Friedrich's living arrangement had been inspirational and serene in the way that only sick people like him could appreciate -- a sort of hobo feng shui. His music had flourished in the past three weeks since his roommate had evicted him, courtesy of the desolation and extreme rivetheadiness of his new dwelling. Furthermore, not having to pitch in for rent left him with money to spend on other things, namely booze, cigarettes, equipment, food for himself and Riff Raff, and even a few niceties -- some books, eating out a few times, even a PSP and two games. However, the reality of having no place to stay once again, and the hellish consequences it entailed, were quickly setting in. He was getting sick -- had begun to cough so hard that vomit occasionally came up. He never stopped worrying about people wandering in while he slept. And with all the complaints he'd been getting from his supervisors about his sudden decline in work ethic, he thought he might soon be jobless as well as homeless. He had begun to consider applying for government aid. After all, something was definitely wrong with him, though he wasn't quite sure what.

Since waking up at four in the afternoon, Friedrich had spent the better part of the day in agony. He'd fed his cat, noodled around a bit on his memorymoog but come up with nothing he'd liked.

He was in agony because his irritable bowel syndrome was acting up again. He had been constipated for a week. Work, his childhood, his living conditions, and his wacky life in general had all served to give him the retrograde intestinal tract he was living with today. It had reached the point where each bowel movement became a memory to be cherished, like that of a warm smile from a beautiful woman. A thought came to him -- that if he were a hamster in a pet store, he'd have greasy, matted fur that would stay filthy despite the groomers' best efforts to keep him clean and he'd skulk listlessly in a corner with his butt held painfully in the air and no one would buy him. The freely shitting masses would never understand his plight. On nights like these, there was nothing to be done but go to Duvalier's and drink until the pain no longer bothered him. He considered calling his friends to invite them along, but he didn't like to subject them to himself when he was in one of these moods. Best to put ones best foot forward, put on a happy face, not be a Debbie Downer, so on and so forth. They were all going through their own shit, and the main reason they'd meet up was so they could briefly forget about it and not be bothered having to worry about other people's problems. Friedrich gave Riff Raff a brief scratch behind the ears, opened his concrete-framed front door, and stepped outside.

A beer-bellied, bearded, baseball cap wearing hobo stood on the sidewalk near the bar's entrance, pointing at people, screaming.
"He peers in through my window and speaks my name!" He shouted, fire in his belly, terror and passion in his eyes, his arms gesticulating wildly. "He stands at the foot of my bed and looks me in the eye!" Then, as Friedrich -- a stranger -- walked past, "Hey man," the hobo said, calmly and affably.
Friedrich nodded, made eye contact, kept walking.

There was a giggling, well-dressed, sweet young thing being carried out by two of her friends. Friedrich smiled at her dirtily as they walked past. She looked away. He watched her go.
"The passion envelops us all! She raped me with a big wooden dildo! A WOODEN one!" The hobo shouted, carrying on behind him.

The bar was as it always was -- hopping, filled with life and energy, and too goddamn noisy. A beacon of friendliness in this paranoid neighborhood. Friedrich sidled up to the bar.
"What's happening, Friedrich? The usual?" Sergio, the Mexican-American barman, asked him.
"Nope. Vodka martini. Please. Could I get a couple extra olives?"
"Sure thing. You're not gonna cause any trouble tonight, are ya?"
Friedrich shook his head.
"Nah. Really not in the mood."
"That's what I like to hear. You're a nice guy, when you're not a crazy asshole." Sergio deftly mixed the contents of Friedrich's drink and put it in front of him. "Here you are buddy."
"Thank you."

Many drinks later, the number of which Friedrich could not remember, he saw a familiar, unwelcome shape shambling toward him -- bald-headed, clad in red suspenders and an Austin Powers' penis pump t-shirt. The shape took a seat next to him.
"Hey Freddie! I didn't think I'd ever see your pretty fucking mug around here again, boyee."
"Stay the fuck away from me Lex. I came here to enjoy a quiet evening, and I'm not in the mood for your rowdy boy horseshit."
"Far from it! You caught me in a good fucking mood. Hey listen man listen -- I got a hold of some sweet motherfuckin' lady H. You're gonna come fire it with me and my brother Goonboy, arentcha? He just got outta prison. Thought the three of us should get together and rem-i-nisce"
"Well gee, Lex, I'm flattered that you'd make the offer, but I don't think Goonboy likes me very much. And if he pulls that knife of his on me again, I just may have to break his good hand off and cornhole him with it. Knife and all," was Friedrich's response, a slur to his words.
Lex's face seemed to sober.
"Hey, hey, you fuckin bitch. Forgive and forget, right? He ain't mad at you anymore. Got no reason to be, right? He already gave you what you had comin."
Friedrich remembered. He still had the scar on his belly. It was the first time he'd been stabbed, and he thought he'd do just fine if it were also the last.
"Well shit, it's nice to hear he's over it. But I've also got work tomorrow, and I don't wanna have to go in junk sick or whatever the hell happens when you shoot that up."
Lex guffawed.
"You're funny, Freddie. Trying to fool me like that, you fuckin junkie. You know you wanna kick it with us and par-fuckin-take."
"Always thought you flesh heads were 'anti-drug' this and 'kill stoners' that."
"Damn straight bitch. But that don't mean me an' Goonboy can't have our fun, know what I'm sayin'?"
Friedrich finished his drink. "Whatever. Screw you hippie. I have to get some sleep. You and Goonboy will have to get high and butt sex each other, cause I'm having no part of it. Take care," he said, standing up and walking away.
"Hey! Hey Freddie! Come back. I wanna be civil n' shit. Aw fuck it. Gimme another Myer's."

Friedrich had finished that last drink quickly, and as he walked back to his warehouse, the intensity of it crept up on him. He was tired. The sidewalk rushed up to meet his face. He crouched for a moment on his hands and knees, then turned over and lay on his back, staring up at the night sky.
"I quit my life," he murmured to no one.
A voice in his head asked him "but if you quit your life, who will feed Riff Raff?"
"Wurgleblunfuck," Friedrich intoned.
He faded in and out of consciousness.
Presently, he opened his eyes at three in the morning and noticed someone he'd never seen before standing over him. They looked vaguely angelic, cast against the light of the street lamps overhead.