Seth Etera drives his rusty, lime green 1971 Impala towards the intersection of Canal and Bourbon Streets, classical music playing on his FM Radio, timing the light change from red to green to avoid stopping and nearly colliding with a drunken prostitute in purple mini-skirt who has stumbled into the path of his car. He brakes quickly coming within feet of installing her as a hood ornament.
Prostitute: W-watch where yer goin’, asshole.
The prostitute gives him the finger and heads towards Bourbon Street. Seth says nothing but observes the thin torn black fishnet covered legs as both feet trip from out of stilleto heels and she falls to the curb; other hookers quickly drag her unto her feet and into the darken beginnings of the famous French Quarter just as a New Orleans police car nears the intersection.
Seth: No one would hit a body like yours with a car like this.
The Impala continues down Canal towards the river while Seth thinks about the hooker; another too-young-for-the-streets lost soul who would soon lose her life in a dream already fabricated in the demented mind of an equally lost, albeit profoundly malevolent, illiterate, but cunnningly dangerous, sociopath.
The radio announcer’s monotone voice criticizes Capriccio Espagnol by Rimsky-Korsakov with glee.
Seth: Two of my least favorite Russian composers.