I awoke, remembering that Bruno, the Killer, had been sent to kill. I knew I was in London the moment I stepped off that 767 from Philadelphia. Bruno was that good, one of the finest assas sins America had created. Time was running. I knew Bruno, I knew exactly where he would spend his leisure time. "Take me to the Red Light Dis trict, " I told the cab driver.Red Light District?" "Yeah you know, whores, sexshops, that sort of thing." He laughed, "You mean Soho." Soho. The chief told me to have a drink there. " Do you know a bar called x The Best Little Horse House In Soho' ?" "It's a pub," the cabbie cor rected me. Right." We have nothing in America that compared to a pub. A pub is more than a place to drink. In a pub you sit in old comfy furniture, eat "chips," which we call French Fries, and meet all sorts of inter esting people. When I left the air port, I thought that the English *** * Howell C.I.A. Operative were cold and introverted, but I threw out that idea when I sat in the Horse House. Pubs are warm, classy places where the conversa tion is better than the food, but not quite as good as the beer. From my seat in the corner, I could see all the exits and the en tire clientele of the pub. I sipped a Guiness. Thick, heady, creamy stuff; Guiness is real beer. A small grey man stood in front of a "beau-peep" slot machine. Every so often I heard change jingle into the tray. The old guy left his game and walked to my booth real ca sually. He sat across from me. "John Farley?" he said. " The same," I said, reaching up my sleeve. The dagger lives there. "Relax." His accent was not American, but it was not really English either. "I'm David West. Chief sent me to show you around this metropolis." He spoke from the side of his mouth, his teeth were all crooked. " You English?" I asked. "Good lord no. Canadian." He smiled. Great. Canadian. "You're awfully young," he no ticed. "You're awfully Canadian," I replied. "He laughed, unrolling a news paper. It's headline read: "Com merce Chairperson Dies." "Your Pal Bruno." I skimmed the article. "Did people Actually believe this guy slipped in spilled tea?" September 23,1994 "Well they marked the time of death at around 4 P.M." I gave him a "what are you bab bling about?" look. "Tea time." Oh. "I see Bruno, every day, " he said in the same way someone would say, "I bush my teeth ev eryday." He smiled again. "He's dangerous. He knows you follow him, " he said, put ting the accent on the last syl lable. "He goes into a little strip place down here at 11:00 P.M. ev ery night." He pointed and winked. "El Sharpo." "Take me there." "Alright," he said, "but don't expect me to go in." "Don't worry." West split and I stood in front of a small door that unlike many other on the street, was not framed by neon lights. That made me worry. A shapely girl with a messy face stepped from the doorway. She was like any of the short skirted whores who stood in doorways of massage parlors, video shops, and adult book stores in this neighbor hood. "Want to see a live dance show? Two drinks, two pounds," she grinned. "Sounds like a deal," I said. Down in a waiting room, re ally a sofa in a dark cubicle, I waited for the next show to start. Another girl sat next to me, close. "This is a personalized show, Love. You have to tell me what you want." "Information." I pulled out a picture of Bruno. Suddenly a door swung open and a huge black man came from a room where throbbing music shook the lights. Another happy costumer I figured. "You got 200 pounds?" he asked politely. "Why?" This was trouble. This stunk. "Let me rephrase. I'm a kick boxer, now you got 200 pounds?" I stood. He reached for my windpipe. I had not even seen a naked girl yet, Andy Howell is a Junior currntly studying through Guilford's abroad program in London.
The Guilfordian (Greensboro, N.C.)
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Sept. 23, 1994, edition 1
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