92 Twitter Road

Mitch looked back at the dollbabe, further back the coppers pulling away from their crime scene. They'd watched from the corner, spectatin'.

Saw a bearded dude reach down, yank at something, then show the cops. Hot chippie on his arm, but Mitch's was snappier, man. Lots of lips.

They'd met at the State Lake, he had been looking for the Yesla Taproom, walked into the bigscreen viewing of NETIZEN CANE. Cheap ripoff.

Not stag stuff, where the hell did the colors come from. Then his eyes pingponged on the babe in blue with some glowing screen in her lap.

He sat down, bantered up that he was looking for the bar but that's the way the mop flops, she just smiled a smile, said call her Lili, mwa.

That Monroe thing, airkisses. Lili Sirenity. He took her tiny hand, did the Bobby but they call me Pall Mall scripteroo. She winked, said go.

They got gone, walked back towards Michigan Ave and the hotel, she was faster at getting to the short hairs than he had ever been. He moved.

Passed Sinatra, who looked way old. Frankie said he outlived Mitch, damn drunk. Said Mitch wore thick glasses & had jowls, Mitch: die first.

Then the bearded guy, the two chippies sizing each other up & down then up again. Mitch thinking threesome, dump pudge-o. 1 dame at a time.

Surprise, they went to the beach instead, sunset making the sand look like simmering coals. They took a pedway to avoid Lake Shore Drive.

Down steps that smelled like urine and sweat and cachet. The thin, silver, BIG purse Lili carried slapping sexy off her fine toned thigh.

The tunnel was like a bent spine, Mitch wondered if cops walked a beat down here, if they came across one night stands propped against walls?

Idle thoughts as he was led like an adult pull toy. He could smell the water now. Up the steps, heading east into the black, cars honk away.

Meanwhile: things had gotten crazy in the ripped timestream the all-knowing Pall Mall Mitchum UN-knowingly left at the other end of LSD.

Genghis Khan shivered morphed into Edward G. Robinson into J. Edgar Hoover wearing a push up bra and panties, toppling in matching pumps.

Evolvo-humans from the first lunar colony flew above the towers, collided and fell to the concrete as raindrops, Hoover in the mud got wet.

The first mime Pope of the First Vatican Bank signed autographs the year he was born, Sinatra regressed into a backseat toadie, moon sun.

Moon again. Red dot in the sky. Mitch almost stepped on an I LIKE IKE button, shinynew. The rust speck fell slow; no one saw Methane Man.

Drake Hotel, Playboy Building Palmolive Building Hugh Hefner turned 70 50 40 11, a curious case for a future dream, Mitch disruptive doomed.

He wanted to cop a feel, the doll flipped open her purse again, it was a tiny tv screen, fingers flew on silver letters ROBERT then MITCHUM.

He tried typing an apology note to his wife once, gave up, but some goon snapped a photo just the same, ended up in WINK September 1959.

Strange-o stuff coming up on the mini-TV. The doll, legs crossed, heels tossed. His films, STUMBLE UPON THE PAST, BALLAD OF TWITTER ROAD.

CAPE FACEBOOK. Then a photo, the NY POST, July 4th 1997. Mitch right there, saggy baggy and glasses like scotch tumblers. This was a scam.

Told the broad he'd catch her later, a lie. She said her career was coming up next, he shouted suave, Baby, I Don't Care! His signature.

Methane Man hovered close, waiting for Mitch to get out of sight, not that witnesses mattered, but the timestream was tricky: some recalled.

[to be continued]