He may be dumb but that punk looks a lot like me at that age. red eyes. swollen lips. bowl hair and the dripping ear goss matching sob for sob and it gets all over his spider man pajamas.
I'd help him. i would but the greaser's on the charge in spite of his himself (his wife/lady/moll is drifitng in between the shower and the chocolate upstairs wondering why in the fuck they came here. when they'll leave. when she can just get a good cocktail out of the deal since she's fresh past the point of breast feeding and ready to be out there lit up in the weeds underneath the concrete archway with her hair flying in the wind pumped out by the wall of marshall stacks and the band that strikes us all as a bit too epic for their own good but still better than the load of performance art bloodlet screaming my head off to the pulse of my own bare ass while the crowd drifts away from the bar and into their caves again that we all endured last night).
Besides, i'm not all that keen to rekindle that disease no matter how hard that quiet eyes little shit stares at me and mouths again and again the word friend.
I should tell him this isn't a place for children. i should tell him this is where we come for cheap red fucking and death and unless he's prepared to take on the ill fate of drunk angels then he'd best go back the way he came.
Spare this noise until he's older
Bite the dog on his own.