You know how old people lose all shame about eating, and it makes you sick to watch them? Old junkies are the same about junk. They jibber and squeal at the sight of it, the spit hangs off their chin, their stomach rumbles and all their guts grind in peristalsis while they cook up, dissolving the bodies decent skin, you expect any moment a great blob of protoplasm will plop right out and and surround the junk. Really disgusts you to see it.
So's I meet this one cat, Billy he says, blond sandy hair, skin red and toughened and wrinkled by years of exposure to the elements, not an old guy...but handsome. Smell of locker rooms and flop houses. In the mens room he is shooting up with his Indian and asked "Wanna bang?"
"Naw. Cut that crap eons ago."
Pinpoints in his eyes and he slumps against the wall, shoulder sliding down against white grimy tile, t-shirt clinging. Dragged down by the pull of junk. The Indian, toothless old woman smile, takes the spike and jab. The Indian, he is down for the count. I stood there with the cooler system clacking in a foul smelling bathroom, slowly toking my joint as I watched Billy and the Indian go on the nod with dreamful nostalgia.
Ted, tall and could be a model with raven hair and jagged looks, enters in swishing of long black trench coat and searches through Billy's pockets for the stash. Wouldn't you? He looks up at me with steel blue eyes, "That greedy fucker shot it all?" I shrugged, watching a large cockroach skitter across a drain pipe. Beer got warm and strictly from boredom I return to the bar. Savage Charlie, a man of the grossest dimensions sidles up to me and puts down the faggot patter. Compliments. Free booze. I gots lots of cash, he grins with his cherub smile. Lose 150lbs. and we'll talk. So quiet between us after that. Song changes. Sunday Morning, by Pat Boone. What asshole played that? Oh, yeah...me.