FROM THE "ROAD NOTES OF MAVEN": WELCOME TO TRANSILvania! The Hold Up House Part II

FROM THE "ROAD NOTES OF MAVEN": WELCOME TO TRANSILvania! The Hold Up House Part II, a photo by mavenimagery® Officially Away... on Flickr.

FROM THE "ROAD NOTES OF MAVEN": WELCOME TO TRANSILvania! The Hold Up House Part II
Maven's note: The building in the image is not the actual "Hold Up House' in the story. This image is only to dramatize the story. The real Hold Up House has been demolished by the EU's Human Rights and Life Standards Treaty and Romanian Authority.

missed part I?
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Scar Face reaches down behind the desk and raises his both hands in the air, two plastic cups in one hand a bottle in the other hand as if holding trophies of some kind of championship. Carefully, he places one of the cups in front of me. "Care for a Russian?" he says, still that sinister glint in his eyes.
"No, I'm fine." I decline.
"I insist," insists Scar Face. "It's Russia's best...well, beside Komunizm."
I look at the bottle of Putinka Vodka, then, lock eyes with Scar Face."Communism is as dead as a door nail," I say, and suddenly, regretting it for not being more original.As dead as a door nail? Good one, Maven! Then, for damage control, as if this soulles son of whore cares much or less about metapfors, I add quickly,"So will you before your time. Here is Some Statistics: A glass of alcohol kills about 1000-2000 brain cells, which we know will not be regenerated--"
"No craazy science pleaze," Interrupts Scar Face, raising a hand."For relaxing..and good for fatigue, no?". He pours into boths cups, takes his and holds it in the air, waiting for me to pick up mine.
I do.Why not? A cup won't...
Some minutes, hours or 'who cares?' time later:
"Come," I only hear a voice. "I will show you something," I follow the voice, entering the doorless door I saw earlier. The Putinka is kicking in and the twilight filtering in through gaps in the walls and the battered wall paints which looks like Rorschach pale ink blotches. The furious spring wind is hurling itself against the Hold Up House, howling and whisling, causing the roof tiles to push against one another with a repetative,bang!bang!bang! On the gritty floor, among the feathers, dust and grit a threadbare army-surplus blanket speckled with mold lies crumpled against the wall catches my eye; the litter of empty beer cans, half-smoked cigars, rotten cabbage or lettuce, crushed tomotoes under the appalling counter do not explain the strong stench that shoots up through my nostrils and into the nether unknown regions of my brains, but tells me it's quite nearer than before. I can see some ferocious activity has disturbed the an inch thick dust and grit. And that something that is not an old army blanket, though I wish it was, lies disarrayed, half in, half out of a dark, irregular pool of tacky liquid. As delirious flies hover and settle upon the dark pool, I feel the acrid taste of the Vodka coming back from my stomach as I watch the copper color mongrel, much like the one I saw and almost ran over earlier today (or yesterday),gets his teeth into the knuckle of meat and bone protroding from a white dirty sneaker, which is a Nike or Adidas, holds between its front paws.
"That a leg?" I ask as I follow the voice.
Scar Face stops and shoots a glance and says off handedly. "Yez, it iz." And all I'm thinking is this: Wouldna be awesome if I'd taken a shot of this wild moment?
"Her name is Galina," went on Scar Face. "Or at least, that is what she said her name was. No papers, no passport. Was caught in the streets of Budapest. Illigal immigrant from Russia.Charged with prostutition and drug possession,"
"She dead?" I ask stupidly, drunkenly.
Scar Face waves a hand in the air as if to say D'ugh! Guaranteed one hundred per cent: Dead as door nail. But instead he says,"AIDS, TB...STD, who knows?"
The Vodka and whatever I took with it now kicks in mercilessly. I feel weightless. I want to float through the weak, miserable roof and disappear into the thin air. Forget that I ever witnessed, seen a place like this or been to one. But I can't. My feet feels heavy as if embedded into the cement. I'm walking over slippery and gooey grounds. I must witness. All of it. The scrawnugly dog is the same three-legged dog that welcomed me at the curve; that sealed the moment where I would lose my soul to the Devil, if there was such a thing; where I become someone else: indifferent, selfish and, yes, soulless. But the damn mongrel was not three-legged. One of his rear legs was broken and in time has gotten so thin, the damn mongrel has no choice but to tug it underneath its torso when walked. The scrawnugly mongrel is chewing on Galina's foot while making every effort to extract the foot from the Nike or Adidas sneaker to a more private nook so that would be no disturbance as it feasts on the precious find.
This visual feast of this beast; abundance, profusion: an unprecedented feast of corruption, gargantuan in scale that cannot be measured.
The naked ancient bulbs flicker and a thunder clamour stomps on the roof and as we turned, facing a four hundred feet corridor, the bulbs were off and on like every second or so.

Will continue...

Words, slangs and 'coined words' Definitions:
scrawnugly:scraw·ny + Ugly= scrawnugly (origin: maven)
scrawny; exceptionally thin and slight or meager in body or size