6

my god he's dead. he's fucked his teeth and a streak of thick red running from his lip and his gum and onto his white dress shirt. dont fucking move. back. move. a plate of fried chicken and bread and mayonaise gets moved above the heads of the drunks, from one side of the bar to the other. 'chicken-large-fries-garlic-sauce'. by now the big italian was sitting upright. holding his mouth. he shook like a beat up dog. john player specials all day long.