STATE OF DRUGS AND TRUST
All characters and events depicted herein are obviously fictitious. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
|Skinny and the demon on his shoulder|
The bald Half-Cursed she-Devil was in deep. The Creature used her to suck government contracts. Real money. House in fucking Texas. Everything in her son’s name – and the little wastrel never did a day of fucking work in his whole worthless life.
The demon on Skinny’s shoulder whispered: “You see how it’s done. All these years, you coulda been part of the game. All these years you’re starving. Couyon.”
“Fuck you, asshole,” Skinny replied. “At least I sleep at night.” But that wasn’t true. Skinny had been insomniac for years. Couldn’t sleep til sunrise.
The Half-Cursed she-Devil who did so much of The Creature’s dirty work had lost her visa too. Just like Creature and Number One Wolf. How did that not come out last year when The Creature and his Number One Wolf lost theirs?
Ah right, that happened later. A Christmas gift from State. A clear message from Uncle Sam’s sister, Hilly McClean: Merry Christmas, you bald bitch, hope you enjoy the holidays. Feel fully blessed. And fuck you three hundred and sixty-five different ways. Your friend, Hilly McClean, next president of the United States of Your Motherfucking Demise.
P.S. You sure is ugly. How did anybody fuck you long enough to make you pregnant?
With the bald devil incarcerated in her own island, Creature turned to the Slave who ran the corner shop downstairs the lair, next to Cybercell. Somebody had to collect and drop off, right? Goods, currency, whatever. The Slave was the new mule and messenger. Just earlier today she screamed at Skinny:
“You a focking crackhead! Look at you, you focking skeleton! I know don’t why these people troubling Creature. What de man do you?” Skinny did not waste his words on her. He had really lost a lot of weight. He really did look like a fucking zombie. Whole year, no job, no money. Wife had to go back to her mother’s so the kids could eat. He was so hungry, it hurt. He could hear the hiss of his stomach bleeding into his intestines, eating itself to stay alive.
The Slave continued her rant. Skinny felt bad for her. It was not her fault she was pathetic. She was born that way and all her breeding only reinforced all the worst things about her. Skinny was always at a loss to see the best in people like that, though. It was a weakness that he was aware of. Some people just can’t be helped. They have to be left to God. Or international law enforcement. Whichever came first.
“Wonder if they’re watching her already,” he thought. “Probably not. She’s just a little balawoo. Small fish. Creature himself will probably eat her alive before they get to her. With her big mouth, she’d probably rat him out in a minute and a half.”
Tedz was the last point in the triangle. Fucking Tedz. Shit. That guy had been so cool with Skinny over the years. Passing him all kind of information that should never be spoken of. Probably as insurance. Skinny wondered if he could negotiate for Tedz later.
Probably not. Tedz was in deep. He took the money. He drank the blood. The chorus of a favorite song came to mind: “You do it to yourself, you do. That’s what really hurts.” Radiohead was still the best band in the world. If only the fucking Pixies and Bad Brains had just stuck together. Yeah. If only Hendrix and Marley didn’t die. Sigh.