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File under: homeless and poor are garbage
Dutch Master Screegol
“Dutch Master Screegol, he flies like an eagle, he lives with a beagle named Burney Malone …”
Old Screegol stakes out the hide’y hole behind the CHEVRON station, across from your favorite CHAI-LATTE paradise bar. He usually carries a cardboard sign and stands the corner near the off ramp, at rush hour, hoping some fucker will give him 20 bucks for some liquor and smokes.
You’d say he was a stink demon, and his face was burly-brown like those freaks that hunt panther in Florida. But Screegol, or Screeg as his friends called him, was no common STREET-ROACH just roaming from one cripple ground to another – as the Jenkin’s Volk make banners from skin …
There was a time when it was just him, and Bob, and the old Vietnam Vet, “Symptomatic Nerve Gas”, and they owned the off ramp and the coffee shop parking lot and the theater crowd. They could live off of a few bucks from kind souls, weird figures of regret, running from dead hookers and whiskey cocaine club girls. These well dress gentle folk, fearing disease and truth, would just toss a fifty at you and run for their TESLA.
Screeg had a woman named Dez. She was hard and grizzly and filled with spice. She wore an old messed up wedding dress, covered in vomit and blood stains, and she still had the veil. Dez would whore herself out to truckers at the Flying J, and then link back up with Screeg, later.
“Dutch Master Screegol, his mind is illegal, the cops fed him seagull and he got really sick …”
The streets were harder than ever before. A new crowd of drifters were everywhere – young and mean and high on meth. Ready to cut someone up and use their body to fuel PURE RED DESIRE. These were the honey pot cowboys, snaking old fetter-friends and geezers and dumping bodies at the construction sites around town, while the cement is still wet.
“No more free chicken”, whispered Dez. She’d end the day handing out blow jobs near the Popeye’s off of 33rd Street, not far from the old abandoned slaughter house. They dumped their chicken at night, and it meant a lot of food and protein. They’d eat chicken and drink mad dog.
Screeg and Dez got arrested, the prisons and jails were full so cops had a chance to invoke RULE-222 … the state recently passed a law that gave cops the power to dispense INSTANT JUSTICE, and the fine people of middle class suburban land didn’t care, because their kids were pill heads and their world was imploding. The cops locked Screeg and Dez in one of the overflow sewers near the harbor. If the tides were too high, or there was storm surge, Screeg and Dez would drown – and nobody cared, and nobody was saved.
While Screeg was locked and chained in that sewer, the cops would come by and feed him “lunch” – Dez and Screeg, a stew the cops made, it was cold and oily and smelled like the wharf. There were ground up seagulls in that mash, and Dez got sick, and Screeg got really sick – they both began barfing up blood. The cops let them go after a week, Screeg wondered if it would have been better if those pigs had just let them die.
“Dutch Master Screegol, he lives like a rat, his wife and him suckle the whim and eat dead cat …”
Dez knew the cops that had kidnapped them, they would get their tubes cleaned at the Popeye’s every afternoon. Screeg had found a butcher knife, tossed by Panera’s, and it was sharp and strong and straight. Screeg practiced with that knife, he set up some wood on a busted sofa in the alley … and he’d stab the wood, over and over … angrier and angrier. His mind was on fire from fever and sadness. “Those cops think we’re garbage”, and Screeg was gonna show them.
Dez told a tale to the fat cop, Todd, and let him know that a real sweet hooker party was happening not far from the CHEVRON off of 33rd. Todd was a swaggering beast – fat and oddly muscular, juicing, shooting up human growth hormone in a cocktail of PCP and mescaline. The cops showed up at the location, Dez was there, along with her gal friend Marla.
The cops started rubbing their crotches and two women stripped down to reveal their emaciated and needle track ridden bodies, and SCREEG was hiding behind the dumpster, knife in hand, body trembling from infections, parasites, from eating those shitty seagulls. Once he saw that the men were in deep and riding the pony, he crept up behind Todd and stabbed him in the brain stem, and old Marine vet taught Screeg that trick.
The other cop, Fred, was startled and tried to pull his rancid cock from Dez’s boovula, but Dez wrapped her legs around that shit head and Screeg cut his throat like the pig he was – and the pigs lay on the ground, shaking, bleeding, pleading for their wretched lives. Dez and Screeg got their shit together and moved on …
They, Dez and Screeg, had just enough money for two bus tickets to S’compton, and there was real hope in S’compton, jobs maybe, maybe housing, maybe … they both knew it was a long shot, but they couldn’t stay in this dark city and this was there last chance, perhaps, of getting clean and getting gone. So they boarded their bus, and they sat calmly, together, loosely holding the world and tightly holding each other’s hands.
“Screeg and Dez found a knife, Screeg and Dez took a life, they dumped the body at the pier and they have nothing left to fear …”
