The Deadhead - a very short story

for M.B. and C.R.T.

The deadhead pushed his red hair out of his eyes and pulled a smelly bandanna from his rear pocket, the one that wasn't torn and patched. Probably an ordinance about ragged attire here in Homo Heights.
He felt like a housebreaker going up the little townhouse steps. The place was a castle. What did
Todd and Evan do for work nowadays? The last time he'd seen that little blonde motherfucker Evan
he'd been manning a falafel booth at an Alternative Party rally. Falafel must pay well.
- Oh heyy. It's the renegade scumbag.
Todd smiled and opened the screen door. He was skinny again, or at least not fat verging on obese. If Todd's skin didn't hang off him like a Shar Pei's , he would get laid more often and not be a park pervert. Talk about picnics under the trees.
- You got a pubic hair on your nose, dude. Check me out.
He was wearing a vivid tie dyed ensemble: white tee shirt, painter's pants and ugly boots. No underwear, of course. He capered around the living room, shaking his ass and wriggling his arms in some deadhead dance.
He was very tired but maybe if he gave horny Todd an exhibition now, the fat cocksucker might keep his hands to himself after the partying. The word "PARTY!!" with neon pink exclamation pts.
had been scrawled all over the back of Evan's museum shop postcard. ( The photo on the front would not have been legal under the old regime.)

Evan walked down the street like he owned the neighborhood. In a sense, he did. Welcome to the hub of homo heights, Marcus. The guy was a sweet fool and clown who had sold them marijuana, cocaine, gas in balloons ( once),primo hash and bootleg ludes made of pulverized Canadian diazepam. Marcus probably didn't have anything with him ( who knows when you live in Free Key Zone, once called Florida) so Evan had called his "caterer", a despicable person with links to the best a thriving pleasure industry could offer. Even his boy whores were relatively fresh.
He smiled proudly at his blonde curls as he mounted the steps and shrieked: there's some kinda hippy creature in my living room.

Tableaux: Marcus, rubbery legs intertwined, sitting back on the yellow sofa near the window. Evan and Todd napping in their personal chairs like someone's grandparents. A disgusting mess littered the coffee table. Small mirror, stray rails of powders, an odd pipe, metal straws, crumpled
bag of smoke, beer bottles, glasses with melting ice. An unopened bottle of champagne sat tilted in a gleaming pail.
Marcus awoke and took a quick survey of the room. Nap time, eh? You used to be able to main - tain. Must be all that liberated dick and ass making you soft and light. Marshmallow men. Todd had a bit of a hard-on in his sleep. Evan was still as a cadaver on a slab.
His head hurt. He hoped it wasn't another redheadache.
- Todd. hey Todd.
Todd opened one eye. - Yeah? He was hoarse from smoking.
- You got anything good, I mean good, for a headache?
- I have these new things, um, oxyhydrocodone that the doctor gave me for my ass. Then he opened his other eye and laughed.
- Sicko. Does one, you know ...
- I'll give you one cause they don't grow on trees except maybe in F.K.Z. If it still hurts afterwhile,
well, tough. I'll give you another one if you let me fuck you. It won't hurt as much haha.
- Man, do we have to ...
- Can't you take a joke? If I wanted a pay date he'd be cuter than you. Sorry. Here.
He shook two big white lozenges from a narrow vial and dropped them onto Marcus' upturned palm.

to be continued

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