Unholy Man

The man stumbled across the road to the small park in the middle. Two benches, some pavement. It was a busy main street divided up in the middle, each side going opposite ways. The light turned red. He stumbled forward, pulling his pants up, crack in his wrinkled tanned behind still showing. He stumbled forward, but then thought better of it. His right foot tapped impatiently, his face unmoving and still. Cars thundered past, each one furiously making its way across the road, the power of hundreds of horses harnessed by metal engines burning oxygen.

The fumes were thick, and smelled. The air was mellow, the sky dim. Clouds thick and heavy, hanging overhead. The air tasted fruity, the fruit seller with the homemade wooden stand was standing in front of the CVS.

The light turned white, blinking and beeping rapidly. The man took his time, and then sauntered and stumbled across the road, no eyes on him yet. As he moved, his pants, which were far too loose on his slim body slipped downwards, exposing a fleshy bottom, scabbed, wrinkled, and far too many bones shown by the skin stretched taut over them. He stopped in the middle of the street as the streetlight started to beep more rapidly, a sign that it was about to change color once more.

The wind picked up, chilly, people drew their coats up, hands folded over chests. The clouds grumbled overhead. The fumes hung heavy.

Impatient horns as the light turned red for pedestrians and green for cars, and the skinny man with the loose skin stood in the middle of the road, unperturbed, almost as if he didn’t hear the horns that had people putting their fingers in their ears.

Horns, loud, impatient, all eyes were on him. Then the first of the cars slowly swerved around him, and went on its way. It was as if he were a tree in the road, as he started to slowly stumble onwards, oblivious to the chaos he was creating.

He reached the end, the light turned white, people crossing the street gave him a look as they avoided him. He stumbled by the trash can on the other side, his pants down to his ankles, his member hanging out, old, long, limp, hairy. He pulled up his pants, bumped his head on the trash can as he fell. No one came to help. People stopped and stared.

He grabbed the sides as he lifted himself up. He started screaming and mumbling.

The wind began to howl. The clouds began to let out a little bit of a drizzle.

The air tasted fresh and ominous like it did these days. 

The man was now upright. He began to stumble over, hands on his pants, keeping them firmly up. People watched with morbid interest, this man of the world, who was also not of the world, not their world, but so very fascinating. The rain began to clear. It stopped. The wind picked up. The clouds began to float away. The sun appeared, casting a bright warm glow on the city. Shining off of buildings. The man reached the nearest building, let his pants drop, and let out a spray of yellow liquid. Above him, the church bells began to ring.