Super Soul Sister

“Sure. He started the fire?” I began to walk past the police chief and in Stan’s direction, I got a forearm to the chest.

“You know better. Some guys over there say you talk to Stan all the time.”

I looked over at the sampling of Bridge City’s homeless, men I’d seen almost daily over the last two years: Smitty, Raffers, Burleson, and Cal Grimes. All were lakefront locals and close pals with the usually homeless Ellefson. They were especially agitated at the anxious corral of police. I looked to Ellefson as I walked over and caught the attention of their de facto leader, Cal Grimes, a fifty-something African-American refugee from Central California. He waved me closer, pointing to Stan:

“ ‘Ain’t right, Will Day. Bikers got Stan the Man sponged soaked with Tequila, then set their women to lap dance him, and all the time whispering dirty, they then throwed him out the bar.”


I nodded looking back to Stan’s feigned movements towards the taunting bikers.

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