Knockout

Days later, Chaim finds himself leaning up against a bus stop on Sunset Strip, shirt untucked, jacket torn. Wallet empty.

A line of dried blood mixed with white powder trails down from his nose.

He checks his groin.

Good, still there.

Senseless, but still there.

The sun is creepy up above the city skyscrapers.

What day is it?

Chaim thinks back to where it all began.

It was last week.

Now its this week.

He digs out his cell phone.

23 sms messages, 7 voicemails.

Mai Ling Mai Ling Mai Ling

Poor undeserving wench.

The Los Angeles Police Department.

Oh no.

Mother, Mrs Finkelstein.

Oh shit.

A bus pulls up. Doors flinging open.

Chaim hasn't ever taken a bus in LA in all his 20 years there.

He looks at the driver with disdain. A Mexican with a dirty tache.

Do I look like a guy who catches a fuckin bus Hose?

Remembering he's out of notes, Chaim jumps onboard getting caught by the closing doors.

Squeezing through, he digs out a some quarters from the nether regions of his pants.

Find a seat. Any seat. Away from the whores, pimps and Albanian hard nuts.

I am the underbelly of Chaim's life.

I am filth.

All things must pass.

Chaim out.

Keep it....Kosher.