Roy’d made the mistake of leaving his mouth open, you see, and now he cringed, his head snapped down and away, his brisk run fluttered and dropped like a shot dove. In a chorus of Holy Shit!, the Brians and I mopped our runny noses with our parka sleeves and ran to the aid of our casualty.
There stood the gaunt Roy Salter in the thickening rain, bony face jutting from his soiled sweatshirt hood, black mud lipstick covering the lower half of his face like Diane Ladd in Wild at Heart, oversize parka clinging, soaked and draped, it occurred to me, just like the villain in Eichenberg‘s “The Masque of the Red Death” etching. I resisted the urge to run off, and instead gathered with the Brians to gawk in gleeful horror at the muck-faced specter of our dearly departed friend. Salter saw our faces and burst out laughing hideously, spitting at us through black teeth, then let out a mournful attack-bellow and leaped, rightfully, onto me, wrestling me, face first but in good humor (“You fucker! How the fuck?”), into the cold, cold, wet, wet ground for a taste.
The Brians piled on for no good reason at all.
REFERENCE:
Prostate.org (www.prostate.org): information on prostatitis, benign prostatic hypertrophy and prostate cancer.
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