Thursday, November 26, 2015

The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-The Death of Sara Joy

26 November 2012
: 3am. Elysian Fields is nearly deserted from the river down past Claiborne Avenue. No one out now except delivery trucks and the lanky, chemical soaked figure of Sara Joy slowly oozing out of the darkened doorway of a little cottage up from The Phoenix as quietly as possible. With an almost imperceptible click he's out the door and down the steps leaving a wake of stale Marlboros, free pot, Ancient Age, and poppers. He skips across the coral-lit expanse of blacktop and crosses to the Vieux Carre side, his wallet bulging with the $140 he lifted after the trick passed out choking himself to completion with a mouth full of Fruit of the Looms and a dirty necktie. He spits on the banquette again and again, uncertain on the origin of that awful taste in his mouth. Passing into the darkness next to a sparsely appointed tenement he can hear the sound of a couple going at it full out, screaming and slapping and calling out to God. It could be murder, it could be sex, or it could be basic cable. The event fades into the distance, supplanted by the clack of well-rounded heels on indifferent concrete. Needing coffee and more than a morsel, the vicious old queen stalks up Dauphine St. towards La Peniche with evil and eggs on his mind.
3:43am. Crossing Frenchmen Street, the smell of hashish catches his nostrils, leading him to a tangle in the shadows of a recessed driveway. In the triangle of comfortably sleazy darkness a small orange light hisses to life, illuminating fiery glimpses of prurience and the taut inked flesh of gutterpunk. Drawn to the filth of the situation Gary "Sara Joy" Pitts slides into the darkness and the musky embrace of unwashed limbs.
He only barely realizes that he's been hit when the lead pipe opens up his skull. The scream in his throat is deeply muffled, choking on his attacker. He clutches wildly at anything in reach, hearing a pleasured moan before the silence. The only other sounds are the hollow thump of lifeless flesh falling into gravel and the quick taps of running feet fading into the night.
6:43am. Walking up Dauphine with her incontinent chihuahua, a 23 year old actress/waitress/pole dancer scours Facebook for pictures of that guy she saw at her friend Pinnacle's vegan harvest feast, paying no attention as her mutt pulls her along, unguided. She stumbles over the curb and the obligatory cracks in the pavement, her attention focused on the screen. Glad that the dog has finally stopped, she digs in for several minutes before finding the shot. Yeah, that's the guy...oh, no...butter face. Nope. Don't want to have to explain him to her friends...what's that noise?
Looking down, she sees her dog muzzle deep, devouring a bumpy red sauce that looks like marinara, but smells like sourdough bread and copper wire. It must have spilled out of--
Her screaming can be heard on Esplanade Avenue...This Is My New Orleans.

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