Under the Serenity Bridge, off Harbor, I've climbed down a ladder to circumvent an iron wrought fence to confirm a man down is dead.
In a tent, ice pipes at hand, he likely died of an OD. Less than a day down, the rats have gnawed off the flesh from his right foot, nibbled on his left, started on his nose and chewed off a chunk of his thumb.
As the sun sets, as Conquistador, Till, and I wait for the M.E, the rats emerge, circle, watch, and wait.