Black Shirt

It's fucking pancake day when all Jack wants is eggs. His ribs sore as he snores into the morning of black shirt day. A fugitive on the lam with broken ribs and a hangover, with horse shit stains on his knees and Denny Blue loads a plane all bald, not trying to stick out with his mohawk light on pancake day when all Jack wants is eggs and beer and a glass with clam juice and salsa inglesa con picante to settle the hangover prior to Nica hands groping his back in the parlor of seeing hands. Jack lies on his bed all drunk in the dim lit room paranoid of federales planning an escape from the Spanish tile onto the neighbouring tin roof and down into the gutters of the rat town below where he runs from the gun-toting cops and squeaking doors of a fresh shaved face hiding identity and cashing in his chips in exchange for freedom in a smoky casino in the heart of the city where horse shit collects like dust fiber and the gutter and cut mangoes in plastic bags gather flies from the market where children sell their souls as the iceman chance his calls and church bells ring to the uninstructed artist on the shaded esquina drawing horse driven poverty passing in the heat as Jack hides inside at 1.75 liter bottle of Flor de Cana beside the bowl of melting ice he laughs at the night guard until he stirs his own paranoia and runs from his black shirt and ripped jeans into the full moon back alleys of Granada where Denny Blue hops a cab from the airport in Managua to help Jack's paranoia with some "O" that he picked up in Egypt prior to the takeover when Denny was there with his harem of young lust fucking and smoking "O" while Jack made raw deals with untrusting Russians and now on the lam in his black shirt all drunk spilling his eggs on the single bed sleeping in his jeans and running in his sleep from rooster crow calls and the blue water of the pool where Frida walks off her pain as a lady yells in the background in rhythmic trance selling "empanadas" "chicharons" and ice made from the rat tap that makes you puke till your teeth fall into the water in which the ice is made from and it's 11 in the morning and on the lam Jack hides from the sun in his bed with eggs and ketchup stains on his black shirt and white sheets in a single bed clashing with paranoia and broken ribs and the guard drinks rum until he doesn't know who's in and who's out.