Pickles

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Skwisgaar entered the room quietly, closing the door behind him. He was holding a folded piece of paper in his hand. “So. Mails comes in todays, and dere’s dis ones from my moms. She says shes comings to visits us in two weeks. She alsos says she had to writes me because ams never answers her calls. Pfft. As ifs.” He scoffed. “Didst your moms sends yous toos a letters?”

“Maybes de robots defitnitions of urgents ams differents than yours. To hims only moneys and business ams urgents.” Skwisgaar frowned. “Pfft I wouldst hates to sees all de moms outsides mordhaus agains. Whats does we do?”

“Easies for yous to says. Your moms easiers to ignores.” Skwisgaar muttered. “Mine moms wilst hits on everyones agains and ams goinks to be sicks. Agains. And what ifs dey wants to makes an album likes last times? I says we call robots ands tells hims dat we ams goinks on tours.”

“I’s… sures.” Skwisgaar nodded, hunching slightly to pick the beer he was offered. “Uhm… Thanks. Ams had a roughs days.” he muttered. “Yous a good bros, Pickle. Skål.” He clinged his beer bottle to Pickles’ own with a tired smile and took a long sip.

He tilted his head. “I’m down here.” He waited for Pickles to look down at him. He was sitting in the alley. Basically emaciated. “I’m not gonna hurt you, Pickles. I just… was saying hi.” He tried to stand up, wobbling as he finally got his legs to work and hold him up. “How have you been? How has your family been?” He inquired. “As for me, I’m homeless.”

He begged, “God, don’t– No, don’t–” He scrounged up the money as he looked at Pickles. Ten bucks. Eh, might get him something at McDonalds. Maybe some crack. He knew he shouldn’t relapse. But what if he did? “Pickles– Please.” He sounded anguished. He fell back down to the ground. “Pickles….”

He stared at him, his white eye piercing the darkness as he dragged himself to pick up the last bit of money. He had expended the last of his energy trying to stand up earlier. He looked at Pickles’ face, remembering what he looked like. It’s been a long, long time… “Charles… Call Charles. All y-you… want…” He rolled over onto his back, the raised scar prominent under his sternum. His voice eased as he took the pressure off of his chest. “Call him. Maybe at least I’ll fuckin’ die this time for real.”

Skwisgaar entered the room quietly, closing the door behind him. He was holding a folded piece of paper in his hand. “So. Mails comes in todays, and dere’s dis ones from my moms. She says shes comings to visits us in two weeks. She alsos says she had to writes me because ams never answers her calls. Pfft. As ifs.” He scoffed. “Didst your moms sends yous toos a letters?”

“Maybes de robots defitnitions of urgents ams differents than yours. To hims only moneys and business ams urgents.” Skwisgaar frowned. “Pfft I wouldst hates to sees all de moms outsides mordhaus agains. Whats does we do?”

“Easies for yous to says. Your moms easiers to ignores.” Skwisgaar muttered. “Mine moms wilst hits on everyones agains and ams goinks to be sicks. Agains. And what ifs dey wants to makes an album likes last times? I says we call robots ands tells hims dat we ams goinks on tours.”

He tilted his head. “I’m down here.” He waited for Pickles to look down at him. He was sitting in the alley. Basically emaciated. “I’m not gonna hurt you, Pickles. I just… was saying hi.” He tried to stand up, wobbling as he finally got his legs to work and hold him up. “How have you been? How has your family been?” He inquired. “As for me, I’m homeless.”

He begged, “God, don’t– No, don’t–” He scrounged up the money as he looked at Pickles. Ten bucks. Eh, might get him something at McDonalds. Maybe some crack. He knew he shouldn’t relapse. But what if he did? “Pickles– Please.” He sounded anguished. He fell back down to the ground. “Pickles….”