by J. L. Abramo
Nowadays, there was a small but growing presence of hipster artists who, because of cheap rent and an edgy vibe, had established a beachhead. Unfortunately the avant-garde were too often the advance scouts for the deep pocket set hungry to swoop in and landscape the real estate with name brand stores charging quadruple the rents.
He walked along and after two more blocks, took a left that brought him to a stretch where there were boarded up structures across from a grassy field that contained a pile some forty feet high of concrete, wood, and broken porcelain fixtures. Once, various gauges of plumbing pipes had stuck out of the pile like errant antennas inserted to communicate with other galaxies. But the pipes had long been liberated by addicts and the homeless for the dollars the lead and copper they were made of could bring at the recycler.
Beyond the field were residential housing that if the proposed development happened, would be gone too. He began to walk toward a corner of the vast expanse when he heard the panting of a dog behind him. He turned to see a bleary-eyed individual in over-sized hoopster shorts and an athletic-T walking a mixed breed dog on a leash. Whatever else composed the dog’s ancestry, its pit bull lineage was acutely evident to McBleak.
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