the everywhere of nowhere (pt 2)

“I may have had my hands around his throat, but that doesn't mean I killed him.”

The third man comes up to the other two who are still smoking their cigarettes. Bumsworth decides to take this opportunity to engage him.

“Well, don't you appear to be a bit rough around the edges. This might not be the best of neighborhoods but you really should be dressed better. And for Christ sake, you could take hygiene and grooming into consideration.

The third man feeling antagonized responds, “Cigarettes are the worst drug in the world. Yet, the government keeps forcing them on you. Those cigarette girls that go around . . . you know the ones I'm talking about . . . those girls are death dealers.”

Horatio and Bumsworth nod in agreement before taking good long drags and forcibly exhaling.

Bumsworth turns his back on the third man and speaks to Horatio directly.

“Sir, I hope you don't think I'm like this gentleman with his rhetoric and his cheap, just out of the dumpster look. I mean what political figures would claim to have associated with the likes of him. I mean really! If the illusion of it tells you it's a dog and the police insist it's a dog, then there's no reason to believe it is not a dog.”

Horatio chuckles and asks Bumsworth, “What if this one time it's not a dog?”

The third man jumps into the conversation.

“That's some government mind control conspiracy right there. They probably put mind control drugs in those cigarettes you're smoking. That's how it begins. And you know the cops are in on it too. They don't hassle you when you're standing around smoking a cigarette, but if you have a beer in your hand, well then shit, you're a fuckin' criminal.”

Bumsworth is deeply agitated by the third man's presence. “I don't understand why people are so obsessed with conspiracy theories and all that ridiculous nonsense. Who cares who killed Kennedy, he's dead, nothings going to change that.” Bumsworth says to the other two men.

“Don't you care about all the fucked up stuff the government is doing? It's the fucking CIA that's bringing coke into the country. That's why I switched to beer.” The third man responds.

“Haven't you heard beer causes impotency. It's the silence and smell of loneliness that attracts the cops to you. Then there are those desperate measures. I remember once as a child, I was riding on a carousel at a fair, and the seat in front of me was left open. The ride began and something told me that the horse was left unoccupied in memory of a boy who died while riding on it. But who was that boy? Why did he die?”

The third man quickly cuts Bumsworth off before he can continue romantically waxing poetic.

“I had a horse when I was a kid. We lived on a bunch of land in Washington state. I loved that horse. One day, my dad got drunk and shot the horse. I've hated him ever since. You know what else, he was a smoker. Fucking government killed my horse.”

Bumsworth begins to feel sympathetic towards the third man. He now understands that tragedy is what caused his decline and mental unrest.

“That's a terrible shame about your horse. A man was telling me that these are the end days. I wouldn't worry though, the cold has stopped, and the message was clearly for those who need deliverance. I'm not one of those. My lot has been cast.”

“You know they cast lots for Christ's few possessions. I couldn't imagine having my shit taken from me. My whole life is in this bag. I'd fucking die if anything happened to it. If anybody tried to take it, I'd kill them.”

Horatio's closes his eyes. He'd been in this situation far too many times. One person brings up God and it all goes downhill from there. He just can't predict if it's going to be a Jesus based tirade, or an argument between the two. He turns away from the two men, watches the feral cats in the alley, becomes depressed by the neon lights burning soft and sad, as another cycle of green, yellow, red passes; the light reflecting on the pavement. He hears something from Bumsworth's mouth that catches his ear.

“There are first times and times of firsts. I had once made the acquaintance of one Faye Dunaway. Yes, the actress. Anyway, she agreed after much cajoling on my part to be my first.”

Horatio's back was still to the other men. He chuckles to himself, but tries to remain motionless, uninvolved.

“I lost my cherry to a chubby girl named Denise. I've always loved plump girls.” The third man adds.

Horatio could now feel their eyes on him. He knew what was coming, but which one would say it. Bumsworth of course.

“And you, my friend, what delightful little lady made you a man?”

“Her name was Cordelia. She was my future ex-wife's sister.” Horatio responds, wishing he'd walked away.

“Man, you were married. I was married once. She left me. What about you man, you ever been married?” The third man interjects, directing his question at Bumsworth.

“Why do people insist on riding headlong down the slippery slopes of life? Have you learned nothing from our forefathers?” Bumsworth responds.

“Are you crazy or something?” the third man asks Bumsworth.

“Certainly not. I have loved many a lady in my day. You simpleton, my point is that marriage is a phony institution, and a man of my character can't be persuaded to fall in line with what society dictates.”