Sullivan and the vagrant

If your anything like me, the stuff you write is really spur of the moment. You have an idea or a gripe, start to write then all of a sudden you got about 1,000 words. Barring spur of the moment type stuff (and boxing), ripping on my friends also provides endless material. Your friends usually appreciate the hell out of it especially if you manage to capture the inherent-ness of their essence. I wrote the following at work after an e-mail ripping session about my ace boon coon;

Late last Thursday evening, Sullivan left the The Sausage-arium on his way to find the nearest speak easy (that sold party pills). He'd had a few under his belt and, as a result, his path was no where as direct as intended. The air sent shivers down his spine and he cowered into his overcoat trying to hide from the unforgiving wrath of summer.

He was suddenly approached by a vagrant who's voice delivered a simple request in a most grizzly and lackluster fashion;

"Change?"

"Change?!" was Sullivan's reply. "Why should I change?...What is that supposed to mean?!?"

The homeless man looked befuddled which was rare as his life was one of rejection. From those who refused his uncomplicated yet necessary request to those who pretend that the margin he exists in itself does not exist, he had never faced the raw aggression and indignation that was seething right in front of him.

By now, combat was unavoidable and the two foes were nose to nose in a classic staredown. The smell was overpowering, a combination of old cigarettes, cheap liquor and awkward sweat. The bum smelt also, with the musk that only extended stays on the street can provide.

Sullivan feigns tipping his hat and swings, his left hand promising pain. The swing does not connect however as his lead foot had unwittingly planted on a banana skin and he tumbles to the ground, his pants spewing the very staples that were holding them together. His complaint of "uh-oh spaghetti-ohs" falls on deaf ears as the homeless man lunges onto his fallen prey. His punches are wild and Sullivan manages to dislodge him easily. Back on his feet, and with his pants freed up to a more 'athletic' function, Sullivan, having taken no truck with the wine-breathed degenerate, proceeded to smother him with his own overcoat. For he had grabbed the first thing available and, all rational people in times of need, will utilize what is most available. With his sight and movement restricted, the vagrant is no match for Sullivan's BZP-enhanced blows and he is clubbed mercilessly.

The fight is over, the only sounds that remain are Sullivan's heavy breathing and the painful moaning of his fallen foe. After collecting his coat (and staples) Sullivan tips his hat to no one in particular then departs.