When I was ordered to be stationed in Italy after the war, I gathered, from the way the other guys talked, that it would be the easiest few months since I was drafted. We were there on a peacekeeping mission, sure, but the real action was over, and I figured this was just another way to line the pockets of the fat cats running this whole madhouse. That’s right, the government!

But let me tell you, those six months, man – well in that six months I saw more than I ever cared to see of this world. Getting out alive was about as likely as your grandpappy giving up the last slice of turnip roast. But I did. I fought and clawed and crawled my way through enemies and allies alike, unsure whose side I was on at what time, all of my directives coming from one man whom I later discovered lived in an underground bunker somewhere in Germany and was adept at intercepting and tinkering with signals from the you ess of eh.

After too many close calls of near deaths, finally, I had my ticket booked home where I would find a nice young girl and settle down, learn to farm or some shit. Wandering the streets and doggy paddling the canals of Venice on my last night, the celebratory booze suddenly hit me like a ton of drinks. Not wanting to end up laying my head in an alley with a local or a garbage bag, I stumbled into what appeared to be a motel, slammed some cash down on the table and hoped the clerk would take care of the rest.

In my room, I opened the top drawer of the drawers just enough to see a sturdy book, then closed it as quickly, afraid of what its pages might try to teach me. I inspect the nearby mini-fridge and find that it contains only one item, a large bottle of small-batch bourbon from Loretto. For the rest of the night, there’ll be nothing between me and that whiskey. A forty of Maker’s and a fool.

I reach for the first one when a knock hits the door. But it’s not your everyman’s knock. This one was strong, with purpose, but gentle and aloof.

I strolled to the door like I bought it at a yard sale. But when I opened it, no one was there. I looked out and to the left, then the right, where I saw a figure, wearing long curly hair and a trenchcoat. Looking back, I must have paid for more than the cost of the room, and there she was, naked except for the clothes on her body, ready to repay me. Her mounds covered only by what I gathered was two layers of fabric, I hardly coaxed her inside and closed the door.

The carpet matched the drapes, and it all matched the room’s own carpet and drapes. She someone sensed that all it takes to make me happy is a coordinated effort between a space’s design and its occupants, because this colour syncing lifted me like Samson. But as her eyes darted around, I could see that they didn’t work.

I peered out the window to make sure no one had followed her here. But someone must have. How else could she have arrived at the correct door? How much can blind people actually do on their own? If I left and locked the door from the outside, would she die in here, banging into the walls over and over until all her energy was spent? There was no way for me to know, and I wasn’t ready to find out. Dead bodies were not my scene, man. Not since that war from a minute ago. So I did what any red-blooded, blue-veined ‘Murican would do. I pleased myself by pleasuring her, then I pleased her by falling asleep.

[Editor’s note: The author was too shy to mention it, but he once had a dream where he watched one of your non-existent movies.]

March 20 – Spike Lee gets an encounter with a blind Venetian lady of the night
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