Dipshit

“Jesus!”
“You sunuvabitch motherfucker!”

I hadn’t seen him in a week...
Maybe
A week and a half.

I barely knew him.

But there he was.

He didn’t answer
As he was sprawled out unconcious
Spiked leather jacket still on
With his balls hanging out of the side of
Soiled boxers.

His boots were still on and tied.

This is what I was confronted with when
I arrived at my apartment
To find THIS guy...

“Dipshit”

Passed out on my couch.

I poked around.

He broke into my third floor apartment
On 25th street
Through the bathroom window.

Somehow he got up the fire escape.

Trashcans I’m guessing.

Then navigated his way
Across the hot tar roof
To my bathroom window.

He obviously knew the layout.

I met him a week or so earlier
At a hardcore show
And I let him crash at my place
Because he was on the lamb.
I think he was from Chicago
Or Detroit
And was travelling the East Coast.

That was a big mistake.

He found my gear
Not so carefully hidden
In the top drawer
Of my dresser.

You’d think it might be the first place to look
But he did a good job of tearing my place apart
Eventually finding it
And now he was loaded
On my tab.

I didn’t share my gear with anyone.

Aids was just becoming an epidemic
And as wreckless as I could be
I was very careful about that.

I had just gotten off of work
And climbed the clinical smelling stairway
Of my building.

I had no idea why it smelled like that.

I was used to it.
I had lived there for two years.

There was a CPA on the first floor
And a dude that I rarely ran into
That I think was afraid of me
On the second.

I never saw anyone swabbing the decks at 25th street
But that hallway was pristine spit shine clean
And smelled like a hospital.

Anyways
I entered my apartment
And there he was.

Dipshit.

That was his name.
I remembered that.

His ‘Punk Rawk’ name.

Lots of kids had names.

They either made them up themselves
Or were endowed them
By their circle of friends.

His name fit him like a latex condom.

I kicked his boot.

Nothing.

I started cleaning up.

The asshole trashed some of my favorite records.

I got his shit together and threw it out of
The front window
Onto
The sidewalk below.

I was pissed.

I went over to the sofa
Grabbed his boots by the ankles
And pulled him off hard.

He barely stirred.
Tired.

“Wha...tha...fuck...”

I dragged him across the floor
To the door that led to the stairs.

“What are you...doing...?”

“I’m dragging your sorry ass down to the street!”

I started pulling him down the stairs
Like a heavy bag of garbage.

Thump, thump, thump...

“I needed a place to stay!”
He said.

“You broke into my apartment, went through my shit, got high on my shit and you think
that’s okay?”

“You fucked up my favorite records asshole!”

Thump, thump, thump...

“Stop! Dude! I thought you were punk rock. I thought you were down. Turns out you’re
just like everyone else...”

I started beating the shit out of him
Right then and there.

“Here’s punk rock asshole!”

“I’ll give you punk rock!”

He was bleeding
All over the disinfected stairs.

“Either you walk down or I’m dragging your ass down the rest of the way.”

He was limp
But started to move
Slowly.

He felt his way
A step at a time.

It took a bit
But I watched him
Crawl
Down the stairs
And take his
Punk ass
Outside.