Today in Belfast city centre found me standing outside Marskies up the alley at the side opposite the city hall. Beside me stood Aloysius who was speaking manically, but lucidly nonetheless, in relating his extraordinary story from his time on the run which he’d begun yesterday afternoon in the Morning Star and continued ceaselessly without stopping to eat or even draw breath. Below us at our feet some pigeons milled about – and they were also babbling among themselves. From the end of the alley a man approached – a spide elder by the looks of him (gold chain worn over Rangers FC training sweater and blue faded jeans with Reeboks) who was mumbling to himself which was in stark contrast to the sentients already in the alley in that he was without a companion to blabber to. When he drew up beside us the fat pigeons lifted off, with the most obese struggling to fly away so that he bobbed for a moment or two mid air next to the elder spide’s face, who because of his disturbed nature took great umbrage, and turned and laid a haymaker punch right in the pigeon’s guts.
The decrepit and useless beast fell with a heavy wet plop sounding like a carrier bag full of diarrhea landing on a fat man’s stomach provoking in me the same amount of disgust exactly. At this Aloysius concluded his tale abruptly, saying – lucky I’d reached the end of my tale cos what just happened would’ve cut it short prematurely. With the old man mumbling mumbling mumbling about his fish, horseracing and how one thing makes him lose sight of the other.
Later: what happened to Aloysius when he was on the run