Oggy lay on his back and wiggled his way into his new stick cocoon. He had a rough wool blanket now and the plastic mattress cover and new women's overalls with a fairy patch over a hole in the knee. He wore the overalls and his bright green cotton sweater over the silk blouse he found in the piles of free clothing at the shelter. All they needed was a lemon juice wash in the river levee. His back ached after the tumble he took from the railroad trail on his bicycle. One second he had been pedaling casually, singing an old John Denver melody to himself, and the next second his bicycle had vanished from under him and he was falling head over ass over guitar into the thorny brush. The trail needed maintenance with so many wing nuts and meth minions tromping it down every day and night during their commute to and from their huts. The meth minions especially were responsible for the degradation of the trail because they were irresponsible and delirious most of the time. It's a physically repulsive recognition of the habitat destruction that Oggy tried to extinguish from his brain but he could hear the echoing thump of their bongo drums and smell the smoke from their fires. The meth kingdom was growing more and more bold as the drugs started to erode their brains. Night after night the minions would raid the shelter bread box, they would terrorize the Food Not Bombs meals, they could not be reasoned with, their blood shot eyes and wiry necks and bulging jaws all professed their consumption by Meth. They would fight with anyone, throw perfectly edible peaches at passing police cars and then run toward the river laughing. They had no more respect for civilization than real estate investors did. But they were a mere footnote in the tragedy of Oggy's day. The whole affair had been a horror, the language of Oggy's day was tormented and rebuffed, ugly, unwholesome. Why? Because of the abortion.
It all started during the weekly FNB anti-hostility virtual barbeque
Friday, February 6, 2015
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