It was a quiet night, the streets were nearly empty, lights from store windows shone ethereally onto the sidewalk and made odd light sculptures against a line of parked cars and abandoned newspaper dispensers. Lumps Galoot was having none of this dreadful noir simulacra. The night is merely dark, not a canvas for wan poetry and brass knuckled fists flying out of an alley's blind spot.
Lumps could almost feel the metal smashing against his acne as that thought crossed his mind. Still , the night was serene in this pocket of the city, the only sounds being from teenagers yammering on and on with their invisible friends who had no faces, only avatars of angry, screaming skulls with huge sabers jammed through their craniums.
Conveniently, the streets were still wet from a recent rain , and the sound of tires rolling over the asphalt craters that made up the street sent an odd angular tingle up and down Lumps' spine before setting with a pulsing sensation around his groin area, which was constrained by a pair of pants that could set off fire alarms with the profound reek the material held in its decaying weave. Lumps Galoot hated the artfulness of the dark and the comparative quiet. The moon , full and leering, shone its beams on him, the streetlight radiance became assaulting glares on his crew cut and scars and placed him in a circle of off-white brilliance.
"Nothing beats a great pair of legs he said. He was in a doorway of a closed business , a microphone in his hand . He adjusted the volume of the battery powered Rolex amplifier the mic was plugged into and then tapped the round head of the device. PLOPMF PLOMPGH PLUGGUMGRUNK.
He lifted his head and saw the full moon aglow in the dark sky, a corona of a sort ringing his ash grey shape, perfectly in the center of a the inward slanting angles of the the buildings that were dark and colors save for the scattered lights from an office or apartment window.
"A song to all the Galoots" said Lumps Galoot. He cracked everyone of his knuckles over the microphone head, and it sounded like bones breaking under the thick layers of bed spreads and dime store throw pillows. Bones came alive with rhymes that refused to sing .
I wanna swat the fly
on the do or die,
have me a diggitty digital
watch party syntax
on a world fax,
dig?
There was nothing left to do on a night made of sirens, radio shows beamed to outer space, cats on trash cans plotting their next move. Lumps Galoot then noticed a woman with large Popeye muscles pounding her equally ripped boyfriend over the head with a very long club with a long bent nail piercing the top.
Christ on a biscuit, thought Lumps Galoot, What is this , a goddamned cartoon?
