They call him Lysergic. Surge for short. Surge was a short man, clattered hat and overalls, brown pink uniform, playing on stage with an upright. Johnnie walked over.
"Hey Surge, I'm Johnnie, nice to meet you. What's on your mind right now?" he asked.
Surge stared ahead blankly but with a purpose. Then he turned, smiling robotically like a mechanical clock, to inspect Johnnie with the one good eye. He looked closely at his face. He turned back, unresponsive. Surge kept plucking the thick strings of his upright bass.
Johnnie, a little miffed now, redoubled his effort. "SURGE," he said, nearly yelled. "I heard you're a friend of Robusto. I'm Johnnie, what's it to you man. How are you doing."
This time Surge nodded, acquiescing in the slight margin of social recognition that Johnnie so desperately sought.
"Know where I can get any of the good stuff?" Johnnie called back.
Surge continued in silence, save a brief moustache twitch. The strange whisker atop the bland curvature of his mouth. The moustache fit his face like a Salvador Dali painting, a semi mosaic relic of the Picassan past. Surge just stared straight ahead. Johnnie would not receive the attention he was after.
"Alright then," Johnnie said. "Up yours." As he turned to walk away he heard a mutter over the din and clatter of the outhouse.
"My name is Sergio."