My Cardboard Balcony

If I Were A Llama by Belinda Roddie If I were a llama, I wouldn't have enough spit in the world for everyone who flattened my ears against my head and gave my furry face a scowl. And if anyone tried to tie a rope to me, I'd drag the sorry bastard on his belly all the way to Machu Picchu and back, just to make a point. And if I were happy eating the limp stalks of something the tourists shoved close to my nostrils, then maybe I'd be less of a callous mammal and live more with my eyes half-closed rather than stark open, worrying about the next nomad to yank me into a fenced off unit where I could simply squat and chew, squat and chew, squat and chew.

In the eastern district of Detriment, there was a street fair going on. On every corner, jesters dressed in jeans and polo shirts hopped on one foot to entice the tourists to enter dilapidated taverns and rundown restaurants to partake in beer and steak and steak and beer and both combined together. By the bus stop, a woman sold cigars. Near the alley, I was getting mugged.