Hiding in the deep country. Staying away from the other creepers, scurrying like vapid rats to the trickle of moisture in some dank public house. Their mutterings only give rise to distration and boiling rage of the hobo. He’d try desperately to stay awake. Pouring carafes of scalding coffee into his raw esophagus in the early afternoon. Snuffling vast rows of cocaine and speed into his diamond-encrusted nostrils  with such voracity he experienced ground effect and was able to injest at a much higher rate of suction. As a last ditch, with tears tracing clean lines of skin down his powdered white body, he beat a railroad spike into his scrotum using a rubber hammer and playing Captain Beefheart at a volume his miniscule economy KMart speakers were not phsically capable of reproducing.

In the end, having succumbed to unconsiousness, his chewed and bleeding lips continued to mouth obscenities as he slipped beneath the shifting waves of sleep.

“Jeesuz Swinny, this place is a fucking mess!” Jessica sloshed her way through the ankle deep trash, food, animal hides and McD wrappers. “Who’s fucking scrotum is this spiked to the coffee-table? Yours, again?”

“Hnuuunh. Yeh.” An eye opened, nearly bled and closed again. “That was mine.”

My apologies.