Igor

Igor throws one glance towards the sea, and her stomach lurches like a thing with wings. A distant memory slithers in across the glasslike surface of the water, a memory of the dead and the long forgotten. Igor wants to run, back to the Fortress, back to Princess, but Boss said that today was her birthday, and everyone must celebrate.

The pimps look pale and clammy, sandwiched in between a blistering sand and a blazing sun, their new linen suits patchy with sweat. The whores fan their faces like melting waxwork señoritas, their make-up running down their boobs, and their boobs running down their bellies. Igor takes off the glittery red shoes Boss had shipped in from the poshest shop on Champs-Élysées, smooths down her blue and white gingham dress, and starts singing ‘Happy Birthday’, in a terrifying voice of a mute.

Boss snaps his fingers, and the next moment everyone is singing, each in their own language; the choir of the damned. Old Nico staggers down the dune carrying a birthday cake. Boss cracks open the champagne. Everybody claps. Igor grins. Tomorrow, she will betray Boss. But today, she may as well eat the cake.