Sam Pink: Witch Piss

Spider-Man said, “Dahhhh. Wha’s really goin on?”

Then he gave a brief storyline of one of his characters, which he told with a lot of sound effects.

It involved a dead father and something with ice.

There were other storylines too.

Most of them involved a dead father/wife.

Genetic accidents.

Something with ice.

He posed as the characters while narrating.

At one point he got annoyed when he thought people weren’t listening.

From the doorway, Danny yelled, “Then just tell the fuckin story then, the quick version. Come on.”

Everybody laughed.

Spider-Man continued to talk about the comic book characters he’d created.

He posed as the fighters and did their moves, pausing for people who walked by, bowing to them as they passed.

He jumped back into fighting position and said, “Shing-shing”—shooting some ice at me.

I dodged as best I could, drinking my beer.

Spider-Man moved strands of the sparkling wig away from his face. “Gotta be kiddin me, my beautiful hair. Dahhhhhh.”

This guy ‘Face’ walked up.

Everybody said hi to him.

He was Spider-Man’s friend.

He wore a Sox hat to the left a little, braids coming out beneath it.

There was a long scar on his cheek/jaw.

“Whattup, cous,” he said, hitting fists with me when I handed him a beer.

More and more people were passing on the sidewalk.

The bars were closing.

Face said he had to go soon to clean up afterhours at a nearby bar called the Two Door.

This professional/jock type guy walked up and started talking to Duke’s owner.

They knew each other.

The jock guy handed him his cellphone.

Duke’s owner took out his cellphone and held both phones next to each other, transferring a number.

He sat there moving his head back and forth between both phones, dialing with his burnt fingertips.

“Wha’d you want again?” he said, squinting up at the jock guy.

“Some weed, shit, some coke, whatever,” he said. “We can all blow a line right here, I don’t give a fuck.”

He looked at me for a second and then looked back down at the dog-owner guy.

Nothing.

“Nothing,” said the dog-owner guy. “Should I try again, er?”

The jock guy grabbed his phone and walked off.

His sandals slapped against the sidewalk.

I ran across the street and pissed in an alley.

When I came back there was an argument between Danny and Spider-Man about who could ask for money where.

Territories.

Rules.

Power.

Friends or no friends.

Danny kept telling Spider-Man to fuck off because he was asking for money by his spot.

Spider-Man kept telling Danny to relax.

An ad on Danny’s radio mentioned the Somethingth Anniversary of 9/11.

Everyone talked about how they would have attacked the terrorists if they were on those planes.

Danny said, “Man, fuck it, you know. Wha’d they have? Fuckin box cutters? A fucking box cutter? Helllllllll”—tongue through his missing teeth—“lll no. I mean, yeah, you cut me once, sure. But then I fuckin kill your ass, haha. Fuckin stomp your face in, bitch.”

Too Tall took off his wig and rubbed his head. “Mm-hm. Can’t stop me with jussa box cutter.”

Face put his cigarette in his mouth and held both his fists clenched down at his sides, squinting around the smoke. “Bitch-ass motherfuckers, come on,” he said, acting like he wanted to fight Spider-Man.

Spider-Man said, “Gah be kiddin me, come on.” He walked over to a parking meter and fought it. “Boosh boosh. Pwah. Shing.”

He told a dramatic story about 9/11, how on the plane the passengers downed, this guy called up his wife and said goodbye before helping to attack the terrorists.

Spider-Man kept dramatically reciting one part, posing as the guy and his wife.

“‘Baby, baby no, I have to go,’ he says to his girl. And his girl, she say, ‘Baby please no.’ But he says, ‘Baby I love you — I have to go.’”

I kept thinking about some of his comic book characters.

Wanted to be able to think of something flawed about their storyline/superpower, that way I could hurt his feelings.

But I couldn’t think of anything.

His characters were too good.

Too damn good!

Spider-Man stopped the 9/11 story, yelling, “Stop, come on, gah be kiddin me,” as Danny pretended to shoot ice at him.

“Shing shing that , motherfucker,” Danny said.

He laughed and grabbed the tallboy can of watermelon-flavored malt liquor near his feet.

“Shing, shing,” Face said, shooting ice at Spider-Man.

Everyone was laughing.

Spider-Man walked off, pissed, gone.

“Good,” Danny said. “Fuck that whiner.”

Everyone else agreed.

And it became clear to me they weren’t all friends.

And that nobody was ever friends.

And that yes, fuck that whiner.

We finished up the case of beer.

Duke stretched a little, started to get up.

It took Duke a long time to get up, and when he did, he walked bow-legged and limped.

The owner took him over to a nearby square of dirt where there’d been a tree.

“He got arthritis,” said the owner, watching Duke spray dark piss into the dirt and over the sidewalk.

Will the treats help?

Shit, I hope they help.

Yes.

They will.

They will cure him!

They will melt in his mouth and travel down into him, out into his limbs and joints, yelling, “Ey, arthritis, fuckatta here! Told you!”

And Duke will vomit out the defeated arthritis as a green mist, or whatever, and be healthy again.

Healthy and strong Duke.

Large enough to drown Chicago in his dark piss.

Duke, I love you, enjoy the treats, have a nice night.

Mmmm-wha!

I put the plastic bag full of crushed cans into the empty beer case and said bye to everyone and threw the empty beers into a dumpster and went home and slept and I didn’t have any dreams.

The next couple of times I passed by Danny’s spot he wasn’t there.

Just his plastic cups, his blanket, and some newspaper.

No Danny.

After a couple weeks, the doorway was boarded up.

I didn’t find out what happened until I saw Spider-Man one afternoon, singing loudly and crossing the street towards 7/11.

I ran to join him right as the ‘Walk’ signal turned.

“Ey, you’re Danny’s friend,” I said. “We hung out a while ago. The wig night.”

He looked at me for a second then smiled. “Dahhhh, wha’s good, man?”

He held out his hand.

We shook, locked thumbs.

“No I mean, wha’s really good, man?” he said. “Gah be kiddin me, woo!”

“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “Nice to see you again.”

He had on a Spider-Man baseball hat, tipped back on his head, sweat coming down from his thinning white hair.

T-shirt with a cartoon mouse dressed like Elvis.

Pajama pants with the Bears logo all over them.

Dress shoes.

We stood on the corner out front of the 7/11.

“Where’s Danny?” I said. “His place is boarded up.”

“You didn’t hear, man? Danny got hit by a car, bro. Gah be kiddin me! He got hit by a drunk driver when he’s crossing right over there”—pointing at the street that was part of the intersection we’d just crossed. “Motherfucker goes right through the redlight, boosh”—slapping his hands together and sliding them different ways.

“Oh shit.”

Spider-Man laughed and said, “Oh shit is right.” He backed up a few steps and punched through the air and said, “Fwoosh, ran right into him, man. See that bus stop?” He got really close to me and pointed towards a bus stop a little bit down the block. “He got knocked all the way over to that bus stop. Kiddin me? Shit, thassa a hundred feet bro! Gah be nuts. Fuckin bananas. Bananas and nuts, du.”