Culver and Feuerman

A jaundice yellow moon hung in the sky like a whore’s belly. The bricklayer Feuerman and the journeyman Culver bayed bodingly at the moon, neither one nor the other knowing why or what for. ‘All moons, each to its own, bring out the lycanthropic in me’ said Feuerman, his eyes two black stones. ‘And I’, said the journeyman Culver, ‘see no end to this’. ‘Nor I,’ said the bricklayer Feuerman, ‘nor I’. The shamble leg man knew a man with an overbite and one who wore shoes that were too big for him and one who wore a hat made from crabapples and pasteboard, but had never met Feuerman or Culver. Feuerman and Culver appear of they’re own freewill, bullying their way into other’s lives, like chimney soot or strep throat. They are unsavory. Give me a canker or a boil, but please, I abjure you, no Feuerman’s or Culver’s.