I saw a woman once wait in the water-logged wastes of Los Angeles, once the proudest of oyster merchants in all the land-locked world; purveyor of salt that accumulated under her fingernails. She scrounged in the heedlessly flowing gutters beside the McDonald's I ate captive fries in.
Her hands shivered in the cold, jingling with coin she plucked from the tide while billowing steam trailed spirals and well wishes through her muddy hair. Oh, how much glare reflected in the buttons of my coat when your eyes hungrily took in my warmth. Her bright face made the vice of my gluttony apparent; beat me with it, showed me what a lucky boy I was. How much Olympian ideal must have leaked into your envy at my efficiency when I opened the door, something that was lost on you the first moment you saw that spectre that would emerge in the hallowed name of David King.
Such an innocuous, stupid name. You say it over and over. Who was he? Was he that same shameful man who took the manhood of so many men