A Friend For Lars

Lars walked along the railroad tracks whistling to himself and holding his rib.

“Do they know im gone yet?”
“Will they care?”
“Will they call Ricky?”
“Fuck Ricky.”

The pain in his rib was letting up, partially from the sleepiness numbing his brain, partially from the half of a 40 Oz. he had found a half mile back. The sleepiness was partially from the 40 Oz. too. And partially from walking. The 40 Oz. was partially from walking, and partially to numb the pain in his rib. The pain in his rib was partially from walking. It was a vicious circle.

Lars was deep in his thought wandering on down the tracks when a sharp yelp peirced his mental rambling.

“Whos there?!” whisper-shouted Lars. A shape staggered from between two big green dumpsters and fell, about fifteen feet ahead of Lars and ten away from the tracks.

Lars half-hobbled, half-ran over to the shape. Upon kneeling he saw it was a dog. A hurt dog. It was, or had been, bleeding. Lars took off his coat, and set it on the dog’s body.

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