iPSO rATSO*

Had Rizzo know philosophy, the hermeneutical circle that whizzes round and round, he would have intoned, ‘ipso ratso’, and cuffed Buck in the back of the head, sending him careening into the lapdog ladies lap. Poor sad bastard sod: not a cistern to piss in or a match-striker to strike upon, just a can of shoeblack Sterno and a drag-anchor leg palsied with fretting and cold. Unstably plump Buck what’shisname giving it to those chancy old dowagers, the old in-and-out, cankered fret-holes reawakened with sweat. A cowboy and a derelict; what an inglorious binary-whole.