MJ Death Day

I walked up Deansgate early morning, it was still dark and a down trodden feel prevailed over the drowsy dawn. The day was getting off to a slow start alright, it was like it was sick, or just needed more sleep. Few folk were about to lighten the flat, those who were kept their hats tipped and their coats wrapped as they made haste along the pavements. As I crossed the mouth of Bootle Street a figure made his way down, awkwardly, meandering over the double yellows and the puddle lined curbs. He cut the jib of a homeless, or a drunk just out of the cells maybe, dirty and unkempt looking, dishevelled like. The guy was laughing hard and loud, and when he saw me, laughed with even greater vigor, looking at me intently. This was not a happy soul; he was a snarling angry bastard who was laughing for badness. As he came close he leant forward into what I anticipated would be a lunge towards me, it wasn’t, it was a kind of dance which caused him to get around me like the f#cker had gone through me, dropping a paper in his wake. Michael Jackson was dead.