When a yeti sweats, it wicks the ends attached to his scalp first. Growing towards the ends in little journey surges, already evaporating by the time they reach the edges. Poof. Beaten and a wet lion, Haaga stretches the nails of his chair until they sag and yet hold its splinters together. He stares past his humid and matted bangs into the darkness. A shadow walks in, smelling of tobacco in echoes, behind.
“Hungry are we?” snarls from the dark.
“I want my momma.”
A clap and the chair gives in, thumping Haaga onto the dusty floor that sticks to his long hair. The shadow gulps in his stand, tick-tocking his eyes, listening to the rustle of hair in the humid breezeless air. The smell of Haaga rustles by in hungry husky breaths.
Four thumps to the right neck, and the red tip of the cigarette flies in swirls to the floor. The shadow mingles with the remnant darkness. Sexed out.
Where does the wind waft in from, in a square-hole room with a single light bulb, swinging that way and this, misappropriating the cone of dirty light that came with it, widening his stolen but earned cigarette-smoke rings, and chilling his palm-hair that stand on ends? He singes a dozen white-gray strands off his beard in every draw, blowing more rings, and wishing he could jump through one of them and emerge clean and with size 9 feet.
He should have listened to his mother.