Anonymous

He smelled like piss and an old container of peanutbutter. His mesh shoes were faded and frayed. His socks could reach to his knees but were scrunched down to his ankles. His shorts covered barely half of his thigh exposing his paper skin legs. Strands of muscle would undulate as he repositioned himself in his chair. His shirt a tye dye dark green with a celtic pride style art as a logo on hia front. His hands were veiny. His left ring finger had ducttape over a portion of it. One could tell a lot by this fact. His hair was unkempt, cut like a ten year old child's. His face, wrinkled withered from the hot sun. Stoic and neanderthal eyes and mouth. When he spoke, he had a slur. As if he was still drunk. Words difficultly came out of his mouth with much effort. They were scrunched together like packages on an overdriven assembly line crunching and overflowing boxes toward the exit that which was his mouth. His oil was no longer slick but burnt sludge. The gears cranked on a misfitted bearing like a part in the wrong car.