Death of a Saint

If Paul was the smartest, the best educated man on the street, the Little Pig was his polar opposite on the scale. You really had to wonder... they were always together.

He was tall with too much hair for a man his age; must've been draggin' forty at least; it was receding but it still looked good. Paul was the quiet type, in a loud sort of way ya know, whenever he said something anybody that could hear, stopped and listened. Real funny and he used a lot of big words too, but he always explained himself. Some of the folks on the skid said he used to be a professor, others thought he was a lawyer.

Little Pig was the really quiet one, always itchin' her arm where the needles went. She'd smile and say a few words but you knew she had better get goin' pretty soon.

I'd run into 'em late in the evening, and they'd usually invite me up to their flat for a few drinks; I'd always go cause Paul had the best weed around. He told me he was doing an extended study for the government on heroin use in the inner city; he knew everybody. Piggy was just a hapless chick too strung out to take care of herself anymore, that's why we called him St. Paul.

One Thursday night I stopped by their flat on my way home from the diner. When I knocked on the door it opened to darkness. My skin started crawling instantly, and I was shakin' hard before I even switched on the light. They were both on the couch, sorta' propped against each other, eyes open, shot in the head once each from the look of it, I called the cops. As soon as I gave the address the phone started clickin like mad. At first I didn't catch on, till this hollow voice came on the line and asked for my name, and where was I now, and did I know em well... Were they both dead? Yeah. Did the girl die of an o.d.? That's when it hit me. I hadn't said anything about girl, just... two people.

I said the only thing that came to mind, "FUCK YOU," and slammed the phone hard. I hauled ass for the kitchen and grabbed a towel; "if I don't wipe my finger prints..." I thought, "Jesus fuck, what all did I touch anyway?" I'm sweatin' like a bastard now, doorknob, phone; I pick it up, put it to my ear, shit, it's dead, wipe it and drop it. Nobody left to answer it here. What else?

Sprinting into the bedroom, I pull out the dresser drawers, nope. Closet, paw through the shoes. Christ, who did she think she was, Imelda Marcos. Nothin'. Check the shelf, jackpot. "You won't be needin' this smoke anymore Paul," I yelled at the silence, like he cares now. Fuck it, I'm a pragmatic realist; I stuff the quarter-pound in my jacket and take off down the hall. I can hear tires squealing to a halt out front as I climb the fire escape to the roof and start hoppin' across the skyline.

© 1995-2001 A Hominid G