Express Train To Waste

One quarter of an hour to four in the morning and it's just me and a stolen bag of Cashew Lovers Poppycock. Shiftless, obstinate mind ignores nagging deadline for collegiate portfolios for which my future calls me asshole. It forgets the day’s charitable actions. Venturing into society for the exchange of legal tender for a replacement epilating device, prohibitively long lines of contemptuous shrews, inarticulate beer guts and feckless youths result in immediate evacuation of the outside world. A small odiferous boy calls out to me in stentorian tones from behind a shopping cart full of what appears to be discarded junk turns out to be charitable junk offered at the high, high price of just seven greenbacks. That is to say the little bastard was peddling dollar store garbage for a charity likely of Dickensian intention. His efforts are great and commendable and at a level unseen in even the most high end of capitalist shit holes so I purchase pomaceous fruit shaped scented wax. I'm no miser. With Lady Vapor and I both desiring more Lady Vapor time and The Kid playing hide and don't seek I find myself with free time and extra social juice so the train station is determined the next destination. Unaware of the hour let alone rush hour I'm met by too many people by anyone’s standards and not just mine, which I note since my standard, is any. A narrow seat made narrower by Cro-Magnon build an exceptionally polite man takes the half seat next to me but I don't mind because he looks like a five foot tall Inspector Gadget. I'm no Dr. Claw. Upon arriving, a homeless self-described ex-marine requests change but I have only bills to offer so I do. After polite conversation, he recognizes me as one-half of the scourge of Gandalf the Bum and sullenly takes leave. He thought I was a nice guy. A little closer to four in the morning. Going about my business, which is none of your business I return to the mercifully less occupied train. A man in matching arm casts sits in an opiate haze across from me. Leaving his bags after getting off a scumbag piece of shit immediately begins eating their contents, which I hope with all of my black heart, is filled with A.I.D.S. and chemical castration. Last come first fucked on a man eat man train ride. I'm no cannibal. Attempting to escape the primal urge for charitable violence, I relocate. My new car is filled with bridge and tunnel hipsters of impressive dedication to self-labeling fashion. A cursory glance reveals the largest male leering at my tender man frame with lustful gluttony from behind his red and white checkered neck scarf. The internets provides no answer as to what homosexual fetish subculture a red neck scarf signifies. Fortunately, he lacks the courage to approach and I arrive unmolested. Getting into my automobile I run out of social juice and good graces and begin to feel dangerous again. Driving too fast trouble is determined the next destination. Four in the morning. I'm a highway star.