the Wharf Rat had a scowl
on his face the size of
Baltimore Harbor, and yet,
I knew I would have no
question to ask, as he said:
"look at those silly fuckers
over there, clutching their
cold cups of coffee, cacklin'
like a bunch of hens; ever'one of ‘em
ought to turn in his dick!";
rising to the bait, I offered
that such was just what
the Rat, and the Old Man,
and me engaged in nearly
every day at our present
location;
and the Rat squinted,
like he did when he took
a shot of whiskey, and
he said: "no, we'ze men,
and we focus on more land,
or more pussy, or more money,
none of that gossipy shit,"
and he spat something black,
and I went back to my
Faulkner, before the
Old Man came back.
October 25, 2011.
Copyright © 2011, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.
