Chapter 1: Passion!
"But it doesn’t mean anything…”
“It never does.” The Russian murmurs as his hands roam the Frenchman’s body, his lips tasting the supple flesh of his neck.
Suddenly, the door to the darkened room bursts open, a figure standing backlit in the frame.
“So. Is this how it is, Rodion? You abandon me for this French harlot?!” Bayardo steps further into the room, boots clicking on the floor. His shiny metal buttons glints slightly in the light. It reminds Meursault of his childhood.
“I’ve found a new lover as well, and he’s fiery.¨ Raskolnikov said, ¨Like the sun.” Behind the Columbian, another pale Russian steps into the room, entwining his slender arms around San Roman’s neck.
“Hello, Rodion, it’s been a long time.”
“Razumikhin. You bitch. I always knew you would fall for one of those Latin lovers.”
“And mine is the one who is going to kill you.” Bayardo steps forwards, his magnum in his hands, and fury in his heart. As Meursault dives for his revolver, discarded in a pile of clothes in the corner, the general’s son shoots him, dead in the heart.
Razumikhin hauls the other Russian to his feet, and plants his lips on Raskolnikov’s. Their tongues battle for dominance, as one gentle tear runs down Raskolnikov’s face, dousing his inner fury with passion for his one true lover.
Suddenly, a shot rings out. Razumikhin falls to the ground, bleeding from the chest, Raskolnikov cradling him like a wet bird,, falling to his knees, and bowing his head over his lover’s body. He gently kisses his forehead, and lays his already limp and lifeless body on the ground. Yet another gentle tear falls from his eyes that look like pools of limpid tears.
“Stay away from my brother!” Through the haze of the poorly lit room, a tall, slender Russian strides. Dunya reaches out and caresses the forehead of her brother, before turning to Bayardo.
“You did this. You corrupted him, turned him against his family. Now DIE!” Before San Roman can draw his weapon, Dunya shoots him in the heart, ending his tyrannical reign over the kingdom of Raskolnikov’s heart.
Dunya turns from the bloody wreckage of the pleasure pit, and walks out to her lover in the sweltering African heat. She embraces the former lady of the night, and the two kiss, their tongues lashing each other, leaving fiery streaks of passion on their skin.
Once they are finished stoking the fires of their passion, they turn, and walk out to the sun-baked Algerian street fronting the tenement.
In the distance, a tall young man walks towards them, then past them, to embrace another Englishman, before beginning a match of Olympic league tonsil hockey.
“Oh, Hal!!” The other Englishman swoons, as his lover hoists him into his arms, and carries him into the tenement, kissing him frantically the whole way.
Inside, Hal lays hotspur down upon the bed, and bends over him.
“Oh, Harry, you have robbed me of my youth!”
“Only the innocent bits…” As the two fall into each other’s arms, the heat of passion rising from them, they embrace, in a reverie soon to be culminated.
Outside, in the sticky heat of the african desert, a tall, proud black woman argues honor with a portly Englishman.
“But Darling, surely you understand how honor has no place in society, let alone in our personal lives?”
“Ah, but it does, for how else would you have robbed me of it, Jack.”
“A grand point, and one I am inclined to repeat…” Falstaff pauses in his lechery, “Where is that nephew of yours?”
“Oh, he’s run off with some friend of his, you know how boys are.”
“Oh... Lute, right?”
“Whatever, he’ll be fine without us around for a couple of hours.”
“Oh, you know you’re faster than that dear…”
As the two lovers enter their room of the tenement, the objects of their discussion pass by the door.
“Oh Guitar, you know I don’t love Hagar no more.”
“Then who?” Guitar turns to his friend, hands on his hips, his supple lips stretched into a knowing smirk.
"You. Always you. No one but you.” Milkman turns to his friend