Category: Quarter Rats

Letters to The Quarter Rat

There’s a first time for everything, including The Quarter Rat reader mail. In this case, it’s an August email sent by a reader who goes by “Dave” and wrote to me in response to my Oct. 22, 2023 post about the NOPD’s street vendor sweep.

Apparently Dave is up for a spanking and wants no other than yours truly to administer a hefty dose of what I do best. On Aug. 5, Dave wrote (verbatim):

Hello Ms Athena,

I am dave, I recently read an online interview you did regarding the French quarter sweep by law enforcement  so I thought I might write. I am submissive male seeking a regular dominatrix for discipline sessions.

Please may I enquire as to how much would a 30 minute session run? I would like to visit niece a week.

Submissively

Dave

Dear Submissive Dave,

Thank you for writing. I first just wanted you to know that I am humbled by your correspondence. No one has ever written me before! You are also the first ever Quarter Rat reader to write to us. The tone of your email was so docile and innocent, and so sweet. Nevertheless, you have been a bad boy haven’t you, Dave? Shame on you. I’m going to flog your ass so hard, Dave.

Unfortunately, I’m unable to provide you with any current pricing information, since my schedule is completely filled for the next two years and rates will likely change by then, adjusting for inflation. But know that I’m very expensive, perhaps priceless. I’m still taking reservations for spots but given the new incoming presidential administration, I’m going to have my work cut out for me.

I can tell you, however, that I could have cancellations or that a session may end prematurely, leaving me with some extra time to squeeze in an additional client or two.

Given all of the high-profile political schmucks who’ll be seeking me out, it just might be the case that I am totally out of your league. In a world of possibilities, though, anything is possible.

But you must prove that you are worthy, Dave. Don’t make me put you in your place, Dave. I’ll put your balls in a vise. I doubt you can handle me. Many have tried, all have failed. I’m a pure machine. Give it your best shot.

I don’t fuck around. But when I do, I don’t fuck around.

Think about your own personal welfare, think about your family, your community. All of my customers have left satisfied, but demoralized. And now I’ve created at least an entire battalion of subservient human beings, effectively lobotomized through my imposition of domination and pain.

The world needs men, not crybabies, Dave. Just a thought. I look forward to your correspondence. Until then, keep your stick on the ice and don’t take any wooden nickels.

Sadistically Yours,

Athena DeCruelle

I don’t need a vendor permit because I’m NOPD’s dominatrix

Yes, you read that right! I was on the street two weekends ago during the NOPD’s joint state and federal police operation rousting street performers from Bourbon Street and the rest of the French Quarter, but I’m protected because I’m a dominatrix and some of the cops are my clients.

Apparently, cops were cracking down on “illegal” street vendors, like people who play instruments for tips, tarot card readers, etc. and citing them for not having business licenses and generally telling them to GTFO because this is what police departments do when you give them more taxpayer dollars than they need.

Using federal cops to crack down on people with tip buckets. What a concept. I didn’t realize we lived in North Korea. Definitely fooled me. There’s nothing that evokes a mental image of Orwell’s boot-on-the-face more than this shit. How ironic because that’s what these cops PAY ME to do to them. I’m getting hot just thinking about it.

It’s not like I even need to stand on the street corner to get business. And even if I do, I’m protected. I’ve built a solid and extensive list of badge-wearing clientele over the years. I’m not even on the internet, except for what you read here. People just page me when they want their asses kicked. I never disappoint.

I make a pretty good living doing what I do — no business license needed. Not that I’d ever get one. What makes you think I’d want to give my money back to my customers? I don’t offer rebates, honey. Males aren’t my only clients– females seek me out, too! “Mrs. C,” I know you know what I’m talking about! Let’s just say I’ve maybe made several recent trips to the Pontalba building.

Anything that your masochistic heart desires, you name it, I have it: whips, chains, paddles, nunchaku, platform Dr. Martens and maintain a heavy intolerance to dairy products, among other “devices.” I keep a copy of the Blue Jacket’s Manual to stay fresh on my knot-tying skills.

I even have my own handcuffs, batons, a Taser (trade from an old client) and uniforms for all of your role-playing needs. I know a person with chicken coops in “rural” Orleans Parish if you feel like going to “jail.” I am to please.

Not including bureaucrats, my clientele includes at least two dozen members of the local law enforcement community, about a handful of judges, countless licensed attorneys and highly-paid corporate executives. I charge a premium for my services.

