[b]Bad-Town, Illinois[/b]

[url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ximP4S9O9Vs](Pertinent Action Tiem)[/url]

In poetry water is often described as crystal. Homer had his wine-dark sea and the Harlequin romantic Rain Summers had compared the waters near her bayou loveshack to her sculpted gardener's eyes. Sadly, for Louis LaGrunge, the only words that could describe the Mississipi river that churned beneath him was "Shit-clogged toiler water."

It was an embarrassment to beauty, as much of the world was in these times. He longed for painted palaces he had never seen, and dreamed of fountains he hardly understood. Art was a distant memory for civilization, and he wanted it. He could imagine ancient French philosophers wriggling their feet in soft shag carpet, writing sonnets and discussing astronomy with their neighbors. That was what the world used to be, before they burned it all and replaced it with the dung-heap tribes of the new world. He watched a fire-singed sofa bob in the oil stained river and sighed before going back into his room.

Even the decor of this steamboat reminded him how depressed the world had become. Sure, it was a steamboat, running on coal and civilization. From afar, the image of its magnificent paddle filled a person full of wonder and awe. Once inside, however, you could see how sad it truly was. Guards patrolled the halls, looking out thin windows designed like the arrow slits of a mighty French fortress in the days of old, except using plywood and junk-metal instead of proud European stone. They were armed with muskets and crossbows, but they did not have the noble look of the ancient musketeers. These were shifty men who were as happy to be paid in methamphetamine as they were honor or cash. There were no knights or heroes anymore. Louis could feel their stares as they inspected what a real gentleman presented himself as.

Louis wore a curly black wig that jutted one foot above his head like a fountain of luscious imperialism. It warmed his head and reminded him how sophisticated his people, the Frankish blood of old France, truly were. He had managed to find and old bathrobe which wore over the leather clothes of his profession. His robe was resplendent, decorated with small bits of jewelry he had found and sewn into the wool, alongside a dozen manners of stars. Some stars were metal and some were plastic, while others glowed a strange ghastly green in the dark. Over his back, he had a crossbow with a mechanism that held a dozen bolts and popped them into place as he loaded and fired. It was an elegant weapon, and it kept him safe through horrific times. 

He could feel the boat rock and hear the hum of the motor and splosh of water against the hull as he found his way to his quarters. It was at the end of the hall, in a room that had once been numbered "201" as was told by the shadow left against the paint where the brass numbers had once stood. Now in its place was a picture of a chicken and a second picture of a corncob. Room Chicken Corn. It was the depressing result of a world that had lost so much of its literacy. There were on the chicken level. Below, there was a cow level, and directly beneath them was the room Cow Corn. 

He entered the less-than-prestigious trappings and was greeted with the smell of rotting wood and the site of his newest lady love spread out across the bed like a human prune. She was seventy, somehow, and she still had some vague memories in the back of her mind of a world where civilization still existed. Memories of the failing of old world architecture and art. She was like a museum, though that thought was now embittered by how many times imbecilic new-worlders had said his lady loves belonged in a museum. He hung his robe from a peg as delicately as it deserved and unstrapped the leather traveling armor he had worn across so many long roads. In his state of overtly human nudity, he climbed into bed.

Her skin was like rubber loosened by sunlight, though he could easily feel her bones beneath. "Where is this?" she asked weakly, sounding as confused as she usually did. Such a long life in such a horrible atmosphere was starting to affect her.

"We're arriving in Bad-Town soon." Louis replied. He pushed his body against hers and reveled in her clammy skin.