Written by
Japhy Grant
11.03.2006
He breathed in a sighful of the humid stinking city air and held it in his mouth a moment while all around Him, His friends gathered to say farewell. The party was already an unqualified success, as both publicity event and as commemoration, historical pushpin on the map of His life. The bar had been divided up into various areas—where He stood now, sipping a sojutini, were a ring of red leather couches, intimate, private, this is where He’d been greeting people all night. The bar was the bar and the rest of the space had been devoted to various New York hipsters, friends from the studio and whoever else managed to get put on the Evite list. On the walls were photos of dead celebrities— Alice from The Brady Bunch, Dick Caveatt, Agnes Moorhead— each one with horns painted on in candy red nail polish. He wasn’t actually all that sure Dick Caveat was dead, to be honest. All in all, however, this was the best venue in the city for what He wanted to do. It was, after all, called ‘Hell’.
