Witch Piss by Sam Pink

Author:Sam Pink [Pink, Sam]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: prose_contemporary
Publisher: Lazy Fascist Press
Published: 2014-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

BED THRONE, PISS JUG, VICELORDS

Larry slept out front of the library.

On the way to the Two Door tonight I saw him in his sleepingbag, lying on his side.

He had his elbow against the ground, head propped up in hand.

I waved. “Larry, yo.”

He waved and said, “Hooooo”—slowly standing up.

He wobbled, looking up into the air somewhere.

“Larry, how you doing?” I said, shaking his hand.

He said, “Man, I am FUH-TUP. I’s at the Two Door watching the Howx game. Hoooo.”

The Howx game.

Many play the Howx game and many lose.

“Hooo, I drank too much,” he said. “Naaaaamn. What’re you doin?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Namn. I am, FUH-TUP!”

“Walk with me back to the Two Door.”

He said, “N’ok yeah,” but then didn’t move when I started walking.

He stood there, trying to balance.

“Hoowee, namn,” he said, taking off his hat and rubbing his head.

I walked down the street towards the Two Door.

Face was at the bus stop out front, smoking a cigarette.

He was wearing a big Blackhawks 2010 Stanley Cup Champions T-shirt and a red White Sox hat backwards.

“Wha’s good, cous?” he said, slapping my hand then pulling me in for a hug.

“Nothin, man.”

“Shit, you wanna walk with me? I got some beers and a little bit of a fiff back at my mama crib. We can tip some with bitch-ass Troy if you wanna.”

Troy lived in an alley near Face’s mom’s house, where Face stayed.

On the way there, we passed the library.

Larry was asleep.

“Hahhhh, he smack-drunk,” Face said. “They threw his ass out after he ain have no money. Du at the bar didn’t have to be so rough wit his ass but he ain have no money.”

Oh Larry.

Larry Larry Larry.

We went into an alley behind a gas station.

Someone had written, ‘One more chance’ in thick-tipped permanent marker on a dumpster.

There were drips coming off the letters.

I imagined the drips coming from the sky — lowering from rain clouds — and everyone gets to pick one to climb — and when you get to the top you get something — but whatever you get, it’s yours and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Nothing!

Face and I passed backyards and gangways and dumpsters, piles of garbage, a garage with a large gang tag that’d been x’d out and inverted in red.

A pit bull rushed up to the gate of a chainlink fence, barking at us.

It made sideways eye contact with me, going, ‘Oorv, oorv.’

Part of me wanted to grab it by the head and kiss it right on the lips then let it eat my face off.

The other part of me wanted the exact same thing.

Troy’s place was down the alley, by an old freight door — with a loading ramp held up by metal wire on each side, a throne of beds stacked on each other.

Face stood by a dumpster and tapped the lid with his fingernails. “Wha’s good, T?”

Troy lay in bed with a stained hoodie on, coughing, his eyes barely open.

He was drunk as fuck, pasty spit around his mouth.

He opened his eyes a little. “Wah? Ey, hassa goin, man?”

He barked out some mucus.

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