I think about the people in the French Quarter who were cited for not having a vendors permit or forced to stop hustling under the threat of arrest. Do any of them include people reciting passages from the U.S. Constitution? Girl scouts selling cookies?

I get how the government wants to put a stop to random people serving up under-cooked burgers roasted over a hot plate on the sidewalk, but forcing buskers and tarot card readers to go home? This is not why people move to the French Quarter, given the history of this place. Tell me I’m wrong.

What if the Westboro Baptist Church held an open service on Bourbon Street, like they do several times each year, and they passed around an offering basket, you gonna arrest them if they refuse to stop? To be honest, that would be kind of hilarious if that happened.

What’s even more hilarious is how fast things go back to the way they were prior to the operation that the cops pulled two weeks ago.

If you need me, give me a call. You know who you are.

Athena DeCruelle is a French Quarter dominatrix and she loves to punish. If you’d like to respond or have any questions regarding her lifestyle, send Athena an email at athena@thequarterrat.com.

A True Story About Erin

Some time ago, in New Orleans. I was living above a strip club in the 300 block of Bourbon St. Flashing neon signs and all, I was that cliche! It was a company apt. My job title was bartender, that covered a multitude of sins. My neighbor across the hall was Albert “Shorty” Venable. My good friend and boon companion. Our head of maintenance and most important guy in the company. He fixed the AC and ice machines!

Down the hall at the front of the building, we were on the second floor, lived Erin and Roger. Really awesome couple! Roger is the ONLY actual rocket scientist I know! Works at NASA Michoud facility in New Orleans East. Really nice guy. His wife Erin was a French Quarter legend and the most professional bartender I’ve ever known. I’d met her back in ’97 when she worked at the Old Stage Door Lounge. Always a sweetheart! Like most French Quarter apts back then, it was overpriced, sub-standard and rat-infested! At least the ones my boss owned were? Lately we’d been poisoning, clubbing and I’d even recently shot one in my apartment!

Writer’s note: I was using ratshot. It’s a pistol round with a plastic head full of tiny pellets. Won’t penetrate deep on a large target — humans — but will ruin a rat’s day! You don’t want to be on the wrong side of it-though!

It took three founds and a coupe de grace from my baton to finish the bastard off!! It was a foot long, not counting the tail! We posed it on a dust pan with the murder weapon, my .38 Airweight and sent pics to our boss! He was less than amused but gave tacit approval!

I’m off one night and it’s raining fuckin’ crowbars! Street is dead, I’m hanging with Shorty, we’ve got our doors open, crankin’ tunes, Waylon and Johnny and Hank! And Shorty had made beef stew and cornbread; there were some bong rips and shots involved, I believe. We hit some ‘shine too? Shorty ALWAYS had some. Johnny was singing about Hwy. 61 when we hear a clatter in the kitchen? We look and it’s a big goddamn Norway rat on the kitchen table! Trying to get a plastic lid off a pic plate? The nerve of that bastard?!

“Goddammit!!” Shorty yelled as he jumped up, grabs a work boot and fires it at him! Scores a direct hit and knocks it off the table! It scrambled into the hallway awkwardly, it might have broken a leg? I run into my apt. and grab my Airweight and baton off the dresser, I knew I had two rat shot rounds left in the cylinder, I level it at the wildly scrambling rat in the caverous hallway.

“Shorty, watch your ears! It’s gonna get loud!” BOOM!! BOOM!! I squeezed the trigger twice! Rat mortally wounded! I flick out the baton, my ears ringing and hallway reeking of burnt cordite. I strike one sharp blow putting the little bastard out of his misery!

Just then, Erin and Roger’s door bursts open! Now Erin Churchill was always a beautiful woman, thick dark hair, lovely porcelain skin and gorgeous eyes, but now, hair standing up and hell in her eyes and me standing there with litterally a smoking gun in hand?! I’d rather been anywhere else?!

“Goddammit Jay, Shorty?!?! What the fuck?!?! You psychos shooting fucking guns in the building?!?! Are you outta your goddam fuckin’ minds?!”

I sheepishly try to explain we were killing a rat? It’s not flying. Shorty’s not sayin’ a word. The rat, a gory mess, twitched feebly. Erin storms back into her apt. Roger shrugs at us like WTF dude?! He follows Erin. We disposed of the rat after taking pics and wisely retired for the evening. I hated that Roger and Erin were mad at me? I thought the world of them and they’d always been very nice to me. I know I can be a bit much at times! I think that in 27 years of knowing Erin, that was the only time I’d heard her raise her voice? I was expecting some fallout over this? Gunfire in the building?

