Matthew Newton

What the Messae Was (part fifteen), by Matthew L Newton

The old sat next to a stool at the end of a long bar, his head resting on the corner. Eyes plastered, lips crusted over and what could only be the dried fountian of drool chipping off his chin.

“What is it?” Asked the voice from everywhere.

“Don’t know.” I answered. Staring down at the brown leather suit that had been stipped off, its peices flung around the floor near our guests’ naked body.

“Why is he naked?” I asked , then looking down at myself,
“Why am I naked?”

“You can’t wear clothes here.”

“Why not?”

“Not sure, your the one who brought me here, remember?”

I had to think about this. Yes, I had found this trinket, and yes I had brought it here, where ever here was, yet the look of this man wasted, passed out on the floor bare assed and proped up to me seemed, odd.

“Lets get a blanket on him.” Assured the voice.

I followed its instructions, stripping the nearest bunk and tossing a silkiy quilt over the sleeping bum. He didn’t move, couldn’t even tell if he was breathing. But for a random fart did we know he still lived.

“I’ll make some coffee, then we can get started.”

Matthew Newton
DOC #81868

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