Fate and Fist

The gut swaying, the eyes blearing, the mouth muttering, the legs tottering, the arms swinging, the soul lost - he will be wandering around the city late tonight.

Spitting at the sky, choking the air, tearing along the streets, growling at houses, no soul to begin with - the cars will fart, crap, creep and speed around the city late tonight.

Surely fate is at hand to power such a beast into him, as he meanders across a road. And then the coma; his gut will shrivel, his eyes go blind, that mouth shut-up, the arms sliced off, the legs frozen forever - everything except his fist crippled.

And in time, he, the cripple, will be given a wheelchair. And I, fist, will captain that ship; and the streets will treat him differently. No longer will the sirens sing sweetly. No longer will the pubs welcome with open arms. Instead, fingers will point at his pathetic body, mouths will laugh at the mucus drifting down his chin, and drivers will share in-jokes behind their windows.

And I, fist, as was fated, will then deliver him from the miserable city, driving him forever forward, onward, upward. Or at least, I will speed him away, steer him elsewhere.