Underneath the dirt, lay tunnels. Tunnels made by hand. Man made crossways ducked under, popped up and out. People lived there. A person lived there alone. Many bodies lived alone, but not like the ones that lived under the earth. Meals bracketed hardships. Beautiful meals, overflowed from restaurants that kept customers happy, fell into holes. If a body was careful, fine dining arrived unspoilt.

Two men sat in a rain gutter, eating escargot. The shells ran off somewhere, but the feeble clinging life of a mollusk gave up the goods in a fine sauce of pinot gris to a homeless man. They conversed.

“It tickles the pallet,” Michael said.

“Indeed, it does,” Milligan agreed. “A plateful of this cud and we’re barons on a hill.”

In poor taste, the snail mixed with grain alcohol. Such is life. The sluttard pinch of dirt fell into the eye, no matter what the master wrought.

“The terrible price of luxury,” Milligan added.

“The delicate sounds we hear,” Michael said. They came to be a duo by chance. One, an expert at procuring shelter and the other an elder statesman of the rails, they traveled and stopped for a bite. Scud waters be damned as drips trickled down the old hole where they sat. Outside a grand metropolis, the leavings grew posh. Paris ran over at the brim with such frilly larder. It was all they could do to keep up with the high spirits of society. The liquor came from Portugal, apparently.

“Sewers,” said Milligan, “Wot we got ere’s sewers.”

“Find a hole that hides the rain and we hide from the rain in it,” Michael said. He stuffed his face with more mash and periwinkles. The two were a pair. Straight from a hot oven of London, cross the channel and into French Country.

A car hummed.

“Corvair,” Michael said.

“As if,” Milligan said. “Oi. Bleedin’ car costs money. Not to bother.”

“Napes,” Michael agreed, “Divine patience brings a sweet reward. No need of money.”

“A noble thought,” Milligan agreed. “Have we any?”

“Not a scrap,” Michael admitted. “Why?”

“No, nevermind,” Milligan said, “Once you’re wet, you’re wet, right?”

“Right,” Michael agreed. “A treat!” Under a coat, he slid and un-hid a bottle of Moet et Chandon.

“Gaw,” Milligan squawked, “Where’d you get that then?”

“Pinched off the last case outside Hotel,” Michael said. Pop, went the cork and they sipped gently in the rain. Gutter leaves whirled in eddies past the two men as they supped. Wax paper unfolded and revealed branch and tinder.

“Water run off my hot back is nice, but the chill,” Milligan said.

“Spot on, spot on,” Michael agreed. Fire breathed orange on them. They sank down low. Fuel for the night was a tire. A tire burned long. The smell wafted away with the cool draught of rain soaked air through the pipes. A bright white light sung too boldly into the night. Mumbled indignities flowed from the road.

“Piss off, ya bink,” Michael shouted. Freedom of speech set things right. In the ugly dusk of evening, a foul phrase could chase of the ghost of civil shakes. People of the world barely noticed the enlightened filth when trod upon. A large envelope made of gasses sealed in the rock on which the stage was held. Cold, empty black outside the packet waited for any over ambitious bag of guts that fancied a walk outside the bosom of the planet. Michael asserted his equality through voice. “You’ll not have me as your pit,” he said. The voices relinquished the air.

Purple adorned the sky as a royal sign that night was nigh. The two fellows set about their business.

“Ere,” Milligan said. “Drop some of that heather on the tire. Nice smell. God. I’m loose already. Fokkin clear night in France.”

“Is,” Michael agreed. “Kay, that’s better. Listen to the old fools. Rain’s bout to stop. Fit for a lie down a bit.”

“I’ll watch,” Milligan said. Michael chewed and chewed to sleep with a few nogs off the bottle.

“Mind it,” Milligan continued, “If some Frank comes round have us off, we’ll go up pipe.

“Kay, that’s better,” Michael said. The shell of consciousness parted for a while and he was warm, sleeping by the fire. Milligan enjoyed the voices after the rain. Water echoes and voices sounded slick. What a terribly wonderful night, with its chill and heat. The ball of nested humanity found shelter in overworked barns, stables and flats. Small mammalian creatures huddled for warmth, their blood thick and convectuous. Little pots of fat, floating in a water too deep to fathom. All shelter broke, eventually. Milligan pondered the tenant status of the human race and wondered if anyone knew how close the end was for all.
We float, he thought. Air currents and water currents and all the elements blended up in a big machine too vast to understand in a finite set of circuits. Magnets and hammers moved lava, more precisely, magma, under his feet. Well below his rough shod feet, the earth stirred.

The bowels of the earth made no excuses. It needed none. It did. And so did Milligan. He made his own, he guessed. Others would find fault with his reason, he knew, but it was his reason that made him who he was. Milligan knew himself a King among serfs. The serfs, poor addled souls as they were, thought the world a place to be humbled. Milligan knew. No man could gather the earth round all at once. It was too big. Nonsense. Ownership was the grand delusion. What if a man finds his situation tolerable? Then there was no need for ownership of anything. But the price, the grand, grand price of being freed. It worked its way down his spine in trickles.

“I have a question,” Milligan said.

“Gurrphhn,” Michael complained.

“Would you take a nice hot bath and steaming plate of meat right now if offered?” Milligan asked. It was pure fancy, speculation on his part. It sent Michael’s sleep soaked mind into pools of steamy relaxation. He tasted a bite of hot, raw meat mentally.

“Fog,” Michael called, “What’s this?” He swigged lightning. “Awk. Whoo.” Rain dripped down his hat. “Plate of meat? Course I would. You?”

“Ah,” Milligan sighed. The slick oil of liquor graced his lips. “Praps.” He belched. “The meat, sure. Bath warm? Hmmmmmm.” Silver hot liquid fled his throat to his belly. “Oh. Wonders.”

Michael nipped off again to dreams in which cool milk slid over wheat cereal on a long, long table. These men, hardy souls, enjoyed their caste to the limit. The questions of bath and of meat were moot. The price for those were slavery to the wheel. A humble life fit them properly. The finest things occasionally fell from table, down the drain and out to them. Careful, careful and mindful men could live such as Kings on the fringe.

In dreams, Michael knew of a doctor who’d tied himself down to land and wife. A miser of a man, he was, and beholden to all that is good and proper. The carcass of life stank with decay. Some terrible choice men make.

“S’pose I’ll nod as well,” Milligan said. “Tent up?”

“If you please,” Michael mumbled.

Milligan stuck sticks in the ground, and threw the tarp over them. The glow of burned tired kept them company throughout the night.

The sky broke, powder blue in Michael’s eyes. The sockets hurt a bit. The gut sloshed. He paddled off behind the pipe for a quick relief. Milligan still slept. Half a bottle greeted the morn, and they were off for the north, to Germany. It would be a long haul with a dozen switches if no one bounced them off the line