Oggy and Bella hunted through the indifferent night for a salvageable wooden spool at the train tracks where fags flipped tricks for cornrow heretics and the mice lived in rancid holes. The spool, originally for fiber optic wire to broadcast the suffocating paradigm to mouth breathing masses, would become the Dog Hotel, the maternity ward of wayward mutts, the last location of security for the squirming puppies now drowning in mud and refuse discarded by the careless human outcasts of the River Street Shelter.
Oggy insisted on removing all trace they had walked near the mouse habitat by dragging a broom behind his footsteps, a request Bella ignored implicitly, and eventually they stumbled on a spool that could be rolled down the middle of the flooded boulevard, police writing them several tickets, Bella's mother stumbling by in a feverish search for her own methamphetafuckmeup.
"You kids have fun," said Bella's mom as her pants fell down her skeletal frame and she disappeared down a rocky embankment, ever scratching the psoriasis on her forearm, her hair lay like seaweed on a shipwreck.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
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