The eyes were attacked next, by tear-provoking layers of heavy smoke, thick and translucent—the nostrils reacting immediately to the pungent sweetness of tobacco laced with grass and hashish. McAuliff made his way through the tangled network of soft flesh, separating thrusting arms and protruding shoulders gently but firmly, finally reaching the rear of the bar area. The Owl of Saint George was at its undulating peak. The psychedelic lights exploded against the walls and ceiling in rhythmic Crescendos; bodies were concave and convex, none seemingly upright, all swaying, writhing violently. Hammond was seated in a circular booth with five others: two men and three women. Alex paused, concealed by drinkers and dancers, and looked at Hammond’s gathering. It was funny; not sardonically funny, humorously funny. Hammond and his middle-aged counterpart across the table were dressed in the “straight” fashion, as were two of the three women, both of them past forty. The remaining couple was young, hip, and profuse with black leather and zippers.
What do You think about The Cry Of The Halidon (2011)?
