Under the quiet cloak of dawn, the local drunk steps on a soapbox at the park. He gathers every waif and stray he can find; hurling insults into the crowd like pennies. His grey teeth soften as he speaks, breathing quicker with every cheer.
“You fuckers are a bad influence on me!”
Squished beer cans are arrows that rarely penetrate his fetid skin. Sunspots litter the pavement, blinding the unwitting victims who pass on by.
“Kick a dog when it’s down!”
The audience swivels over to the innocents on the opposite side; gawping with thousand yard stares.
“Should I require a pet, I’ll hit up a brothel.”
***
It’s late afternoon by the time the police arrive. The first crustings of moonlight are settling in, and a putrid sulphuric cloud has descended. Observed by men wielding truncheons, the lowly, collective period stain stirs further afield, bearing down on the noble.
Courtenay's Corner 