The perfectly delightful Darlingos has the look of a sixties movie star - long hair, blue eyes,
slim coltish figure.  Plus she has a dark but pleasing vampiric sensibility that reminds me of
Morticia Addams in the original tv show. She's been chosen 'Vampyre Queen of the Week', 'Gothic
Vampire of the Week' and 'Freshly Resurrected Rotting Goth Corpse of the Week'.  You name it. Put 
these qualities together and she could star in the next Austin Powers movie - as long as it was 
called 'The Spy Who Shoggothed Me'

Also she has an 'unusual' sense of humor and a creative streak a mile wide.  In other words, she's
desireable to the mega-max.  In fact, she's just the ticket.

Preparation:

On her form Darlingos says she prefers a younger man.  That's not hard 'cause she descibes
herself as a grandma!  You'd never guess.  She doesn't look it (apart from the mop cap,
shawl and little round glasses.)  What the hell, just means she's 'experienced'.

Darlingos says she likes a guy to have lots of piercings. No problem there since my last visit
to Butcher Bob (yes, the swelling has gone down, thanks for asking.)  She says she could only
let herself be be kissed by a guy with a tongue stud.  Oh, oh, problemo. Does this mean another
excruciating visit to Butcher Bob?  No! Fortunately I have a home rivet kit I use for mending jeans.
I coax my tongue into a vice, clamp it down and press the punch.  Pretend it doesn't hurt. Scream a
bit.  Okay, it hurts like hell but the blood tastes good and fifty bucks feels better in my pocket
than in Butcher Bob's pocket (not that any sane individual would ever want to put their hand in Butcher 
Bob's pocket, of course.)

One last thing.  Darlingos says that her ideal date would wear a fright wig.  Well, of course.
I track down a 'Pimps' Accessories' store called Huggy Bear's, and buy myself a little number 
called a 'Rainbow Warrior'  - a bubbly Afro in white, pink, yellow and blue nylon.  Okay, when I put it on
I look like a clown.  But Darlngos goes for clowns.  I know this because she has a photo of
herself on her homepage standing next to - dwarfed by! - what looks like John Wayne Gacey in a 
clown makeover.

I pull the fright wig on tight.  Full-tilt Boogie. Let's get to work.
 

The Seduction:

I call Darlingos from the airport and introduce myself: "This is Varney from Paris. I'd like to
interview you about your Mean People Rock website..."

Her pleasant, softly-modulated voice pauses.  "You came all the way from Paris to interview me?"

"But of course."

"What kind of ticket did you use?"  Suddenly, her voice is intense, searching, anxious.

"Baggage class, of course," I admit.  "I always travel in my box. Hey, a dollar's a dollar..."

"Right."  Another pause, then she says, "Sounds ticketyboo.  Come on over."

Twenty minutes later I'm knocking on Darlingos' door. She opens the door a piece. 
She looks great.  Well-preserved. Petite. Cool.  Elegant. Bubbalicious.

She peers out at me.  "Varney?"  I detect approval of what she sees.

"Himself!"

"Got a ticket?"

"What?"

"I have to see your ticket..."

Wow, I think. Is this babe forward or what?  And how come she knows a 'ticket' is English army
slang for a penis?

"Sure." I reach for my zipper.

"I got to punch your ticket," she elaborates.

Not again, I think to myself.  The damn thing already has so much hardware in it it's hanging to
my knees...Then I notice Darlingos is holding her hand out expectantly way above my waist.  Maybe
I'm wrong about this.

"You need a ticket to come in," she explains. "If you don't have one, I can sell you one."

She sells me a ticket for five dollars plus federal and state taxes and a booking fee.  Pretty
good racket, I think. Might just try it myself.

She hands me a purple ticket.  Then snatches it back and, very professionally,  tears it in half.

She steps aside and I finally get to enter.  Inside, it's hip, it's cool, it's Darlingos! Fifties
cool refracted thru nineties postmodernism.  There's music too. Something that sounds like an
Icelandic cover version of Southern Death Rock.

