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| Night
is my favourite moment. And it’s always night, here in Ropeville.
I slip in my latex longuette and I go out in the streets. To fight
crime, obviously. Purses tell everything you need to know about a woman. Camera (a solid Holga), pen, notebook, mascara, lipstick, transparent nail varnish (just in case of unfortuned ladders in my stockings). Calculator, a small matchbox from a danish meat restaurant, a cola-flavoured lollipop, bills to pay. Sunglasses, candies freely roaming in their bulky pack, patches. The diary… don’t forget the diary! Press cuttings, shots, notes. A whole world in the “purse-universe.” I collect labels. I love them. Not the dress ones, but the mineral water labels. I have decorated a wall of my apartment with them. I lie down on my bed and I admire them. They are vivid, gardy, inviting… impudent, even. As myself. With my long legs sheathed in black stockings. With my high heels granting me a sinuous and yet so fragile posture. With my skin-weared vinyl sheath dresses tight on my hips. Each one of us fights crime with his weapons of choice. Mine are distributed over my 5 ¾ feet courvacious body! Every morning, when darkness reigns and my alarm rings (it’s always night here in Ropeville, remember), I’m ready and willing to fight the world to hand villains to justice. I’ve been working for three years at “the Ropeville Chronicle”, even if time itself has its own ways, here in Ropeville. |
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My reportages cast light on the intrigues hiding in the shadows
of this quiet and pleasant ville. Kingpins, drug dealers, thieves
and cheaters of any kind. I corner them all. Even if sometimes,
before, I have to face some trouble myself. You know, here in Ropeville, where it’s always night, no one walks around without some rope, handcuffs and adhesive tape. Risks. They come with the job. Otherwise… why would I do it? |
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