Okay, there was this beat guy. At least I think he was a guy, dressed like one anyhow. He threw away his works at the Washington Square Station, dropped his dropper into a trash bin-I think that was the way it went. That was before though, you know, before he vaulted the turnstile-I'm pretty sure about that-and down the iron stairs he went: clang, clang, clang. Young, good looking. No wait, maybe he was beat looking. I'm not sure, but let's say he was. Beat looking, worn out. Yeah, that's it.
Anyhow, this guy, he caught the uptown train. That was when (or was it before that?) the time when the narcotics dick found his works in the trash bin. The dick comes on strong in his trench coat to say . . . No, no, it couldn't have been then; it was before then, when the jerk comes into the scene, you know, the guy who's dressed to the teeth trying to put on a show. Maybe he's a fruit. No, wait a minute, now I remember-listen you have to hear this part, it's really great because the description of the guy is so good-no not that guy, the other guy, the one who looks right, thinks right, does right, never makes a wrong move; don't you hate that type? I do.
Anyhow, the beat guy never got the needle out of his arm. Or was it the other way around? A hot shot, remember? That's what they called it back then. And the rigged mirror? Jeez, don't you hate it when that happens? Some things you just have to take on faith. Besides, I don't really believe a man could teach his asshole to talk. Do you?
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