Further from relevance.

Innards of a shelled serpent, that’s what I’ve become. Eight AM, wake up, brush my teeth, eat a slice of birthday cake, it’s got 479 calories in a slice, which I’m convinced means it’s good breakfast material, maybe shave maybe not (a beard, a beard, it’s a thought, it’s a thought), have a shower if I didn’t spend 15 minutes observing the fish aquarium, if not leave to ride the dross dragon around the mountain. Some days I work at noon; that hour is more manageable on all accounts, it gives my head time to establish equilibrium from the nighttime poison, sometimes, it also gives time for the beast to do the same. At nine she vomits tsunamis of multicultural refuse: students, businessfolk – well, mostly just students and businessfolk, nobody in their left mind rises pre-ten without commitment (us in our right mind ponder commitment’s nature); by noon the coffee and aspirin’s calmed her stomach and she can keep down a decent meal. I find it easier to deal with large, singular chunks of bread than all of those goddamn potato chips, so many little chunks of salty starch, get all caught in your teeth hard as fuck to pick out. Without us, that unsavory sustenance processed in whatever form to either vomit or shit somewhere else, the plated body of that mythical lizard wouldn’t breathe with life – none of this city would.

…

Isn’t it how it goes? This year my favourite birthday gift was a belt, closely followed by tobacco. I was wearing the belt and smoking the tobacco when our boy from the K-hole lost his nut. J’ai finis la Fin Du Monde. Suivant! Eggstré drinks too much. It’s a fact like Wynd writes a bunch, and F.’s an unrepentant pervert, except neither of them hurts nobody much. I’m not a moralist, far from it in fact. It doesn’t particularly concern me when the Egg breaks, spilling his yolk onto the hardwood floors – that’s his idea of a good time, fine, they’re not my hardwood floors – but when he’s in my town, on my favourite roof, nearly getting my ass arrested you can be damn sure I’ll come down on him hard and sharp, hatchet to a chicken’s neck. Like I said, here I am enjoying a good smoke on some A-grade public space (baby, it’s public if you keep it private) when Eggstré starts barking and pissing in the open. You know, I like cats: cats are chill, you only catch a cat when a cat wants affection or food, you rarely know they’re there unless they’ve made themselves seen, they don’t shit where they eat, they’re all around clean, responsible animals. Wynd and I, we’re cats, and here’s this dog making all kinds of noise, breaking things, pissing on the god damn floor, lubricating his ego with driblets of loose saliva. Cats run from dogs, not because they’re afraid but because dogs smell, are loud and draw attention of the things they should be afraid of.

“Car 2, I’ve got the three suspects, come around to pick them up. You know there are cameras up there – it’s private property, we have detailed pictures of you. What were you guys doing on the roof? ”

“It’s a nice spot to look at the sky…”

“I WAS PARKING MY CAR!”

“…line…”

“You were parking your car?”

“THAT’S RIGHT I WAS PARKING MY CAR!”

“I’m so sorry about…”

“You know that being up there is a felony, right?”

“…him, you won’t see us again.”

“Are any of you students here?”

“No.”
“No.”

“HE IS!”

“Can I see your student I.D. number?”

“I’m really not a student here.”

“Why did he say you were?”

“I don’t…”

“BECAUSE YOU’RE A PUNK-ASS!”

“…know.”

“Listen, I’m really sorry about our friend. We didn’t know it was private property, you won’t see us here again.”

“It’s a roof. You didn’t know it was private property?”

“Why are there stairs there?”

“Fire-escape.”

“Oh. Well, you won’t see us again. Sorry again.”

“If we catch you up here again, you’ll be charged with trespassing. I’ll let you guys go this time. Make sure your friend gets home.”

Rivulets of drool, the Ganges of a drunk man’s shirt. The challenge is getting him home alive. Without regard, Eggstré cuts a light at a busy street, nearly gets his ass flattened by the Saturday night cabbie cavalcade, and takes off into the only area where danger can come to him by another man’s hands, leaving us cut off by the frantic last-call traffic of St. Kat’s. “Eggstré! Eggstré!” we call after him, but he wanders on at a quickened pace. We run, “Eggstré!” we yell again to no avail. “Humpty Dumpty!” I shout, remembering an old nickname. The Egg stops in his tracks, and slowly pivots toward us: gone, his goofy look of gentile boyhood have whisked away, empty hole alcoholic eyes, a bloated face of pale loose dough, the colour of dead flesh – the most horrifying transformation I’ve ever seen in a man. “Hey man, that’s not the way to home.” His mutated visage communicated belligerent confusion more clearly than his words ever could. After some coaxing he followed us home, stopping once to throw his body weight against a Second Cup fence – uncross his legs to help him up, that was me last year – and finally passing out on Wynd’s apartment floor, endlessly muttering, “I’ll kill him, kill him, kill him…” to himself. We left the room for a smoke once we heard his snores roll on ellipsis.

“I need a cigarette”, one cat hissed to another and two packs of Peter Jackson Red combusted.