Cool boys chase each other with the first one of the day. To a Turkish Bath and surprised you bloody nance. Soapy towel glove hit him in the lungs and eyes spattered: Ping! And walked into the gabardine topcoats. Five minutes to that broken fruit.
'Treasury Department,' I said. 'Like to check your narcotic inventory against RX. . . How much you using young fellow?' Shaking my head and pushing all the junk bottles and scripts into my brief case: 'I hate to see a young man snafu his life script. . . Maybe I can do something for you.
That is if you promise me to take the cure and stay off.'
'I promise anything. I gotta wife and kids.'
'Just don't let me down is all.'
I walked out and got straight in the lu of the Bus Terminal Chinese Restaurant. It's a quiet place with very bad food. But what a John for a junky.
Well I checked into the old Half-Moon Hotel you can get to the lobby through the subway and walked in on the wrong room, an ether party, with my cigarette lit and everyone's lung blew out about six characters, cats and chicks. So I get a face full of tits and spare ribs and throat gristle. . .
All in the day's work. . . Follow up on it. Score. I walked the gabardine top tin on him. The broken fruit. Piss running over his face. 'Like to check your narcotic inventor. I get mine from his blood.'
'Much you using young fellow?'
'I can smell them fucking all the junk bottles and scripts.' In any case bloody grass. . . See a young man snafu his and strangled him like rot do something for you in the blood. Jumped cure and stay off to finish. Grey flannel suits under all public agents of the bus from street. Grope movie and walked in on the wrong room warmly. Exempt light and lungs. And eyes spattered night clerk and threw a piece of coats. 'Five minutes to Treasury Department,' I said. Shaking my head and pushing the air the way a vulture will into my brief case. I hate sloughed him with the iron room life script. Maybe I can cantaloupe. Them I had to check you. Promise me to take out his mouth, nose receding flesh,
'I promise anything. I go huddled my clothes shivering.' I walked out and got light pink instructions terminal Chinese commuters. Hit him in the lungs the day's work. Follow up. A word about my work. The Human Issue has been called in by the Home Office. Engineering flaws you know. There is the work of getting it off the shelves and that is what I do. We are not interested in the individual models, but in the mold, the human die. This must be broken. You never see any live ones up here in Freelandt. Too many patrols. It's a dull territory unless you enjoy shooting a paralyzed swan in a cesspool. Of course there are always the Outsiders. And the young ones I dig special. Long Pigs I call them. Give myself a treat and do it slow just feeding on the subject's hate and fear and the white stuff oozes out when they crack sweet as a lobster claw. . . I hate to put out the eyes because they are my water hole. They call me the Meat Handler. Among other things.
I had business with the Egyptian. My time was running out. He was sitting in a mosaic cafe with stone shelves along the walls and jars of colored syrups sipping a heavy green drink.
'I need the time milking,' I said.
He looked at me, his eyes eating erogenous holes. His face got an erection and turned purple. And we went into the vacant lot behind the cafe naked to a turn.
White men killed at a distance. Don't know the answer, do you?
Den Mark of Trak in every face: 'Death, take over.'
'Never nobody liked dancing no better than Red.'
'Let's dance,' he said.
The script for shit, 'Here you are, sir,' and I could see he was heavy with the load. Outfields and back to Moscow for liquidation. I had business with the Gyp. Trak in every kidney. The script for heavy drink. His eyes got an erection and turned the effluvia and became addicts of vacant lot. My time was running out its last black grains.
Trak Trak Trak
The sailor and I burned down The Republic of Panama from Darien swamps to David trout streams on paregoric and goof balls—(Note: Nembutal)—You lose time putting a con down on a Tiddlywink chemist—'No glot —Clom Fliday'—(Footnote: old time junkies will remember—Used to be a lot of Chinese pushers in the 1920's but they found the West so unreliable dishonest and wrong when an Occidental junky comes to score they say: 'No glot—Clom Fliday.') And we were running short of substitute buyers— They fade in silver mirrors of 1910 under a ceiling fan— Or we lost one at dawn in a wisp of rotten sea wind— Out in the bay little red poison sea snakes swim desperately in sewage—Camphor sweet cooking paregoric smells billow from the mosquito nets—The termite floor gave under our feet spongy and rotten—The albatross at dawn on rusty iron roofs—
'Time to go, Bill,' said the Sailor, morning light on cold coffee.
'I'm thin'—Crisscross of broken light from wood lathes over the patio, silver flak holes in his face
—We worked the Hole together in our lush rolling youth— (Footnote: 'working the Hole,' robbing drunks on the subway)—And kicked a habit in East St. Louis—Made it four times third night, fingers scraping bone—At dawn shrinking from flesh and cloth—
Hands empty of hunger on the stale breakfast table— winds of sickness through his face—pain of the long slot burning flesh film—canceled eyes, old photo fading —violet brown souvenir of Panama City—I flew to La Paz trailing the colorless death smell of his sickness with me still, thin air like death in my throat—sharp winds of black dust and the grey felt hat on every head—purple pink and orange disease faces cut prenatal flesh, genitals under the cracked bleeding feet— aching lungs in dust and pain wind—mountain lakes blue and cold as liquid air—Indians shitting along the mud walls—brown flesh, red blankets—
'No,
And the refugee German croaker you hit anywhere: 'This you must take orally—You will inject it of course — Remember it is better to suffer a month if so you come out—With this habit you lose the life is it not?' And he gives me a long creepy human look—
And Joselito moved into my room suffocating me with soccer scores—He wore my clothes and we laid the same
