Fight... or Fall?

Deacon rolls to his back, peels his crusty eyes open, blinks several times, his tongue licks the inside of his mouth trying to muster up some moisture... pure cotton. His eyes give way their first image, a ceiling... a good sign, he's indoors. He rolls to his side to examine if the walls have bars, perhaps officer Rourke got him again, he's a good man, just doing his job. "No bars...where am I?" He's urinated his pants of course, and the stench then hits his nostrils, gags a bit, dry heaves, and hefts himself to his feet. He's somehow found himself in an ATM vestibule, checks his wallet, no cash... His hands catch his eye. "What did I do?" Knuckles are scabbing over, bruises are forming, scratches... He gives himself a physical, back is jacked, bruises on the ribs, knees are weak, He takes position on the floor, determined to figure this out. "Did I fight? or fall?" he ponders "Never should of gone to that bar, nothing good ever comes of that place" his mind is circling, "I talked to a girl. she was nice to me" Deacon recollects paying for a whore "I made some friends, they were kind" His mind remembers buying drinks for two college aged men. "They walked me home" flashes of two men hauling him outside the bar, working him over. "Jeremy and Stan, two nice boys" His mind recalls the boys kicking, kneeing, and punching the old drunk, as he does his best to regain his feet. "I must have fell" he smiles. "You old fool, on the way home you tripped and fell, that has to be it!" Deacon hefts himself one last time to his feet, smiles. Checks his surroundings one last time, and a great realization hits him like a ton of bricks. "I don't own an ATM card" Deacon hangs his head, puts all his weight on the door, pushes with great effort, and heads off to find the answers, he doesn't wish to know...

In Gout we trust...

Deacon pushes on the heavy oak doors of the church, on the back swing of the first try the door nearly knocks him off his feet, he sinks his healthy ankle in as best he can, secures a firm shoulder on the door and muscles past it's weight. His foot is throbbing now beyond bare, he reaches into his pocket and produces a small bottle of Ibuprofen, his best friend as of late. He shakes the bottle, an old habit, the few remaining pills clamoring around in the container sound eerily similar to that of a child's rattle, perhaps that's why we do it, he ponders, the sound... it's the same and it's just as comforting, an adult and his rattle... he tries to laugh but a an electric shock of pain from his toe to his brain stifles that notion. He pours about five or six pills into his palm and gimps over to the baptismal font. He thinks "If the pills don't kill me, the holy water should". He places the pills in his mouth and cups his hand and scoops out some the Holy water to wash them down. He chokes a bit, the water is what you can imagine, warm, stagnant, the stench of an old lady's palm lingers on his lips. Can't complain now, he must find a place to sit down. First row, right side pew, it's as good as anything else. With the help of Angels, he makes it to the pew, throws his body on the bench, swings himself in such a manner that he is on his back with his foot elevated on a bunch of bibles. "Give me two hours God, and I'll be gone before you know it." Deacon's eyes begin to close, the throbbing is slowly becoming manageable, his heart is slowing, and he begins to drift off to sleep. The last questions of the night fill his brain, "why must it be like this?" "Where did I go wrong?" "This can't be it... is it?" A moment of peace washes over him and he nods off... only to be awoken moments later by a priest sitting next to him. The priest asks, "why are you here my son?" Deacon sighs, looks at his foot... responds
"Gout".

A walk...

It's 11:38 PM, Deacon is out walking, not for any dietary reason; but to keep himself away from his temptations. The cool Californian night air clears his clouded mind, and Deacon breathes in as much as he can. His walk is painful, his right toe is filled with gout, "the rich mans disease" well, this is richest Deacon will ever feel, every step feels like a mile, every throb of pain buckles his knees; but he knows he can't go home, can't go to the ragged places he so covets, this is where he belongs, staggering around the streets of Los Angeles like a wounded animal. His mind is a drift, trying to think of anything other than the overwhelming pain in his foot, with every step he gasps, if he was capable of tears they would be adoring his face; but his tears have dried up long ago, and pain only reminds him that he's alive. Terrible job, wife left me, what is the meaning of family, these are the questions that circle Deacon's mind. A rustle in a nearby trash receptacle breaks his concentration, "not again" he mutters, fearing a would be attacker will harm him and take him of his nothing...again. Relieved, Deacon sighs as a raccoon reveals itself from the dark side of the dumpster. They lock eyes for a moment, they relate to one another, one is looking for treasure in the trash, the other is trash looking for treasure. Deacon bows his head and sets forth, the raccoon acknowledges and proceeds his business. Deacon's foot is throbbing now beyond bare, he knows he needs to rest. His hovel is unreachable, he's swam out pass the rope and can't make it back, an old brick church is a block away, he can rest there, does he dare? Deacon and the lord have not been on speaking terms in some time; but he needs the rest, the lord can privy him that! Deacon sets out, and his foot steps down as if it were on broken glass, he mutters... "God help me".