Snyder's of Portland

“I dunt no nuthin about dat,” slurred the Venezuelan drunk. He slouched uncomfortably in the dark, dingy corner of a long, derelict, cobweb-filled warehouse. He slouched there with a few of his companions: a crushed Styrofoam cup, some cigarette butts, and an empty bag of Fritos.

I leaned over him, casting additional shadow on his scraggly, worn face – aged beyond its years. I scowled. I sighed. I affected a look of concern, though I really didn’t give a piece of chicken excrement about him and his fate.

I said, “You're not understanding me, son. I'm talking about the lines of the story themselves. If you read the blog, the lines I refer to are composed of a darker shade of font than the rest of the story.”

He laughed beautifully – a remarkably deep and hearty laugh for a man whose body had been wasted away by years of alcohol abuse. He practically winced with laughter. He opened his mouth as he laughed, revealing identical rows of rotting butterscotch teeth.

Now, quieting, he stared at me with those glazed, liquid-filled, rheumy eyes of his. Then he said to me, with the utmost sincerity, “Go to hell, Spaniard.”