Some back street somewhere

It was the middle of the night. In his recent state of depression, Hugh had taken to rising at around eight PM, after the moon had usurped the sun's place in the center of the heavens. He'd lost a bit of weight from his lack of appetite, his hair had become more noticeably matted than usual, and shadows had taken residence in the hollows between the angular jaw and the pockmarked cheekbones -- though the shadows were occasionally chased away by rogue scraps of colored light refracting through upstairs windows. Carnival music sang out from a fair distance; an aluminum bag rustled in a dumpster.

"We can be strong, we can be strong out on this lonely road on the road to love... we can be strong, we can be strong, follow that unicorn on the road to love..."

The music was playing softly but distinctly, from a corner Laundromat. It was your typical, impoverished place: A simple box, run down and dingy. Dirty gray tile lined the floor of this thriving business, with some dust bunnies in the corner. The washing machines were several years outdated, but they served their purpose well, and they were cheap.

Street rats shuffled in out of the building. They came in and out with their bags of laundry, with jaded faces, and listless eyes. It was evident that life had not treated them the best, and it was clear that they were still traveling that lonely road, but they had not seen the unicorn.

Except for the Painted Lady (as the locals called her). She had followed that unicorn somewhat. Her eerily blue eyes (they were really cheap contacts) shone happily as her bright red lips smiled at the usual crowd trudging in and out. Like her name sake, she was all painted up. Her face was pure white, and on her cheeks was bright rouge that matched her lips. Her dyed black hair was teased and dirty. You would not call her a great prize, but like the laundromat itself, she was available and cheap.

This part of town actually had a thriving prostitution business, mostly thanks to hapless young men, who were desperate to relieve themselves. Of course some were better than others, like all women, but at least this girl was always right on schedule, at eight in the evening. And she was ready for her first customer.

[that post i want to make love to that post omg]

Such a loud presence had no trouble capturing Hugh's eye. How she clashed, almost antagonistically, with the greys and browns of the alley, with the thin, yellow light pouring from the shop windows of the establishment itself. The eyes, how uncanny. The lips. With little hesitation, no interference from his mind, nor his soul, nor his heart, he found himself staring at the world from the deepest reaches of a mass grave titled "lust". Abandoning the gravel, the love of his life, he lifted his gaze to meet hers.

(And it wants to make love to you.)

The Painted Lady eyes began to shine even brighter, at the prospect of a potential customer. He was a rather young one, too. That was always nice. He wasn't the most handsome one, but he had a nice, tall body. She smiled a him, revealing a set of teeth that were rather yellowed.

"Hello," she said simply, in a hushed voice. Automatically, her long spidery hands reached out towards him.

He took one of those hands in his own, weathered and wan, and contemplated giving it a half-hearted peck. Was that how things were done in this part of society? He wasn't exactly sure what to do, at that point; all he knew was how badly he wanted her -- wanted Sophia -- wanted ANYONE.

The girl giggled. "You're funny! That's for the money, 'ya know what I mean? But, I was silly-I didn't even tell ya 'ow much I charge. I'm ten pounds an 'our. Take it or leave it." She brushed back of a strand of her ridiculously teased her, and those peculiar blue eyes bore into his own.

Not too awful. An hour -- two, maybe -- would suffice. He just needed something, anything, nothing. "Fine," he growled. "Sold." No flattery, no kind gestures, nothing of the sort.

She nodded with approval, and she grabbed his shoulder, and pointed towards the laundromat.

"A'right, there's a place we can do it upstairs. On the corner from the left, there's a door. When no one is lookin', just go up the stairs, and I will come in a minute 'o two later," She smiled at him, with those yellow teeth clashing with the red lipstick. "Everyone is used to it, but we don't cause any attention a'right?"

With a slight shift of his shoulders as he dug his hands further into the pockets of his windbreaker, he followed her instructions almost to a tee, taking care not to make eye contact with any of the laundromat's other patrons. Upon opening the aforementioned door, he was knocked back by an odor so foul he might've sworn the woman was hiding one or two corpses in whatever sort of hovel lie ahead. The steps groaned slightly under his weight, as though familiar to the lingering step of the common walking cadaver.

Hovel was the perfect word to describe the room that Hugh had entered. Dark, dreary, and disgusting, grime just seemed to leak from the walls. The wallpaper had faded away long ago, and it was pealing in some places. A foul, acidic smell lingered from the kitchen, specifically the refrigerator, that was lift wide open, with indescribable molds thriving in it. A dilapidated bed was placed across from the kitchen, that was really nothing more but a yellowing mattress with a sheet on top. It was obviously falling apart from the sins of who knows how many pathetic human beings laying there.

A very thick layer of dust surrounded Hugh's feet. The entire room reeked of a putrid combination of rotten eggs and sour milk. If there was such thing as a Hell on Earth, Hugh would have been in it's presence.

That same creeping hand of the Painted Lady came and rested upon his shoulder. With a smile, she gave him a gentle push towards the bed.

"Well, go on! We 'aven't all night! Unless you pay me that money."

With the grace of two amateurishly-guided marionettes, the two began to fuck, fuck like she'd probably fucked before. The stench of well-used genitalia and bodily fluids met that of the rotting eggs and mildew like an old friend, and then began, also, to copulate and multiply and fill the room with their noxious presence. The woman felt, Hugh thought, like meat -- such raw meat one would use to mold hamburgers and marinara sauces and meat tarts and other such savory-yet-wretched delicacies. However, she tasted of worms.

She was all business. As soon as it was all over, she threw off the sheet and got right out of bed. Still nude and with her hands on hips, her bright blue eyes stared into Hugh's.

"Where is my money?!" she barked at him.

Oh, she had a little secret. But now after sex had been initiated, the truth was in plain site.

Most of her makeup had melted off, revealing a face with some wrinkles. Her breasts were already beginning to sag. She was clearly not a girl, but a woman who was at least in her early or mid forties.

Hugh, strangely, wasn't surprised. The rest of her certainly looked about that age -- if not older, from all her wear and tear. Leaning over the side of the bed, fishing through the pockets of his pants, he asked, "What time is it?"

"Ugh, God." As to answer his question, an old Cuckooclock went off from an unknown corner, cuckooing ten chimes. "There 'ya have it. Ya owe me twenty pounds."

He sifted through his collection of one-pound notes a while before successfully procuring two tens and extending them to her. His eyes stayed on the clock a while; he hadn't been aware that people still owned those.