J’ai tout vu, j’ai tout su et j’ai tout oublié Song N.3 Hotel California
Lucile Littot
Song N.3 Hotel California
She speeds through the silver sun and misty skies in 270 horsepower. She has an appointment.
She let her long white hair down, wanting to feel it whip against her face with every acceleration. Goodbye, blowout.
Her stitched lips are painted red, and like every week—like a Venetian—she scrubbed her teeth with a blend of pearl, dragon powder, peach pit, and cuttlefish bone to give them that aristocratic whiteness.
SMILE YOU ARE ON CAMERA!
At the red light, she watches dancers spinning on glittering poles; amputated limbs and torn princess dresses.
They wiggle on the rubble of shattered mirrors, apocalyptic open-air clubs, ruins of the tomb-city.
One of the girls gives her a toothless smile. Green light. She tosses three dollars at her and speeds off.
In a society obsessed with appearances, only the wounded catch her attention.
She loves driving for hours toward nothingness, mind drifting, memories playing.
The whistle of a bomb rings in her ears as the powder-blue Mercedes parked across from the Gaylord bursts into flames.
She doesn’t flinch. Free live show, on loop “every day” since the monarchy returned to power.
She remembers the first day of her “first date” when, driving down Sunset Boulevard, she saw a car explode.
The charred bodies of the victims still bent through the flames trying to escape hell.
She remembers the day she trashed a hotel room and ordered a “Royal Breakfast” after the owner fled like a dog into the starless night—
No, not like a dog!!! She loves dogs!!!
She remembers the green and purple face of her murdered grandmother, embalmed in Hermès scarves, then the shattered face of her fallen heroine on the ground.
The sound of Chinese tourists’ camera flashes stealing the pathetic scene of the crash landing.
She remembers that friend who once told her, “You’re a gangsta in a goddess’s skin.”
He was probably right. Not like she ever really had a choice, right?
In her suit of light, Amazon of forgotten times, she had gutted more than one. It filled the void.
She began to hum: “Love and lightning are flames of heaven’s burning fury, which violent to our souls, appear violet to our eyes.”
Her phone buzzed. She read the text aloud, mimicking the syrupy voice of a spoiled brat pumped full of antidepressants:
“Hi cupcake! Do you want to come hang out with me at Château? I can send you a limousine…”
She smiled. She looked at her pretty teeth reflected in the blade of the small knife, which made her gold prosthetic gleam in the suddenly rare sunlight.
She thought of the swift, professional motion she’d make when the little knife plunged like lightning into the Xanax-bloated belly, and how he’d sink to the bottom of his pool like a giant marshmallow without a splash.
SMILE YOU ARE ON CAMERA!
She gave a little giggle of excitement and slid her Lolita-style sunglasses back onto what was left of her nose.
In the parking lot, a gray-haired man with a chivalrous air, three-piece suit, lace panties in his left breast pocket, offered her alms.
She responded to the angel with a hand over her heart, then tossed him the coins. He kissed her hand and vanished.
In a society obsessed with appearances, only the wounded catch her attention.
She revved the engine and sped toward the ocean.
Revenge is a dish best served cold, they say?
Good thing—she loves sushi 😉
Dolores, Sunset Boulevard from Downtown to Malibu, 2028