| this is incredibly unfortunate. |
[Feb. 7th, 2008|11:51 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  cheerful | ] |
| [ | music |
| | bright eyes - make a plan to love me | ] |
The sun’s brilliant and uninvited rays were piercing through the dense clouds on this foggy and otherwise dreary Thursday morning. Light glaring in his eyes, Mad Dog makes his first movement in hours; an uninhibited scratch at his groin. The crotch of his charity-given brown corduroy pants is dry and crusty from yesterday’s piss. “One of the perks of being paralyzed from the dick down,” Mad Dog would always manage to slur with his Olde English 400 flavored tongue, “is that you can shit yourself and it don’t matter. If you can’t feel it, who gives a fuck? Ya know?” He wraps his filthy hands around the rusty wheel of his nearly dilapidated wheel chair, and starts pushing himself down Laurel Street, towards Monroe Park.
While waiting at the stop light at Laurel and Main, Mad Dog takes his time to pan handle. After all, it is 9:48 in the morning and his lips have yet to be touched by the saving grace of a few large swigs of genuine malt liquor. Slumped in his chair, he holds a torn cardboard sign together. It reads, “why lie, need beer?” Although he has been homeless for a fast approaching eight years, he has managed to always maintain his sense of humor. College students bustle around him from all sides, either staring straight ahead or looking down at the sidewalk. Some awkwardly grab their cell phones and mindlessly scroll through their contacts; anything to avoid contact with this seemingly unnecessary creature.
Suddenly, the giggles of what must have been about thirty nine year olds invaded Mad Dog’s aural cavities. “Oh my gosh you guys, I’m so excited about our competition! We’re totally going to kick butt! We should review the hand movements to the last part while we’re walking to the Landmark! Ready? Five, six, seven, eight!”, an especially high-pitched girl shouted. Ears perked, eyebrows raised, Mad Dog grunts as he turns his creaky wheelchair, facing the crowd of prepubescent princesses blur by him, clad in red, white, and blue cheerleading uniforms. Feasting his eyes on the tiny little virgins, Mad Dog smiles as his mouth salivates. He gleefully snickers, following their legs vertically with his eyes, desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of something everyone in the world but Mad Dog would deem as inappropriate and morally disgusting.
Exhilarated, he clasps his hands together, interlocking his fingers. He can feel his erection pressing in his pants. As the intensity starts to grow with each little girl that dances past him, he realizes that he can no longer control himself. Violently reaching out, he grasps a little blonde hair, blue eyed beauty. “You sure do got lovely lips,” Mad Dog screams at the young girl, grabbing her porcelain face. “I can make you feel good. Would you like that,” he chuckles to himself. “McKenna!!” several of the other girls shriek, as the blonde wiggles and writes about, struggling to escape from his grip. The very same moment that he releases her, granting her freedom, he raises his hands up to his nostrils and takes a deep breath in. He can still smell her. |
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