I empty a box of baby alligators and snapping turtles onto the floor.  "For your grandchildren,"
I tell her. She smiles in appreciation. "Thanks. Ticketyboo."

There's a pause as I look her up and down slowly, appreciatively.  She looks highly desireable
in a cool sleeveless summer dress in black pvc. It's low cut and her white bosom looks coiled and
ready to spring out at me. Several of her tattoos are revealed to my gaze, including the exotic 
design between her breasts.  The one on her shoulder - in Sumerian hieroglyphs - says 'This Way Up.'

Darlingos licks her full inviting lips.  I feel my testosterone glands cry out, "Surf's up!" Not yet
I tell my surging male hormones. I remember Darlingos is a nicotine freak.  "Cigarette?" I ask.
She nods.  I offer her a camel.  She frowns and shakes her head. I push the camel aside and
offer her a cigarette instead.  Our eyes lock as I light her up.  The camel gets the hump and
heads out the door back to Beverly Hills.

Darlingos and I exhale in unison, a smoky blue-tinged moment from a Paul Auster movie. My smoke
mixes tentatively with her smoke, like our invisible probing tentacles of sexuality.  "So tell me, 
Darlingos," I say finally, "is it true Mean People Rock?"

"Sure," she affirms.  "See for yourself..."  I follow her gaze---and by God, she's right! Across
the room Adolph Hitler is jiving with Ivana Trump. Nearby, Saddam Hussein is bumping and grinding
with Imelda Marcos. Beyond them I see Bill Clinton is trying to rock and roll with Madonna which
isn't easy because little 'Babykiller' Blair is clamped like a limpet to his crotch.

I blow smoke in a way that says I'm impressed.  "The Pope's wrong and you're right, Darlingos...
Mean People do Rock!"

She says, "Ticketyboo."

I look at her sharply.  "What's with this ticket thing?" I demand.

She lowers her eyes, embarrassed. "I'm sorry...You see, I used to work at Ticket Master...and...and
ever since all I ever think about is...tickets...tickets...tickets!" In a gesture of despair she
flings the pieces of torn-up tickets across the room.

I move quickly to her and pull her close.  "Did you know that 'ticket' is old English slang for
penis?" I ask her.

With a delightful blush, she slowly raises her eyes and meets my gaze. "No," she says, in a low,
anxious voice, "but I should have guessed something like that was coming up next."

"I have a pretty good idea how to cure this obsession of yours," I say to her, "but first we have 
to be alone..."  I pull her into the next room and switch on the light.  We're in a closet. I
pull her out of the closet and into the next room.  It's a toilet.  I pull her out of the toilet
and into the next room.  At last, we're alone in her bedroom.

I hold her close.  "Darlingos Darling...Darling Darlingos...I think I know what's behind this
obsession with tickets...My instant opportunist analysis tells me that it reveals a desperate need
to escape this mundane reality...to travel and see the world!"

"You think so?" she asks, frowning.  "I thought it had to do with penises." She sounds
disappointed.

"That too...but, remember, a ticket is a means to an end. A way to escape...Come away with me
and I'll take you to all the places you've ever dreamed of...London...Paris...Rome...Zanesville,
Ohio...The world will be our Auster...er...Oyster!"

"Oh, yes..." says Darlingos longingly.

Our bodies press against each other, moulding, melding in the heat of passion.  Our lips seek each 
other out, crush each other, dry at first, then wet.  Our tongues collide and thrash in 
moistening caverns of lust.  Our tongue studs scrape urgently together, making sounds like 
legions of giant crabs copulating in the night.

My fevered hands make a world tour of her body, fingers sinking into the melting pvc, pulling 
aside her second skin, probing her cool, smooth, compliant orginal skin...

It's a long time before she starts to pull away.

In a voice that's almost a moan, she says, "Have you got---?"

"Right here," I tell her, reaching down.

"Show it to me.  Show me your ticket."

"Here...My entry ticket...My ticket to ride..."

"Oh, yes..."

Softly, warmly, into her ear: "You've read William Burroughs?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Then you...?"

"Yes!"

"...know...?"

"Yes!"

"THE TICKET THAT EXPLODES!"