A little black spider skittered to the darkest corner of the old, abandoned building. Long, spindly legs plucked at silvery threads then knit them together in a lacy fashion creating a web. The spider danced around the threads like a dark ballerina, spinning and swirling to some silent sound only she could hear. When her creation was finished, she skittered back to her corner – just off to where no sunlight dared to touch – and sat there. And waited.

As dawn shifted into mid-morning, the door of the building opened. A plump woman holding a broom entered and stopped to cross herself. "It's a mighty day, oh Lord," she whispered, bringing her free hand to her apron where chubby fingers gripped the floral print and crushed painted-on roses. "Saint Agatha's will come to life after much too long. Blessed are we once more." The woman's watery gaze shifted to the dusty iron Jesus hanging on the wall. Dust mites fluttered before the Savior's melancholy stare. "I know the new preacher was sent from you." She nodded as if God himself had whispered it to her. "I believe it down to the very core of my heart."

Stale air lingered in the abandoned church. No one had set foot inside for a year. There had been no life interested enough to enter, no one but the little spider sleeping contently in its web.

"I'll make Saint Aggy's sparkle like a new dime." The woman cast a look around pondering where to begin. She yelped when she saw the large web. Every intricate bit the little spider had slaved over glistened in a rogue ray of light. "This will not do!" Lifting the broom, she whisked the web away. The little spider, still lost in some dream, fell to the floor, right by the foot of the iron Jesus. The woman rushed over with a furrow on her brow and a tsk tsk uttered under her breath. Lifting her foot, she stomped the life out of the tiny, innocent creature.

The fluorescent lights above spasmed like the fading fragments of an orgasm. On the wooden stage, a figure pumped shamelessly against the stripper's pole. Arched back, the dancer's eyes were closed and his long, black hair fell like silken threads over his semi-clad form. Clean sweat made him glisten as did the glitter on his torso and arms. But he was fool's gold. A tarnished penny. Not worth much and not wanted anyway.

From the corner of the club, the DJ hunched down to snort a thin, white line from the back of his hand before returning to his music to turn it up even louder.

The young dancer slithered serpentine to the beat of the song. He straightened up then turned his attention to the patrons. Below the dancer, a pair of hungry eyes beckoned. Lowering himself onto the floor, he crawled over and grabbed the man by his tie. Reeling the ogler closer, the dancer shoved his body against the man's face and waited until a crisp bill was slid into the waistband of his underpants.

Fingers sticky from cheap liquor lingered a second too long on the stripper's skin.

"Five bucks does not get you this. Fucker," hissing, the dancer gave the man's tie an aggravated tug. "If you want to touch me, try slipping a twenty next time." Letting go of the tie, he watched the patron sputter then get up and leave in a huff. "It's great when the trash takes itself out." Rising, the dancer walked off the stage as his song bled into the next and another stripper walked out to do their set.

"Five dollars. Is that all I'm worth?" he scowled as he entered the dressing room and glanced at himself in the mirror. His make-up had been stellar an hour ago, now the black kohl and glitter around his eyes made him look more gargoyle than glam.

"Darling," replied a deep drawl from the opposite side of the room, "I was once tossed a dime. A fucking dime." Leaning against the wall, a dark-skinned figure in a garish orange boa chuckled and pulled out a cigarette. "You got anywhere else to go, Sina?"

Shrugging, Sina plopped himself on a chair and reached his hand out. "One. I swear, Cookie. I'll buy you a whole pack next week."

With a dramatic sigh, Cookie slid a cigarette out of the package slowly and gave Sina a dirty look. "You said that last week, boy," he said as he crossed the room.

Sina bit his lip.

"And the week before." Flicking the cigarette to his companion, Cookie shook his head. "You're lucky you're cute or I would have beat your ass ages ago."

"Spare me the sexy talk," Sina muttered with the unlit cig between his lips.

Sauntering over, Cookie jutted out a slender hip and flickered his lighter near Sina's face. "I swear to God, boy, I really will kick your butt one of these days."

Touching the tip of his cigarette to the flame, Sina uttered under his breath, "God? Where have you been living any way? Don't you know? God's dead."

Cookie frowned. "You know I'm a God-fearing man," he replied gently.

"I've never seen you wear a cross." Taking a long drag, Sina looked up at the other.

"A cross? In Purgatory? I'd scare most of the pervs away. When Saint Agatha's was open, I swear, I saw none of these people ever come in to get down on their knees to pray their wretchedness away. And I was there every Sunday."

Sina scowled. "Bet you they were too busy doing something else on their knees."

Rolling his eyes at Sina's comment, Cookie whacked him with his boa, just barely missing the cigarette's cherry. "Every Sunday, Sin." Stepping back, Cookie pointed a long finger at Sina. "I never saw you at church, not once."

Sina exhaled a ribbon of smoke then clicked his tongue. "I don't do church."

"You stink of the Devil sometimes. If I was you, I'd be getting on my knees once in a while, boy."

Leaning back, Sina looked at the ceiling. "Not for less than twenty dollars."

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