Recently, I watched “Labyrinth” again for the thousandth or so time because it’s such a great movie. Aside from gawking at David Bowie’s titillatingly tight trousers and singing along with every song, I had a flash of pervy revelation. That scene with all the hands as Sarah falls into the oubliette. Uhuh.
Amalia likes the Tube. Except at rush hour, no-one likes being on the Underground at rush hour. Not being employed, she has the leisure to ride beneath and between the streets of London all day if she chooses but it never comes to that. Sooner or later her attention is distracted – a throaty laugh, a lustful glance, a bulging crotch; it doesn’t take much – and she has found her next vehicle, her next adventure.
Tonight she is hunting, prowling the narrow dim-lit, littered backstreets; with jaguar stealth and reptilian intent. As she passes, dead leaves and empty cardboard takeaway boxes crumble to ashes, conversations fade to uneasy silence, streetlights flicker. In her wake, wholesome desire becomes ravenous depravity, admiration darkens to slavish worship, human eyes dilate with human lusts. She ignores their tiny whispers, mere nibbles at the edges of her awareness; tonight she is stalking bigger game and has no time for these insubstantial morsels of mortals. She likens them to the cheap fast food they seem to enjoy so much; dead consumables made of fat and starch, produced by an industrial slaughterhouse for degraded tastes.