Crust of a Gold’n Morn

Scum Suck, orphan of the Low Plains, sees the bauble fall and bounce and fall some more, down into the shit and filth of the gutter and he waits for the Fancy Man to pause in his saunter, take from his soft, white hand his walking glove and dip his shiny fingers in the muck to retrieve the golden trinket. But the Fancy Man continues on and talks and twirls without a care, though he must have seen it fall. He had been holding it but moments ago. Yet there he goes, into a solid house of brick and wood and out of the windy streets.

Scum Suck dodges dogs and dangerous dandies, kicks and chiding and spittle, until the bauble lies before him, twinkling beneath the gray water and floating excrement. His hands were created dirty and down they go, unperturbed. But he is not strong, not strong enough indeed to lift the weight of the bauble dropped by the Fancy Man, and there he is now as he has been forever, leaning over the gutter, staring into the sloshing refuse, refusing to let go of the shiny Shiny until his teeth fall out and his eyes blind over and his back locks up like a wooden doll.

Better that a dog chew off your arm at the elbow, little Scum Suck. There is freedom in a bleeding stump.

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