Hands in pockets I cut across San Jacinto Plaza as wind whips around me and dark thunderous clouds undulate on the twilight horizon. I pass the tramps huddled in someone else's clothes - "I saw RJ the uthuh day - he was lying in an alley butt naked totally fucked up strung out on some shit." - board the bus with consternation.
On the stretch of Texas Ave. where there are old rotting factories and silent warehouses and the fat power cables buzz and crackle, I get off and it is dark dark dark - no streetlamps are working but I make my way to Eva Theater anyway and slap down my fiver to the short fat woman behind the booth. Two obese Mexicans eye me as I enter the foul smelling theater and I make a b-line to the men's toilet. There was no one and I mean no one else in the theater - which I thought was quite odd.
The floor, walls. sink and toilet was splashed with blood - above the sink there was a great red/brown glob of gore and blood as if someone had tossed a bag full of that stuff violently at the mirror and it had splattered all around the small room. I quickly exited - the souls of my shoes sticky from the floor coated with blood. Someone really got what they deserved...
One of the fat guys that were eyeing me whispered, "I tried to warn you before you went in there."
"What the fuck happened?", I asked lighting a cigarette. "A fight? Damn that was a lot of blood."
"No - no." He smiled. "That was only paint - someones idea of a little joke."
I stared at this fool in disbelief, "That is not paint. I've seen blood before and that is blood!"
As some Asian cooch was being banged by a bald tired and petulant looking "stud" onscreen - one of the fat guys wrapped his hands in plastic shopping bags and went to the horrid task of cleaning that shit up. Poor guy.
Oh well, about fifteen minutes later a hot young guy came in and we hooked up...