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The bums slouching their late moonlit corners rolled over, and fought an impulse to retch. The man’s leg asked for medical attention as he dragged it mercilessly past us; I imagined they saw their own selves, gangrenous. I flung my battle-scarred cell phone, now hardly working, back and forth between dry palms, wondering was it my place to call the cops? Look dude, I know you know, but I’d just like to say, I’m a little worried about you. You’ve got a flesh wound, you think it’s gonna be better soon; but it’s some major-league shit. I know you know that too, and who cares, right? Life’s a bitch … but it’s going to be a lot worse when you, pass out drunk, and they cut it off. I mean the whole damned leg, right to your nuts, and whatever little extra disability you’ll get, I fucking guarantee, will not be worth it. I am nearly gagging on the smell; it’s unbelievable what people get used to. I wanna call a clinic or something; z’that okay with you? it’s not going to cost you anything, and the beds are good. A decent meal too, but I know you know that. He’s afraid of detox … they won’t let him drink in the hospital. Let me ask. A strange place to be in … do I lie to him, to save his leg? They won’t take him against his will. Do I take him somewhere, get him so drunk that he passes out? All the bars and stores are closed. If he’s on the sauce, I can call the ambulance, or someone else will … but I’m interfering, as if I know better. It’s his movie screen his life force plays upon. Hey, what if I gave you forty bucks to go to the hospital? If you’re up for it, I’ll walk you there. After they check you in, I’ll lay a couple Andrew Jacksons down. Deal? I’m attempting to save the public the cost of an ambulance ride, and this way, I know he can’t bolt. Too bad I’ll be broke tomorrow, for being this nice. Is it nice? The whole thing’s kind a fucked up; why answer this sudden responsibility? He drags his ass at a glacial pace … it’s going to take us an hour; I tell him the myriad things he can do with forty bucks, and try to get used to the smell.


Too weird man. You did that shit? Fuck. Yea. I wish I had the forty bucks now. I think they put him in an ambulance anyway … off to his own private gangrenous detox ward, no doubt. Having seen that shit in Africa, I can tell you, it’s hard to pass up half dead souls laying on the ground. He’s a victim of his own addiction, like the rest of us, perhaps, but he’s doing it in PanaVision and Technicolor to display ours to us full-on. What do you mean? He’s our own personal assistant; in a flick shot with the damaged karma of self … we star. The lenses are all on backwards, pointing
the 'wrong' way.