The Sharp End of the Stick It was pouring in New York City that hot July night in 1947. It was late. Dark. The bars were closed and the streets of Hell’s Kitchen were empty of people, but full of moving water, washing the summer’s grime into the Hudson. The Devil, his red face streaming with tears, stood in an alley behind a shuttered bodega with Speedy West and Mark Rothko. Consumed with obvious anger, Rothko and West were gesturing wildly as they spoke, their hushed voices barely audible over the clattering racket of water on the empty trash cans and metal awnings, and the un-muted sobbing of the Antichrist. Satan’s great head hung heavy in shame, his black heart broken once again. 77 El Deora |
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