Monday, February 11, 2013

The Elton Says Things: Almost Advertising Road Show Pt. 3


      Defeated, I left the bus station to linger outside, wallowing in a hopeless, depressed state. Maybe someone would feel sorry for me and toss a quarter at me. Hard. Probably not. Only winners got quarters thrown at them. Losers had to contend with sobbing openly, while winners got all the quarters.

      I found a metal pole to lean against. The rusty, shitty loser kind of pole that supports the roofs of shitty bus depots and doubles nicely as a hobo urinal. Locating the one with the least amount of hobo visitation was tough. Apparently, soul crushed, drunken husks of humanity liked a good pole to whiz on. Who could blame them? Clearing away the broken bottles, I settled in for a good long mope.


Mope: Like this...but, withou--no. With the freakish bear head.

      The vicious cycle of my defeatist, self flagellating logic was interrupted by tortured sound of un-oiled hinges being forced into service. The sound came from the bus station door opening directly behind me. Normally, I wouldn't have given that sound a fleeting two shits, but, this was a bus terminal, ball deep in the ugly side of the ghetto.

      A place where 'crack' passes as currency, past time and sexual aid. A volatile circus of poverty driven depravity so vile, it didn't even have a Starbucks. Fear and greed rule these streets. In this den of twisted humanity like this, life is cheap. It's where masks, made from the skin of down trodden white boys, are sold for that 'crack'...but are first used as sexual aids.

      All of this is assumption of course, being white and male, 90% of my "world view" is like this. Basically, doused in illogical fear, coated in absurdity with glittery sprinklings of prison rape scenarios and awesome moto-cross jumps. The other 10%, of course, is owned by McDonalds and Tide commercials. True story.


Oohhh...and a rabid fear of ethnic people with lap tops.

      Whipping around to confront my would be skin carving rapist. I intended to greet him with fists! Instead he got a deluge of desperate, tear strewn confusion and pleading. "What do you want? Ass?! God, no, not my ass. I'm not sexy! Look at me, I'm a failure. A failure wrapped in fatty, pale, sweaty cheese like skin...with A.I.D.S.! I have TONS of A.I.D.S...and HIV! Holy shit, do I have HIV. Got it from Magic Johnson.


HIV comin' atcha, baby.

      Please don't hurt me. I'm not worth it. I'm too slow to run and intellectually inferior to sell for a pack of cigarettes. My skin is not mask material! It barely stretches around my deformed un-blowjob friendly mouth. Please! You know what? There's a bum inside, laying in his own piss. He's primed for a good rapin'! Stab THAT fuckin' guy, nobody will miss him. He's a piece of sexy shh--" I looked the guy over.

He was the bum.

"Are you done?", he asked rhetorically, shoving his hands into what can only be described as the grimiest, filth encrusted overcoat currently available in the homeless market today, "Do you want to keep going? I'll try to stop you before you describe kicking my ravaged dead body into a potter's grave?"


Harry Potter's grave

"I wouldn't say that.", I tried to recover from my previous foible, but, decided that no apology could cover that mess. Thinking hard...I summed up. "I don't even know what the fuck a "potter's grave" is."

The bum rolled his eyes.

"It's where nameless, usually homeless people are buried after they die.", he explained, his toned dripping with annoyance. He looked me over with contempt. Still, I sensed a hint of sympathy. Like he felt sorry for me.

"Oh. So. Then...rape?"

"What? No. Idiot. I want to help you.", his posture slackened slightly as though he were about to offer me a hug. I stretched my arms out to accept in a reflexive manner.

      "What the fuck are you doing?", he took a step away from me, "I'm getting a cigarette, you fuckin' weirdo." He pulled a smoke from his dingy, disgusting pockets. I lowered my arms and was kind of disappointed. I didn't really know why. "If you don't want a skin mask or the rape, what do you want?"

He looked at me with what I can only describe as a look of confusion laced with revulsion...for a full five seconds. Then, he answered, "I want to help you.", while lighting his cigarette.

"Help me do what?"

"Help you get to Hershey, you dumb fuck."

"What the hell for?"

Sighing, he took a drag, blew it out and gave me a sidelong look, "Let's just say...it would benefit both of us."

[to be concluded]

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