Matthew Newton

What the Message Was: (part six) by Matthew l Newton

“D’m juggers, you know da ones. Hold up west out by Lake Thneed, what for da count of a halve pint I got questioned.” An old man next to me spits up a long spool a dribble, his yellowed teeth and matted hair reek like the Seventh Day Evanglist we passed earlier. Though his carcus was probably fresher then I’d like.
“Yeah, lem me tell eh what, you know da ones. I hear em, I hear em all. Juggin, pimpin, poppin, poopin out crack.”

He’s definitely on one tonight.

“I can call a fish home faster d’n the fuck stank ass boy toys d’m Jack Monkeys(TM) harbor.” He swiggs deep a quart of piss before turning the full brunt of his wasted gum line towards my nostrils.

“You really need toothpaste, and a brush.” I remind him, trying desperately to scoot away before he continues.

“Your somtin!” He spits. It was worth a try. “Somtin funny I call it!!”

“No,” I start in then recant,
“Yeah. That’s a yeah no yeah situation.”

“Funny somtin fierce.”

I move on quickly, having gotten up while the old man became distracted by a fart. He was so deep in his own shit that he hardly noticed my leaving. Further down the street I could still hear him, carrying on with the dead cat that had been under my legs no doubt. But how do I know, that cat might have still been alive.
I step over the edge of the curb just in time to get hit by a taxi. The force of the impact sends me, my cart, my bags, my coat and my seven hats flying in all directions. I’m awake long enough to see the bum behind me run off with all of my things before falling into the black.

Matthew Newton
DOC #81868

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