homeless

Yesterday I had a conflict with a certain Assad. This happens quite often. I don't think that Assad is his real name, but, what I thought, as I asked him twice to confirm that singular and very specific part of his identity, is that he meant Acid or maybe he didn't want to make clear what his real name was. He lives four houses from the house where I live. Coming home after a tough day, initializing the comeback on earth of the homeless W.A.F.-team, or What A Failure we are, I noticed him sitting in a blue car, labouring the display of his mobile, in front of that little garden in front of the house, four houses away from the house where he lives. The conflict started when he stepped out of the car and pointed a sharp and far from decent look at my roots, descending from the top, where apes linger, peeling that theory he had on apes and what they should be doing instead of peeling that theory he had. It neared the tip of my tongue: honey, please, shut up. The fact that the word honey came to my mind, did distract me for a short while, as Assad, or Acid, or whatever his name is, didn't have the needs and looks to offer me that much of a sweet extra.
Much later, rivers invisible made vaste structures of blood, someone mentioned the idea to add oestrogen to the halal food Arabs eat. This most certainly would make any of these persons more acceptable.