Anarchist Headquarters, University City
The cold December sun streamed through the grimy broken window onto Dexter the Anarchist, sprawled on a torn mattress on the floor of the squalid and wretched squat. "Ho!" he exclaimed, sitting up suddenly and burying his filthy dread-locked head in his hands. "My head is throbbing like a fucking bomb! What the fuck was I doing last night?" He paused. "Pardon my French."
"Smack, crack cocaine, ecstasy and horse tranquilizers," retorted Gretchen, looking down at him dully. Her enormous but unwashed breasts shifted massively beneath her ragged peasant blouse under which she wore no bra. "Plus which you were out past midnight scrawling obscenities on the walls up and down Baltimore. What the hell were you thinking, if you can call it thinking? One of these days the UCD pigs are going to come down on you hard."
"Fuck the fucking UCD pigs!" swore Dexter, as he absentmindedly gathered up last night's used condoms and tossed them through a broken window onto the sidewalk.
"I mean it, Dex," sighed Gretchen, prying open a can of pork and beans with a rusty switchblade. "Those UCD dudes are rough, man. They won't even take you to jail for a shower and a hot meal -- they'll just beat the crap out of you in some back alley."
"Look, Gretch," snarled Dexter, combing his stubby unwashed fingers through his soiled dreadlocks. "Are you down with the revolution or what? Sometimes I wonder about you. I mean, are you part of the fuckin problem or part of the fuckin solution? I mean, are you on the fuckin bus or off the fuckin bus?"
"All I know is that we're almost out of food," whined Gretchen, spooning the greasy concoction of beans and pork fat into cracked and discolored ceramic bowls. "You're either gonna hafta go out and peddle some horse to raise some dough, or else go score more beans up at Philabundance with your homeless routine. And I am *definitely* not going out to walk the streets down on Beaumont Avenue again, if that's what you're thinking."
"Aw, fuck that fuckin shit," growled Dexter, beating out a primitive tattoo on a home-made drum fashioned from a discarded plastic paint bucket. "Pardon my French."
The Gentrification of the Corridor
"Smack, crack cocaine, ecstasy and horse tranquilizers," retorted Gretchen, looking down at him dully. Her enormous but unwashed breasts shifted massively beneath her ragged peasant blouse under which she wore no bra. "Plus which you were out past midnight scrawling obscenities on the walls up and down Baltimore. What the hell were you thinking, if you can call it thinking? One of these days the UCD pigs are going to come down on you hard."
"Fuck the fucking UCD pigs!" swore Dexter, as he absentmindedly gathered up last night's used condoms and tossed them through a broken window onto the sidewalk.
"I mean it, Dex," sighed Gretchen, prying open a can of pork and beans with a rusty switchblade. "Those UCD dudes are rough, man. They won't even take you to jail for a shower and a hot meal -- they'll just beat the crap out of you in some back alley."
"Look, Gretch," snarled Dexter, combing his stubby unwashed fingers through his soiled dreadlocks. "Are you down with the revolution or what? Sometimes I wonder about you. I mean, are you part of the fuckin problem or part of the fuckin solution? I mean, are you on the fuckin bus or off the fuckin bus?"
"All I know is that we're almost out of food," whined Gretchen, spooning the greasy concoction of beans and pork fat into cracked and discolored ceramic bowls. "You're either gonna hafta go out and peddle some horse to raise some dough, or else go score more beans up at Philabundance with your homeless routine. And I am *definitely* not going out to walk the streets down on Beaumont Avenue again, if that's what you're thinking."
"Aw, fuck that fuckin shit," growled Dexter, beating out a primitive tattoo on a home-made drum fashioned from a discarded plastic paint bucket. "Pardon my French."
The Gentrification of the Corridor
posted by rosso | 9:53 PM
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