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6 Club Erebus Death is the mother of beauty. —Wallace StevenS They emerged from a door that wasn’t a door and floated across the room to the stage which they ascended and began to sway and bend and turn with only their G-strings on. I sat at the bar drinking gin and smoking a cigar, watching them work beneath the lights, accept the funds of happy men who took great care in folding their bills like miniature towels inside the belts around their thighs that went k’ching, k’ching, until rings of bills adorned their thighs and the music stopped for a moment, long enough for them to disappear into the dark of the high stone door at the end of the stage where they waved good-bye, good-bye and then were gone beneath the world like the ghosts they were, to rest for a while, the longest time, before returning live to die again as they had before. deNiord text-2.indd 6 11/10/10 10:40 AM ...

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