How Do Mechs Love?

Flaming Tango beneath the Beard of a Colossus

            “Can you believe they finally completed it?” A man in a white tuxedo with winged collar says as devours free jumbo shrimp.

            “The sheer ingenuity of it all is a marvel!” A woman to his right in a red cocktail dress laughs coquettishly as she touches his gold cuff links.

            A rakish looking middle-age man in a checkered sports coat and a lime green bowler hat approaches behind the couple. “Sorry, folks, but I couldn’t help hear your praise.” He removes his hat revealing a retreating hairline slicked back with enough grease that he should fear open flames. “I had to thank you, miss.” He grabs her palm and kisses her gloved hand with his leathery lips.

            She recoils from his touch. Gritting a smile she asks, “How did manage to do that?” She points to a giant rocky ceiling with long, scraggly tufts of lichens.

            “Miss, that is all about stellar planning.” He put his bowler back on while grabbing a Monte cristo sandwich from a passing waiter holding a silver-plated serving tray.

            “You’ll have to tell me exactly how planning allowed you to fell such a monster.” The winged man says insinuating himself between the two. As the three continue to talk, the floor shakes ferociously and tiny pebbles bead down from the craggy crevices of the ceiling. The moon is huge in the sky as the tides lap against the rear facing rock. A labored breeze flows from above with snorts drowning out the consistent hum of snare drums.

            The dance floor is empty as the party guests stare at it sipping champagne and eating hors d’ourve. A sea of black and white tuxedos and skinny ties clash against primary colored evening gowns while a wave of dull conversation washes over the room. Guests are drowning underneath the treble of banality: did you see which stocks took a hit yesterday? Where is this socialist Nazi’s birth certificate? You simply must go to this spa!

The tangle of lichens on the ceiling erupts in brilliant flames interrupts the ho-hum conversations, and a ball of immolation falls from the ceiling to the middle of the dance floor.

            Gigantic flames engulf the wisp of a figure on the middle of the Italian marble. Gasps and screams rise among the crowd, the shock jolting several women into tables and causing a few men to faint from the sight. The figure is an emblazon marionette rising from its seated position. It taps its right toe solemnly against the marble, counting out a beat. The band takes the hint and starts to play. The figure cracks its neck as it turns to the shocked party guests. It is a woman. She gently rolls her shoulders as flesh drips like candle wax from her bones. Fat splashes from her arms when she raises them above her head and begins to take practiced steps across the empty ballroom floor.

            Her face is pale and clammy, sweat beads down peeling flesh as she braves the flames in her solo tango. None of the guests says a thing as they witness the firebird dancing alone across a spacious floor. The stern look on her face chills the spines of the guests as they gaze at the beauty of decomposition. Charcoal lips try to open to let screeches escape, but they never make it past the crumbling teeth. Porcelain and goulash paint the floor as she circles around the room. Her turquoise kimono clashes against the crimson and topaz.

The woman is evaporating and the guests can barely stand the sight, but cannot look away. Wings form at the spine, immolated feathers sprouting between sinews. The woman arches her back ready to escape, but the man in the lime green bowler stops her by grabbing her talons. They exchange stares before they continue to tango. The pair circles back to the center and let the flames engulf them both while the men in tuxedos, spats and top hats ask the women in fancy evening gowns for one final dance. Flames engulf the ocean of motion burning the room to the ground.