Headed down the sidewalk across from me, was a shambling, neck-tattooed mudshark, dressed in cargo shorts and wife beater.
Prancing along beside her was a narrow-shouldered, big-headed mystery meat boy with a bowl-cut shock of straight hair hanging from a dome that might have been thought noble if not for the pencil neck supporting it. He was clad in baggy blue shorts and yellow shirt.
He questioned her about something in a squeaky tone and she raged, “Punk Muvafuca! I will fuck yo shit the fuck up!”
He then stopped, stepped into the street in front of the sewer, held something small in his hands and chirped, “I’ll throw it out!”
She shambled down into the gutter, chest-bumped him back up on the side walk and snarled, “Go ahead, you wanna show me punk muvafuca? I’ll show you!”
And off they walked, shoulder to shoulder, squabbling in minor tones of boister as they faded into my distance.
There was no moon in the sweltering sky, no breeze to move the leaves on their hanging limbs.
The dark gathered back around, the buckle hanging from my pack the only proximate sound.
On Bitches
link › jameslafond.blogspot.com
Your Trojan Whorse
