Just Moving Through

Dry tongue mumbles...Dry tongue mumbles,

‘More of the same,’

The small casual alcoholic forces one foot in front of the other with the winter breeze biting his crumbling lungs. He’s left the last town a forest of smashed glass, picked locks, hammered off hinges and sliced open security doors. His breath aches with something inedible still digesting in his gut. Quickly, red purple veined eyes looking double their age, slimily survey…

The spread of vehicles headed up the main road indicate that this new town looks like it might have some decent loot to share. Nothing too rusted or old on the road, yet nothing too exotic either. Signs of middle class. An average police population. Checking there’s still five bucks in the back pocket. Along with the mouldy long razor that kept his neck scabby but clean, and his sewerage coloured hair short, but strangely fashionable. He’s blistered to near bone showing his toes by wandering so far over the last year that aesthetically the towns have seemingly slopped into the same one. There’s the tin foil covered heads in hairdressers, the wide eyes in the pet store, the chubby fists in the supermarket, and finally the rotted teeth in the liquor store. Electronic red eye greets open beep.

Half an hour later, lying next to the toxic stinking river, it explodes into his liver. The cheapest dirtiest of  Merchant’s Machine Scotch always completes the job. Others with the thirst told to back off with the menace of the razor.

‘Christ, what a life!’

Joints crack with egg shell sounds as swig goes down. Swig goes down. Swig goes down. Fluid. Bared teeth aaahs. Beautiful burning. Nausea suppression.

‘Mmmm, time to move…’

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