The Drunken Flamingo at the Heart of the Virgin

Between my apartment and the nearest bar exists 11 minutes in a bus. As I exit one I see the white and purple neon that marks the local strip club Maxxim. Posters picturing Venus and Mona Lisa decorates this facade as a number of guys and gals pass them to enter, only to later be disappointed. As I cross the road I notice Dan's Pool House on my left. This is a place – unlike what I see ahead – that is mostly visited at noon. It might be empty now since the hour have passed midnight. The colorful Mexi Bar grins at me as I proceed to enter the Virgin. I casually dodge the heavy traffic ahead as I notice doormen guarding every bar, thus every entrance of every building in this street. A 'Do Not Enter' sign might not have been efficient enough. My way is constantly interrupted by dogs who bark at my attention. They have had too much “fanta” and they now want to sniff and surely eat my tulip. I cut a detour through these howling hounds in hopes of them sniffing their behinds instead of mine, and then I stand at one of the aforementioned doormen. This Frankenstein grunts at my ID and move to the side as the improvised door of this haven. From within this now gaping maw I can hear the roaring melody inviting me inside The Drunken Flamingo. Fitting with this theme I here inside see many birds of feathers flock together: glamorous flamingos with long legs springing from beneath their elegant plumages; short and stout dodos who waddle about with plump and up-turned booty pops so to not be overlooked or forgotten; and finally I see common blackbirds fizzling around the darkened shadows. I cannot tell which specie I belong to and I feel wary of their beaks: pointy as nails and hard as hammers. Locked and loaded like holstered rifles. I push myself near the vibrant bar. Tight-shirted tenders stand protected behind the bar and thus separated from my mob. As I overhear a conversation near me concerning how an Erik left a Louise and then sympathy for Erik's situation, I reach for a menu and curiously skim it: besides some odd drinks containing garlic and spring onions, I spot a drink called 'Flaming Flamingo'. I push myself away again and behind me then overhear a Spanish-speaking voice ask one of the tight-shirts for weed. I don't think Reagan would have approved of this place.

Outside the bar again, I suddenly feel what must have been a robe around my wrist. As I turn to resist what I assume is another drooling mutt, I see a child with me in her firm grip and tears in her eyes. 

„I lost my mom” she says.