(no subject)
Who: Nick and Open like a hooker's legs
Where: On the side of a street your character might be walking down. Nick's not picky.
When: Afternoon, February 27th
What: Playing to passerbys. Stove pipe hat on the ground.
Rating: Nick cusses. Arrrrr.
Status: Open like a Wal*Mart at Midnight
You would have thought $10,000 U.S. would have been enough for a young(ish) man to eventually die on. The dying didn't need much food. Death's doorstep didn't need a mortgage on a house. Ten steps to the reaper didn't need stock in PlayDoh(tm). It had been a considerably easy short lived existence that the 10K provided him. And then some bastard had to go and extend the lives of people with AIDS (and the medicine cabinets; not the cocktails he was looking for). And, suddenly, Nick was figuring out in his long term expenses; 10 thou. wasn't seeming quite enough for living another year.
Nick wasn't the retail type. He didn't flip burgers. In fact, Nick had never had a "real" job. So why start now? Sure it was a bit degrading, but it was more fulfilling than asking people if they wanted their lowfat soy mocha choco latte in tall, grande or fuck me in the ass with a caffeine enema. Since when had coffee gotten so complicated anyway?
But that wasn't the point. The point, if there had to be one, was that the skinny 30 year old gay guy with AIDS was sitting on the sidewalk of a street that seemed moderately busy strumming out a fantastic acoustic version of London Calling to any passerby who would drop a few quarters or bills in his stove pipe hat (one Canadian dollar at the thrift store).
And didn't he look charming in his skinny ripped jeans, big black boots, black leather jacket, fingerless gloves, and knit cap? Okay, so he wasn't Tiny Tim, but he still had the big blue eyes and a tolerable voice. Certainly that counted for something.
Where: On the side of a street your character might be walking down. Nick's not picky.
When: Afternoon, February 27th
What: Playing to passerbys. Stove pipe hat on the ground.
Rating: Nick cusses. Arrrrr.
Status: Open like a Wal*Mart at Midnight
You would have thought $10,000 U.S. would have been enough for a young(ish) man to eventually die on. The dying didn't need much food. Death's doorstep didn't need a mortgage on a house. Ten steps to the reaper didn't need stock in PlayDoh(tm). It had been a considerably easy short lived existence that the 10K provided him. And then some bastard had to go and extend the lives of people with AIDS (and the medicine cabinets; not the cocktails he was looking for). And, suddenly, Nick was figuring out in his long term expenses; 10 thou. wasn't seeming quite enough for living another year.
Nick wasn't the retail type. He didn't flip burgers. In fact, Nick had never had a "real" job. So why start now? Sure it was a bit degrading, but it was more fulfilling than asking people if they wanted their lowfat soy mocha choco latte in tall, grande or fuck me in the ass with a caffeine enema. Since when had coffee gotten so complicated anyway?
But that wasn't the point. The point, if there had to be one, was that the skinny 30 year old gay guy with AIDS was sitting on the sidewalk of a street that seemed moderately busy strumming out a fantastic acoustic version of London Calling to any passerby who would drop a few quarters or bills in his stove pipe hat (one Canadian dollar at the thrift store).
And didn't he look charming in his skinny ripped jeans, big black boots, black leather jacket, fingerless gloves, and knit cap? Okay, so he wasn't Tiny Tim, but he still had the big blue eyes and a tolerable voice. Certainly that counted for something.