over there is a death practitioner who rides upon a dust covered sheet metal wagon with a squeaky wheel

comes and goes checking in like some kind of manic sales man

he's 6 foot 4 with a bald head that skims the door
heavy footed
eyes like a hawk
drinks a lot of whiskey
talks the **** talk
he's killed so much of me
not much left
but people can't tell
i'm a total wreck

he gives me the potions that are stacked up and poorly arranged in a quasi rusted pharmaceutical despensery and labratory

sometime in the dead of night when i sleep and the cats and crows won't make a peep