Dylan A couple of prostitutes step off the dimly lit street into the splash of white light. Their dark bodies appear as things long past the point of retrieval, their faces as postscripts to winless battles. Beyond the gas pumps, moving toward the entrance, their heeled footsteps tap out a slow, gloomy processional. The green car makes yet another speedy run, this time going west on Van Buren, passing 11th Street.
Arms flail out of the passenger windows as the occupants bark threats of bodily harm.
The guys in the green car want to pound the bantam security guy. The security guy just shakes his head and smirks. They were drinking in their car on the premises, so I threw them off. One guy even said if I didn't relax, he was gonna relax me. I wasn't too worried, it was just their way of getting off.