A western spirit, a real con-man, a cowboy with guns of wit, and a saddled San Francisco trolley. Vigilant on cold nights, good deeds vying with theft of spirits. His beat was in LA.
Rabid, sweaty, significant, the land where the people flock together like birds derived of the lonesome, banished, and eccentric lovers, and somehow everyone looked like crushed, beautiful, decadent celebrities. Everyone has a story to tell, and esculent stories they were. Our cowboy fed on those, and if luck would have it, he’d share a bit of his plate with you. No matter what stories he’d accumulated, his price was loneliness. Not young enough to know everything, too young to have any sense of responsibility for anyone. The giggler at parties, the dancer of jazz clubs, his feet dirtied by the minute.
Most have heard his stories, though no on has seen his face. His stories will outlive him before he’s found the right one. A feathered snake swallowing his own tale.