A conflict brews as the bitter scent of young cedar, which escapes from the pushcart vendors' lean and muscular torsos, drenched with sweat, clashes with the rank odour of stale urine.

Amid the squalor and noise he lies, oblivious to the rot with which he co-exists. He keeps company with swarms of flies, and hobnobs with anorexic dogs and bulimic hogs in Coronation Market.

All the sweet perfumes of Silver Slipper Plaza cannot mask the stifling fumes coming from the fried fish vendor's pan. Maggots, resplendent in their off-white leotards, gyrate to the cacophony emanating from the CD vendor's sound system. The lazy drunk lies on his back soundly sleeping, broken in pocket and in mind. It's the day after Friday.

Lying half-naked

Tomorrow is Sunday. He should have been preparing his sermon, but he's lying on his back in Coronation. After years of preaching Hell and damnation, he's damned. A man of the cloth lying half-naked in Babel.

It never occurred to him that the liquor he hid under his bed was stronger than the spirit that moved him on Sundays; that a taste of Devil's brew was not soup for the soul. He tried, but he was weak, too weak. Weekly he howled and he preached, knocking sinners out of their seats. Now, he's off his feet.

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