Pulp 001

The old coat had done its best to hold in what heat it could, but the night was long and the cold is always unrelenting. Its efforts finally exhaust themselves and a chill wakes me right before that first glimpse of a rising sun passes over the cracks in walls. My first eyeful dips in a cut of light coming from the far end of the room.  host a handful of dancing, whirling dust. The shadows are still the nighttime shade of dark blue-purple, but the edges are fast receding into the thin grey morning haze.

Aye, this room I’ve made for my bed may be broken and dirty, but I say to you, it’s safe. No more rats and any dumb squatters bent on invading know they’ll lose the fight. This building knows my hands well, hands that still make the rocks shudder and can pull the marrow out of young bones.

I push myself up off the floor. There’s a deep sound, a low creek and a hollow thud rising up my gullet. Time for breakfast, I think. Shanks of light sliding through the gaps between the boards up on the windows crisscross the room. I know that soon it will be hot and uncomfortable in here.  Already, my whiskers itch, dry as they are. A long draw of cold water is called for. 

And some food. There’s another rumble when I stand up and stretch. Charity has blessed me with another day with lungs that breathe, another day with warm blood in my heart and life in my muscles. “Perhaps charity will give a fine breakfast.” One of my coat’s many pockets holds a stale heel of bread that might hold me over if need be, but dried bread is a poor reward for this waking. Perhaps Artie’s might spare a plate of something warm for a story?

I think of what tales I haven’t told the old sailor yet when there’s another creek. I stop and the hairs on the back of my arms catch a’hold of the static. A slow breath crawls past my lips. That last sound didn’t come from my old skin or hungry belly. It’s almost too late when I see the shadow pass by a boarded up window. I duck down and grab a loose plank from the part of the broken floor, pulling the wood up in time to block the swinging blow from the body that has crashed through, splintering the boards up on windows as if they weren’t even there. A glint of new light off of sharp steel nearly sets the dust on fire and then, there is no mistaking who it is. Bloody Ben!