It's twilight, and some friends and I are walking past a long row of crackhouses by the bayou. The crackhouses aren't your usual broken down, boarded-up-window shacks though. They're really nice 1930's houses, big, well-maintained, clean. They just have huge heaps of trash around them, and lots of glassy-eyed people cowering in corners and on the lawns. I say lawns, but there is really just a bunch of concrete.
A bunch of trembling, dirty wild dogs walk tentatively up to us. We pet them, even though we know they're about to attack. We then slip inside the door of the nearest crackhouse and lock it behind us. The people inside are NOT happy to have us there. They glare at us. I watch through the window for the dogs to go away. Outside, a really fat man is choking on his own vomit. An equally fat police officer is hugging him from behind and laughing. The choking man bends forward into a convulsion, and dies. The cop laughs louder.
No comments:
Post a Comment