Unpaid Commission

The rain is steadily washing away the intricate pictures that I have chalked on the dry and dusty pavements. Only a very few people are looking at me or my pictures. Far fewer have given me any money.

If I have no money tonight then I will have to return to my disgusting little room and dream about being a King again. It is the only way out.

A man approaches. He bears a great resemblance to an American comedian of some years ago. I can tell this mainly from the way that he wears his ridiculous clothes. He is from the Chicago of 1935 that everyone remembers. He stops a while and looks at my prettiest picture, which is of a heart transplant operation. He steps onto it, does a fancy little tap-dance on it and gets showered in money from the people passing by.

He gives me half of the money and then moves onto the next picture. Once he has left the first I see that he has totally messed it up. He tap dances on the second picture and gets even more money. He gives me half and then eyes up the third picture. I am tell him to fuck off and am about to get really violent with him. I shout several of the worst swearwords that I can remember, very loudly, in his face.

He laughs and takes me to a bar where the barman refuses to serve me because of my smell.
On the television above the bar I can see a consumer programme where people are being stopped in the street and asked about their favourite flavour of jelly. In the background I can see myself and the American fighting. I hear every swearword very clearly and quite separately. I keep willing myself to change the past and have my image on the screen kick the American, but it never happens. I am most disappointed.

The barman must realise soon that I am a TV star, and him not serving me will ultimately be bad for his business.