Water waste hiss against porcelain, a wooden fence,a statue’s foot, an office pot plant, a stranger’s mouth.I’m not here to kink shame, only to reimaginesmall town trauma as camp southern gothic theatre.With my thick stream, I am the last authentic foley artist.I fry bacon to mimic rain, I rattle sheet metaland conjure thunder, I bang coconutsas our protagonists trot into this two-horse town,two boys for the horses, pigweed streets, bacon swells,it’s pissing down, but dry inside the country pub,wine barrel tables, bare-knuckle stools, some stormy ladsat the bar, sinking piss, crushing cans in cyclone fists,they make eyes at our boys: broke, no pot to piss in,unlike these meaty good-time jackals, they chuckle,call the boys lovers, call them broken, tell themto piss off, get on their way, the boys stay, getting pissedoff. Cut to later, in the bathroom, our boy finds a jackalalone now, jeans unzipped, holding hisweight, shifting against the urinal wall. I preparethe props for the confrontation, pre-shatteredglass bottles, records to scratch, but there is nothing,and more nothing. I have nothing to mimicbody tremors and averted eye contact, gaze lockedon a steady flow, rancid mist on a grate, the nothingbefore a wet paw slaps the boy’s backand says, relax mate, I was just taking the piss.Our boy clenches. I panic, drop everything,break a plate for the shattered face, sheet metal burns,bacon rattles, horses clap in the distance.