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To Scott Walsdorf's previous pieceStrange Scene
hungry like a lamb, he gets up grabs his coat and keys and ducks out the door like a wasp angry and tired, eyes bugged out like a schizophrenic cat he stumbles into a bar and plonks down on the seat eyeing up the waitress who walks over and hands him the table of contents torn from the book of life that sits under a glass enclosure behind red streamers. He casts an eye over the page, folds it into his inside coat pocket, orders a ham sandwich and talks about his impending court case. 3 cars buzz past outside, behind tinted windows sit unknowable men, their own private thoughts a mystery. He ties a yellow ribbon around his fingers and munches on the sandwich. articles in black type spin lazily around the walls and drip over fences like cats. not much to it, is there? he sighs and looks pointedly out the window, posing the question to the waitress whos fishnet eyes hood an electric tongue. she flips her hair delicately over slender shoulderblades. Which cat catches a pool of dovetail boxes? in a flash of inspiration she strings them up with reddened twine, obscured by writing such things in pink crayon scrawled over a brick wall. Onion ring razorwire keeps out barred room stuck with needles and pins. when reading alternative magazines its most polite to keep your eye on the whores exchanging teacups over a dickens novel. A large man named 'Art' wanders over, sliding out of the woodwork and drops his pants, belt buckle, unzips fly to stiffening cock. "Suck on that fat slug, kiddo!" the man roars, gruff voice flies flatly against cold windows. The boy grabs a steak knife and jams it lovingly up his urethra splitting the head of his cock in two like a sliced cantaloupe. he bends forward, licking up the droplets of blood formed on the blade. The guy walks away. suitor enters followed by girl and decapitated lamb. small box of paper darts. child wanders aimlessly across the street, skipping streetlights flicker on, melting into a pasta cheese carousel. some suitably satanic symphony crackles softly on the ancient radio. Girl and date take a booth beside the jukebox and order a coke and appetizers. Waitress wanders over, face aglow with casual lust and moonshine, hair loose and shaken down. She places a gift of soiled parchment letters wrapped in a red ribbon on the table and skips off to flush the toilets. the kid purses his lips, bats his eyes and looks over to a harpsicon playing spearman dressed in eskimo furs. a popsicle stick is shoved in his ruptured ear, pubic lice crawl over his skullcap. kid drains drink, slaps hands down on table and kicks chair away. small moans escalate from girls wet throat, eyes wide, warm little snatch buzzing happily against the seam of her jeans. she sits as pert as a new receptionist, flushing hotly. kid takes down large stuffed fish from oak paneled wall, holds it up and declares it god, baptizes it with fresh wine and suckles on its wet lips before casually, and with an expert backhand, slapping the eskimo in the balls which proceed to chime sweetly like the towns new silver church bells.
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