RIP Joseph "Funky Joe" Whittington.
lyrics
The pussy trail was colder than a dead pimp's heart when I finally
decided to throw caution to the wind and head for my last resort, my
lonely port in the storm. I walked up the rain-slicked street, the
four story dump getting bigger and bigger, like a mother ready to
throw me over her knee and spank me. I kept on walking up Truman
anyway.

The Long T ran along the big river and the wind blew a smell like a
whorehouse at 5am in my face. Had it really come down to this? It
thundered and the rain came down in buckets. I took refuge in a
darkened doorway and lit a cigarette, my last one. As I smoked, I
thought about what I was going to have to do.

All of my old stomping grounds had come up dry. The bank turned me
away like a congressman would a homeless person. They already knew my
four ex-wives had all my money. Four women, each one colder than the
last, like the innermost layers of Dante's hell.

The beauty parlor was also a bust. It used to be women with names
like Blanche and Florence would haul my ashes whenever I wanted. Now
I'm decades older, and worse yet, so are they. There will be plenty
of time to plow women my own age when I'm dead.

The numbers across the street got higher and higher. 219, 223, 227. I
felt a rock in the pit of my stomach and my feet felt like lead. At
least part of my body had some sense. My heart was beating faster and
I couldn't tell if it was fear or the beginning stages of a heart
attack.

I stopped across the street from the flophouse apartment buildling,
trying to summon the will to go on. I thought about waiting for the
rain to dissolve the apartment building one molecule at a time but
decided to cross the street instead.

I wiped my feet on the greasy doormat and thought about praying. No
good. The churches wouldn't have me either. I fumbled into my pocket
for the key I swiped, unlocked the door, and went inside.

The lobby was empty. This far north on Truman, no landlord could
afford to keep a doorman and couldn’t trust anyone who would take the
job. The once white tile floor was stained from years of use and
neglect, many tiles brown around the edges like the roots of a rotten
tooth. I found the elevator but the Out of Order sign was so old it
had yellowed. I opted for the stairs instead.

The stairwell was narrow and smelled like piss. It was dimly lit and I
felt like I was climbing the steps to a gallows. The carpet on the
stairs was threadbare and probably older than me. The stairs
themselves bowed in the middle from decades of use. I was panting by
the time I reached the second floor landing.

Once I was sure could talk without embarrassing myself, I walked down
the labyrinthine hallway.
The hallway smelled of mildew and boiled cabbage. Paint was peeling
from the walls and I could hear a baby crying from behind one of the
doors. A rat brazenly crossed the hallway as I reached 2F.

I brushed aside grime and paint flakes and pressed my ear against the
door. The radio was on, playing something with a lot of brass and
percussion, but I could still hear someone talking. I took a few
moments to get into character and knocked on the door. I waited and
rehearsed what I was going to say. When no one appeared, I knocked
again, harder, jarring loose dust and flakes of paint.

The door creaked open and a shrivelled shrew of a woman stuck her head
into the hallway.

"What the hell are you knocking for, Harold. You fucking live here!"

I hung my head and followed her inside.