A short, fat, greasy man comes shambling down the sidewalk. He has a plaid blue and green flannel shirt on and food-stained grey sweatpants. His hair is a mess of black, white and grey plastered to his skull and falling in his face. His eyes are blood shot. He smells like booze and musk. He stops in front of me and turns.
"Do you know who I am?" He says.
"Yeah" I say "you're George Lucas."
"I'm the GENIUS George Lucas." He swayed, spit, and almost fell. "And don't fucking forget it..."
"Fuck off George."
"What kind of shiiit were they playing tonight?"
"Hud."
"Fffffffucking NEWMAN. Ffffffucking dressing-boy." His eyes bulged. "I created a religion. I created a mythos. I legitimized science fiction in cinema!"
"Kubrick did it first. You haven't had a creative thought in thirty years."
He drooled. "Fuck. You."
"Fuck you Georgie. Go sleep it off."
He stared at me, I stared back. A minute passed, then two. Neither of us blinked. Eventually he turned away mumbling and huffing to himself and disappeared.
Staggering, swallowed by the night.
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