"Mister, Mister, Mister, Mister"
The large man, the man with some plans, a man aged past his youth but placed far from gray hair.
He sits in the dark and laughs.
Small shit from his mouth.
His face moves quickly beneath closed eyes and on a head planted with creaky shoulders.
The movement slows and his eyes open with an exhausted kind of crazed sigh.
They took it from him.
He did not give it away.
Miles off, a cash register rings up a bag of chips and some crap, warm soda.
The man gets dressed for bed and sleeps for fourteen hours.
Winter comes.
***
"Don't Worry About It"
Complex 67-C had just installed its new battery wall plating. The low lights of the hallway offered much for firefighters. Many men. Much noise. Silence.
***
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