It's been a few days now since my close call with Dingy Joe and Sally, and aside from a repulsive bruise on my right bicep caused by Joe's pipe-lashing and a handful of fingernail scratches under my eyes, you'd never know that less than a week ago I kicked death in the gonads and lived to tell about it. Yes, my friends, oxygen has been tasting that much sweeter since that afternoon.
Sure, I was merciful and perhaps weak by allowing two of my enemies to live, but as they are nothing more than unintelligent addicts from the bottom of the barrel, I am content with the knowledge that they lack the necessary accouterments to track the musky scent of yours truly. And let's be honest, even if they did, I'd surely pound their faces into mashed potatoes with Washington and Lincoln! Who are they you ask? Why they are my fists, good reader; so named because they closely resemble in size the two flanking heads on Mount Rushmore. And they prefer French, or as I prefer to call them, "Freedom greetings"...two kisses, one on each side of the face.
Because you are my trusted companions and dare I say...friends? No, I don't like the sound of that. We'll stick with the former label. But even so, I feel I should let it be known that I have eyes and ears from Hoboken to Madagascar. Sure, several of these eyes and ears are about as accurate as those formerly employed by Hellen Keller, but more often than not I can depend on the paranoid delusions of the operators of said eyes and ears to steer me clear of any serious predicaments.
The facts as I have gathered them thus far hold that not long after I left, Joe snapped out of his heroin daze and limped back towards the railcar. He seemingly had no recollection of the afternoon's previous events, and just as he reached for the handle on the door to pull himself up, his roaming eye spotted Sally's unconscious form slumped on the ground to his left.
Now it is rare for a heroin addict to retain a sexual appetite whilst in the ravages of the drug, but as I have told you before, Dingy Joe is not your average human being. His libido rivals the intensity of an Indian kid at a spelling bee competition, and I shudder to imagine the thoughts that danced inside his head like a Parkinson's patient with bladder control problems upon first noticing Sally's helpless form lying prostrate on the ground.
At this point, according to my sources, Joe grasped Sally around the waist like a sack of...well let's see...I used retarded midgets last time...hmm...a sack of full grown...no wait, that won't work either. Damn it! A sack of shit! You're all a sack of shit! End of post!
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