Pickup Street

Bertha struts sexy she thinks in orange fishnet stockings and blued eyelids peering from a canary yellow feather stole. She strolls the debris swept streetcorner, henpecking for customers. They come up to her in sleek sedans that creep away. They return and regurgitate Bertha who, loose on wobbly high heels, touches up her lip gloss.

Porky sniffs porcine nostrils at the smear of meat, grease, and bread in his fat, pink fingers. He makes smacking and gobbling noises as he snorts and grunts the hamburger down his gullet. Reaching into a spotted paper bag for another benediction at the altar of gluttony, his beady eyes spots the bird across the street.

She is stumbling out of a white Chevrolet, her cheap yellow skirt fluttering, a chick emerging from egg to tut tut in the halo of orange vapor light. Ham-handed, he flicks on the lights. Slits a tongue through his smile to lick away the grease. Burns rubber, wwwreow! The sirens sizzle like bacon, go sooey sooey sooey SOOEY!

Like pigeons they scatter.

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