King wears salmon pink jeans, the waistband hoiked up into his rib-cage. No laces in his boots. The tongues flop around like tonsils. The sole of the left boot smiles as he walks. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his armpits. The love of his life pants on the pavement beside him. She needs no lead: she and her master are inseparable. Unless she sees a rabbit. Or a cat.
King has no love for cats or fear of admonishment from old ladies who have just seen their cat torn to pieces. In fact, he finds it a bit of a laugh.
King decides that it's dinner time. He says fancies chicken. The dog knows that the shop is a no go zone and sits by a rubbish bin. I follow King until he gets angry. 'Will you stop following me around and looking so suspect?' I wait outside. The dog keeps her distance. She knows I'm not in with the in crowd.
King comes out. Puts his hands down his trousers and hauls up three packs of roast chicken. Two pretty girls walk down the street and by the time we remember where we are the dog has eaten our share as well as her own.
King swears. Goes back in for more.