It tasted like dead horse. That’s one of my favourite smells. Hell, every smell's my favourite smell. I was running, running real fast, the wind running faster by my side, and on my other side - my accomplice. That’s my bitch. She knows a good time, where to take a guy. Ok I'll admit it, I'm lying; I wasn't really going that fast, and sure I was spitting like a pig at Christmas, but I'm not done for yet, not quite past it. Fleabag? What kind of a name is that? Especially coming from a man who doesn't know his head from tail. There I am trying to do me job, watch the door, take a nap, keep clean, and there he is! Prowling round in the night like he gotta keep an eye on me. Suspicious that’s what I call that. Just because I'm in the kitchen don't mean I'm gonna bust the fridge, right? I just like kitchens is all.
So we stole it, my new favourite possession, and then down the street we where running, shoulder to shoulder, him yelling foul words at the top of his voice. Fleabag, that’s what he called me.
We darted into an alleyway, worrying the hat between us, spit lashing everywhere until it ripped. I could smell the bouncer's cologne. It clashed horribly with his lilac shirt, like curdled milk and raw egg. I liked it. We lay on the piss and vomit stained pavement, a dull thump coming from the nightclub to the left. She started scratching beside me. Seconds later I succumbed and joined in. I have a certain affinity with lice; we are all unwelcome pets are we not?
Scratching was a workout, as was spreading my legs at staring strangers on the street. Fearlessly, as ever, I took a nap in that ghetto, and dreamt of running to the next street with tail held high. I hate my tail, lost it ages ago.
She said she loved me. I believed her. Then I wandered home.
TEXT by Kerrick Newstead + IMAGES by Anette Fritsen