The Sound of Blood

He grabbed the barrel and balanced himself.
The blood was pouring from his ear. I spat some whiskey in there. He laughed.
And threw the messy, bloody tissue away. It landed in the ashtray and caught fire. Smelled like burnt, cheap bacon.
The blood wasn’t stopping either. He poked a finger in the ear. Licked off the booze and blood.
Still, the blood came.
He raised his eyes and pressed the burning end of his cigarette in there.
Asked me if I wanted another drink and left.
I sat amongst the copulating cats and tried to read a tabloid.
A woman laid in a pile of leaves and crossed herself over and over again. I nodded to a bouncer, who was, in fact, just a head case who’d wandered in off the street. He snatched her up in a screaming heap and bundled out.
I scratched my ear.
Then the blood came.
I lit up.


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