Imagine...
It's 1954 ad., late night, around 11:00 p.m.
The city is enveloped in darkness, only street lamps
shine a faint ray of light, that barely penetrates the
thick veil of nothingness.
You walk through the door of the niche jazz club in the
most remote corner of the city. The city that you know so
well. Just as you plant your foot inside, the cigarette
smoke hits your nostrils, yet it does not bring
discomfort. You go through the dark corridor devoid of
lighting of any kind. The air in the room you enter
is just as murky as in the corridor. There seems not to
be a lot of people, yet the atmosphere is a lot more
dense than usual. You seat yourself in the middle of the
wall to the left of the enterance, opposite to the 
stage. The only light you have now is the fire of your
lighter, with which you light a cigarette, that contributes
to the murkiness of the air. A waiter comes to your table.
You can not see him well, frankly you see close to nothing.
He asks: "What would you like sir?" His accent is a bit
thick. You might think he was scottish, but give no further
though to that.
"A glass of whiskey please" - you reply calmly with a rough
voice. Smoking really does damage vocal chords. He comes
back with the drink and puts it onto the table. You barely
catch a glimpse of where he placed it. As he goes away
you take a sip. The golden drink indeed does bring back
the memories. Memories of the city and its golden age,
memories of your own golden age, when there was happiness
and carelessness. But as the city detoriated, your
successful life did too. Things are not what they used to be.
As you come back to the realm of the mortals, another thought
strikes your mind, you do not know the waiter, he must be new.
You sit by the table, lost in thought, when suddenly a lamp
on the stage has been switched on. At the very moment the
light blinds you, but your eyes accomodate immediately.
After all, you come here every saturday. You see a silhouette
walking onto the stage. Straining your vision, you see it is
a woman in a tight claret dress. The light of the lamp is only
strong enough to reveal her seductive crimson lips, and part
of her flowing dark brown hair, that fall on her supple breast.
She starts singing in a voice so saturated with feelings of
lust and loneliness. A voice, that again makes you fall into
thought. In a blast you feel a caleidoscope of emotion.
The nostalgy of olden time, the creeping feeling of loneliness,
the immense need for a partner in your life. You find yourself
staring at the lips of the singing woman. She notices your gaze
and turns her attention to your table. She bends a little in
your direction, sticking out her breasts to you, singing
without stop. The singing and act combined give you a 
sour-sweet feeling of falling in love, with the thought, that
love is an artifact of the past. She goes back to her initial
position on stage, leaving you with your thoughts. As you
finish your glass of whiskey, another cigarette goes into your
mouth. Light it up and take a deep breath, that is the only
pleasure left in your life. You exhale. A gunshot and a scream
reaps apart the silence of the night, and destroys the harmony
of showgirl's voice and jazz music. You take a peek up from
the empty glass and look at her. She seems bothered. Maybe
someone close to her heart has been just murdered with cold
blood right behind her back, or maybe it is just the sound of
the gunshot that makes her worried. No wonder though, nobody
feels safe these days, it could have been her, if she was not
on the stage. But it does not matter. Every day someone dies
in New Orleans. Someone has to die so someone can be born.
It does not matter anymore to you. Standing up you take a deep
breath. The tab? You will pay next time. You come here every
saturday after all. Again, you walk through the corridor.
Air smells a bit more healthy here. You exit through the door.
Finally! Fresh air fills your lungs. Again, you walk along
ill lit sidewalk, back into the complete darkness of the city.
It is 3:36 a.m., Astaroth still roams in the darkness.