And at 4:35am Tralala was hit and killed by a careening ambulance crossing the street loaded on goofballs and a fifth of Port wine.
The police have disbanded in vicious force the tent city by the mish - health hazard they say - something of City Ordinance 666 as ten squad cars beat and pound the squealing hobos from their ratty tents and cardboard igloos and old Mikey smiles under an overpass downing 211 and waving his shriveled penis at passing cars.
Laying in my bunk and the fucking goddamn roof caved in - spent half an hour sweeping up great grey globs of wet plaster and mold. I am certain I will get infected by something. Pent up and frustrated - sensing the end is near - end to this predicament, you understand, but I forget, you can't understand cause your retarded ass doesn't have a clue all safe and secure in your metabolic mental womb of normal conformity.
Young Miguel sleeps in the dirty dayroom - feet propped up on plastic blue chair - hard on throbbing up and out from his stained and faded khaki chinos as many a queer and curious walk by with eyebrow raised. Out back late at night downing rum and coke in a plastic 20oz Pepsi bottle spitting and hacking on the dust like a good junkie hobo and he admits with a cadaverous smile, "I like the crystal."
"Got any?" I ask - anything to keep his sexy lanky ass near me and talking - yes, that desperate I have become or is this normal corting? His long muscular neck a map of hickies from the horny ass bloated she bitch that he screwed behind some dumpster earlier that day. Sigh and swoon when he's near.
My patience has all but shriveled like a geriatric cock in a retirement center - no, wait, they got pills now, those old fucks can fuck like rabbits till they roll in the casket. A ver! There are - as reported in the El Paso Times and I quote - three toilets for one hundred men. They failed to chronicle that two are always smeared in feces at any given time and you are ankle deep in mud and urine - what happened to spot on journalism, the lazy fucks! So, days away from getting my apartment and I stomp around the hive with a pensive scowl.
Anyway, getting sidetracked - where was I - oh yeah, let's talk of Miguel, okay? Tall, handsome Honduran living here all illegal like but sexy as shit. And a hugger. Always hugging everyone, that boy. Not faggy, you see - just a touchy feely guy with the most hottest of Latin accents - must cut this short or will get my blood up.
So, we were out back of the warehouses yapping and drinking and enjoying ourselves under that dark navy sky and blanket of stars with that big full, yaller moon so close you just wanna reach up and goose it with I-10 breathing softly nearby - I am hell bent on Miguel's every word because I am interested in this character albeit he is a meth junky and alcoholic, but, no one's perfect right? You judgmental drama queens. So, I am laughing at his jokes and drinking when he whips out a picture of his girlfriend - a fucking corpulent cow of titanic proportions, dearie. My heart sinks. This modelish looking hobo can get any girl he wants and he picks a pig? I got jealous, yeah - but, wouldn't you?
So, I run long cold fingers across his bristled neck along the length of his hickies from this bitch - anything just to touch his person. And my head swoons. He smiles big and laughs at my blatant advances on his anatomy.
So, I tell him of Tralala and my drunk ass friends and my adventures and shit and he says in a joking manner that I have really earned that damn crazy check I get monthly. Yep.
He scoots closer on the concrete wall we are sitting right next to me and puts a lanky grey flanneled arm around my shoulders, "You are all right, mang. A little weird, but you cool."
And we sit silently in the cold holding our booze as Cheap Trick's Surrender plays over his little plastic transistor.
Things are okay.