"No, I don't want to cook mashed potatoes, that's just wrong. We eat our potatoes whole in this dumpster."

We're sitting in my dumpster, around a small propane camping stove, and Pickles is trying to boil water to make potatoes. That simply will not do. The dumpster was freshly emptied, which means my bed of bags has gone, surprisingly as have my clothes. Luckily, I just robbed a local sporting good store for the stove and Propane. The night is kind of chilly inside the cold metal dumpster, and Mike has decided to crawl under my shirt, and lap at my nipples or sustenance, it's not unusual for lovers to do this in the cold Arctic wastelands where I found him, walking alone. He was lost and separated from his pod, but when our eyes met, we knew we had found our soul mates, and Sole mates, as we both wear the same size shoe. That is an amazing coincidence, because I has really tiny baby feet, but that's not important. My feet aren't for dinner tonight. Potatoes are.

"Do you want me to boil the potatoes whole?"

I grasp the potatoes, and hold them tightly close to my bosom. Yes, my bosom, because I have glorious breasts that rival that of the Pink Panther. Go head, pause this video and google the Pink Panthers tits, I know you want to. I did. Yes, you probably saw the same things I did, and mine are just as glamorous. I hold the potatoes there and gasp at his idea.

"No, we eat them raw. Raw potatoes are good for you."

I grab the pot of boiling water, and throw it out the little slot in the dumpster rude people use to throw in cardboard. A homeless man screams in agony, as I have likely just scalded him. He'll get over it once he goes and puts rice on it.

"Sorry, Jeanine. I forgot you were there."

Pickles looks at me as if I just murdered his baby in front of him. Which I would totally not do, because babies should never be killed, they should instead be given to licensed clowns and fed a steady diet of Baklava. That's the American way, I think.

"Ok, you need to explain some things to me, Rick."

He never calls me Rick, he must be mad at me. I am confused.

"Fine, but first of all, I am not Rick Springfield. My name is clearly Bruce Springsteen, and I expected to be addressed as such."

He shakes his head.

"That's part of it, I need you to explain to me why you're living in a dumpster, why you're never using your real name, and why you have a lizard suckling at your nipple right now."

Strap yourself in, it's gonna be a long night.

"I don't know my real name, I told you. I woke up one day with little memories, and no idea what my name was, someone scribbled Grande Ricardo with a picture of a penis on a wall where I was asleep, and I decided to go by that. Which, I have to add is highly inappropriate, because the slang for big dick in Spanish is actually Grande Pito. I assume whoever did it has no idea how slang works. I have an apartment, yes, but I prefer the dumpster. There's more people who I like down here, and unlike that kid who lives in the apartment next to mine, I am certain none of these folks have Scurvy. That's a real threat you know."

He's nodding along as I speak, as if he's paying attention, but I supposed there's going to be more questions.

"Ok, so before I ask more questions, tell me about the Lizard."

I place my hand over where Mike's head is, I have to protect him from this nonsense.

"Mike is my best friend, and lover. We share everything, included a Netflix account, which is a miracle, because neither of us have a bank account, and I am absolutely certain I have not actually been paid in US Dollars from the XWF yet. I assume that check will coming soon."

He puts his lower lip above his top lip and nods at this, accepting it, I would assume. He slowly climbs out of the dumpster, leaving the propane stove burning. I throw the potatoes down, and climb out with him. Much to the surprise of Malachai, the homeless man I burned earlier, and his friend Patrice. I think Patrice is a Shaman, but I've always been too scared to ask.

"I left a stove and some potatoes in there for you two. Enjoy, they have not been in my anus yet. I don't give nonAss potatoes to that girl down on 7th street, she bit me once."

I turn towards Pickles, who's pulling his jacket close to him to shield himself from the cold winter night.

"Why are we leaving the dumpster? It was comfortable there, I made a couch for us to snuggle on."

He shivers, and tightly wraps his arms around himself.

"Show me your apartment."

I point directly to the dumpster we just left.

"That is where I spend most of my nights, when I'm not competing in the XWF. That's my apartment."

He stands there, and gives me a look.

"No, show me the apartment you have that you don't go to. I want to see it. I need to see that it's real."

URGH! Fine. I gesture for him, and we walk towards the building next to the dumpster, it's just a plain brown brick building, with glass doors. The entrance is just a boring white landscape of bland whiteness with a set of elevators on the opposite end of the room, and an empty desk for a receptionist along the left wall, with entrances to stairwells on either side of the elevators. There's an office behind the desk, but it's always locked, and the one time I managed to get in, there weren't any candies in there. Just tools, and paperwork. It's pretty terrible actually. We walk to the elevator and ride it to my floor. I sneer as we exit the elevator, not like you could tell, and we move over to my door, the third one on the floor, on my left is Scurvy Dan, and on my right is an old woman who I call Gladys. She sometimes makes me dinner so I don't starve to death. I grab the handle, and push the door open to my apartment. There's a stack of envelopes on the floor by the door. Pickles bends over and picks a few up, and looks at them.

"These are all payroll checks from the XWF. You probably should cash these tomorrow."

"Yeah, that way I can pay that neighbor back, maybe give him some oranges so his scurvy goes away. So, here's my apartment, I haven't been here since my first match in the XWF."

Pickles walks around looking at the apartment, and sizing it up. It's got some cheap floor, that fake wood shit, and the walls are all empty, except for a single picture of an old woman with a cat on the wall opposite the door, in between two medium sized windows. There aren't any curtains on the windows, and they've been left unlocked. The only two pieces of furniture in the living room are a ratty black fabric sofa and a table with Mike's aquarium on it. The kitchen is mostly empty, with empty milk cartons laying all over. While he walks into the bedroom, which is also very much empty, I walk over, and put Mike in his little tank. Pickles walks out, and into the bathroom, which I've literally never been in.

"Hey, can we talk about my match this week? Can you pop in here so we can do that?"

He walks out of the bathroom with an inquisitive look on his face.

"Sure, after you tell me why the bathroom is spotless, and everywhere else looks like it's been used as by squatters."

"Oh, I've never gone in there. I would shit and piss out the window, and break into Scurvy's apartment to take a shower if I needed to. Yeah, I was pretty sure that bathroom was haunted, guess that's been busted. Anyway, this week I'm really apprehensive about my match."

I plop down on the couch by Mike, and he walks over and sits next to me.

"Cause of your loss to Peter?"

"Nah, I had an off night that night, it's ok. I'm not concerned about my loss to Erik Black, either. John Black's more talented cousin just had my number, it's alright. I'm sure that my opponent will figure that out tomorrow. My apprehension is because I don't want to have to beat up a beloved children's character. Plus, I am really certain that Winnie the Pooh is gonna hunt me down after I knock his buddy down a few pegs."

Pickles cocks his head to the side.

"What? You're not fighting a character from Winnie the Pooh."

"Heavily disagree. It says I'm facing some kind of bearded pig, that can only mean someone glued a beard on Winnie the Pooh's friend, or someone is seriously stupid enough to think that name is somehow a good name. I'm really having trouble believing that someone would look into a mirror, stare themselves down, and in a very serious manner say My name is War Pig, and I'm a badass man with a badass beard. Regcognize that shit.

No, that's either gotta be a children's character come to life or this dude is seriously on a whole level of stupid that I can't fathom. Either way, someone's coming after me after the asswhooping I deliver. Either an army of 6 year olds, or PETA, which is basically the same thing. So, not sure which is worse, or which is more likely. But, it's ok, because I guess after I drop this fool like Adam dropped the Ants, or Justin Timberlake dropped Joey Fatone, I'm taking his title, and moving onto something better. Probably pancakes."