The next night I’m workin’ the Alley Bar at Temptations, I’m elbow deep in draft beer and Hurricanes, Shorty doing his usual lean-on-ice-well behind me, providing running commentary, the customers thinned out and Erin and Roger appear at the bar! Ahh shit! Erin scowling, then smiles and laughs, coming around the bar and gives me a hug! Roger shakes my hand. I start to say something.

“Jay I can’t EVEN!” Erin says, and laughs. They head down the street. “You got off light,” Shorty remarked. “You were in on it too!” I retorted. Some time later, I’m busy as fuck, 20 people in line, ringing and slinging, Shorty has pitched in and helping me make Fishbowl drinks. Our boss and owner walks in, the man with the plan, the cappa de tutti, in his trademark black blazer, customers looking at him with interest, he’s obviously someone important? “Jay did you pay your rent?”

“Yes sir, I saw Miss Denise this morning.” Miss Denise was the paytime operations manager and building supervisor. Customers are curious, sipping drinks and listening in.

The boss inquires: “Jay I’ve gotten reports of screaming and gunfire coming from your apartment?” Shorty, that fucker has disappeared back into the dark alley, but probably listening in? Customers wide-eyed! Screaming and gunfire!?

“Well…boss….it’s an epic saga…”

Dedicated to the memory of Erin Churchill — Gone But Never Forgotten!
— Jay Slusher

Sub-Humanity

I’ve made and posted some pretty vicious memes in my days and done time in facebook jail for it. I would never call myself a “Meme lord,” because even I have a warped sense of decency. I will admit I have chuckled at a couple of memes this morning about the unfolding story of the missing submersible. Most have a “Rich white people problems” spin to them. I also see the ones who post those memes. Often the same individuals post virtuous memes about “love, human rights, equality, fairness, compassion etc.”

Thier delight and vitriol over five people suffocating is both disturbing and revealing. They always make it a point to mention that they are billionaires. I can’t afford to fly to Europe, I never will be able to afford it. I would not take delight if a loaded airliner on its way to Europe crashed killing all aboard. “Ha ha! Rich people dying! They deserved it.”

A little kid gets trapped in a well and the entire world stops and hopes for the best. Rich people get trapped in a sub, the world counts down the hours until they are dead while joking about it. That is as disturbing about humanity as joking about the death of a homeless person. We’re all supposed to be equal, right?

“$250,000 for a tourist trip to the wreck of the Titanic? That’s outrageous! They could have fed hungry people with that money!” OK, fine. You spent $5,000 on a trip to Mexico? You could have donated that to a food bank. $150 for a concert ticket? You could have spent that on sandwiches to hand out to the homeless.

It was a stupid idea. Yea, a lot of “cause of deaths” can be attributed to that. Skydiving, rock climbing, hot air balloon trips to the power lines and street racing. I’ll admit I do take delight in watching videos of street racers wrapping their egos around a tree. Whether it be a millionaire in his Lambo or some idiot teen driving his mom’s minivan who played too many video games and watched too many ridiculous car chase movies. The only drawback to their stupidity is the fact they sometimes kill others in their reckless acts.

I bet if Kieth Richards was on that sub these very same people would be screaming for the U.S. Navy to drain the ocean to save his wrinkled old ass. His net worth is about $500 million, I never hear anyone bitch about that. I’ll never live to see him die; I wish I could just to watch the meltdown. I guess only some of the bourgeoise lives matter.

If you are finding a sadistic joy watching this unfold, have fun because we all know how it will end. I’ll just chuckle without comment the next time you post outrage over a death and a rant about the importance of human life.

Friends with the owner

If you walked into Molly’s on Toulouse and thought that boasting “I’m friends with the owner” would give you any clout, you would be met with four out of five patrons raising their hands and saying, “Us too. What’s your point?”

The passing of Erin Churchill is devastating to so many people that she has touched over the years. Even as a casual acquaintance with Erin, you knew how much of an exceptional person she was. For those of us with a close relationship with her, it is deep personal loss.

It’s a great loss to the French Quarter, a successful business person and a wonderful soul is gone. I could write a thousand words praising her qualities, but they all would fall short of describing her remarkable character.

We are all fortunate to have even known her, we are better people for having done so. There will forever be a void in our lives and in The French Quarter without Erin Churchill.