Plan B

The homeless man sat propped up against the back of a park bench beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. It was after midnight and with clouds obscuring the moon and a low-lying mist off the water he could barely make out the massive iconic structure with its immense towers and huge looping coils of steel—the suspension lines that faded into the distance across San Francisco Bay. He sipped from a bottle hidden inside a paper bag. Empties were strewn about the area; this was his favorite spot on fall evenings when it wasn’t too cold. He still preferred the open air to the confines of the nearest shelter. Nope… nobody to tell you when to go to sleep or kick you out of bed in the morning. At least here he had some kind of freedom.

Taking another sip of “comfort” he noticed some shapes moving towards him; he scurried away and slipped into some nearby bushes. You can never be too careful. Last week some punks found him dozing, stole his booze and kicked him in the ribs until he was coughing blood—just for the hell of it. He heard police sirens in the distance. Nothing unusual about that on a Friday night.

“C’mon Peter, get your ass

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Texte: Preston Randall
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 10.01.2012
ISBN: 978-3-7309-1464-9

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