The jangle of keys,
a man with a disease,
a man with urgency,
a man hustling a prospective tenant from the street,
a man trying to avoid the ressurected mutated teradactyls,
the mutated teradactyls that fly so high and that pick on pedestrians with ease,
the mutated teradactyls that eat pedestrians flesh so happily,
there outside in the street,
shuffling feet,
a cripple and a man diseased,
and the jangle of keys,
and the cripple,
the landlord, eager to please,
eager to please because no money rarely comes in Futura in the city without killing somebody,
and here on a Tuesday,
the landlord unlocks the door,
and the landlord he stands five foot four,
five foot four with neon hair that glows in the low light of the hallway,
and who smells like BO,
the landlord, who doesn’t care anymore,
and neither does the tennant,
but here, rent is as cheap almost as the cemetary,
and you get free dissentary,
because the toilet looks like it has seen germ warfare,
and it doesn’t want to exist anymore,
yes, a crippled landlord and a tenant,
yeah, its a great place the landlord says,
and you won’t survive anywhere else in the city,
yes, with your unhealthy looks,
and your head for books,
you won’t survive I am sure,
and the man hands over the money,
and the landlord gets out a submachine gun,
and the tennant is no more,
blood stains and bits of flesh all over the walls,
food for the mutated terradactyls I am sure.