One time during a awful drunken night during Mardi gras, I saw Irene beat the snot out of a silly redneck from Idaho, I never knew what he did to offend her, but he left with blood pouring from his nose like a faucet, and she wore his U of I hat as a trophy for a week. She was fussing with something, putting something on herself. Indian sex Fall 1989
It was the bleak end of fall, days before the cold would soon wrap its icy fingers around the banks of the missippi, so the misfit street punks I was living with now, would have to huddle closer over bottles of rot gut whiskey. “You know, ” Irene said “I ve seen alot of kids like you over the years, you last for like maybe a year then you are turning tricks, so it seems like I should take care of you, or, at least teach you something.” she said the last part laughing.
