He lay there right in the middle of the god-damn road. Used some kind of greasy cloth for a blanket and folded newspapers for a pillow. Illuminated by a line of headlights, serenaded by car horns, and spoken to, "Move you dirty bastard, outta the road," he lay there. Finally he raised his head, turned stomach-side down, extended his arms and lifted himself up. Then he bent down picked up a bottle raised it over his head, then put it to his mouth and emtied it in one long gulp, then threw it down, splat! He gave us all the finger and lay down again head on newspapers, body under cloth, behind a barrier of broken glass.
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