All Hallowed Eve, 2015
At the crossing of two ancient paths three bums of the elder kind sit around a time-painted iron drum burning with a bluish fire, reclining on castoff couches under an inky, starless autumn sky. Where the footpath of hobo kind crosses the railroad tracks that likewise saw the daily passage of relics along its way, three men discuss that most accursed day as it approaches.
With a shiver of his old bones, Simp Collier, recently kicked out by his sister, considers the shallows of the approaching night and sips from his forty of Olde English 800.
With a pantherish extension of his large frame, Otis Jackson stretches out and calls for a ghost story, glorying in his seventh release from prison, as he drinks from a can of raspberry Steel Reserve.
From beneath his cloak, legendary bum Reggiemon, ‘The Way Maker,’ as he is called, answers, “Are you sure monz, sure you want to wake what sleeps this nightz?”
Hoodrat Halloween is upon them.
