WE'RE ALL MAKING OUR QUOTAS TODAY:
That’s what this fruity wad of asskiss is saying on the news right now, all bundled up outside the Best Buy on 6th and Broadway. A few hundred suckers lined up behind him in the -3 degree weather with their pop tents and heat packs—this is about the only time these jackasses aren’t trying to get on TV.
It’s the only day you can walk into this bar at five in the morning and order whiskey without getting the stink-eye. Warm and quiet; the perfect place for a sit-down. Everyone knows you come to Kelly’s for the best Black Friday deals.
And this shriveled little prick with Woody Allen glasses and about two years of hair left—I can just tell he’s going to need it beaten out of him by the way he looks at me. Or doesn’t look at me, tail already between his legs and about to piss himself. One of his eyes is yellow-brown, which means this ass-hat was getting a shiner about a week ago.
Fuckin’ guy barely raises his chin off the floor when he asks, “So…are you…him?” mouth hardly moving with the scabs on his lips, hands shaking and stained cheap red wine from the cold. Unmarked. He didn’t fight back.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, officer,” and Woody raises those punching bag eyes to me just in time to see whiskey jog past my lips. Stuff burns so damn good I’m tempted to lose the top layer.
“Wait—what?” the little purple fingers get all twitchy. “I’m not a cop.”
Forget all the bullshit sayings you’ve heard over the years. Always assume. Even if the guy’s 150 pounds of old sponge, he could still have twenty badges waiting outside to bust your ass. Covering your bases is a good habit to get into.
“If you’re not a cop, then yeah,” I offer a little grin, hoping this will chill him out. “I’m him.”
And the guy on the tube in the wool body condom, he’s going on about $300 laptops and $150 game systems as a greed riot breaks out behind him. People throwing elbows, trying to get to the $70 iPods and $5 CDs. A Wal-Mart employee got stomped to death last year, so naturally, this media cocksucker goes to the place with the best prices, hoping it will happen again.
“I heard you had…deals,” Woody goes back to his quiet little self, fingers playing piano on nothin’.
A 55” Toshiba HDTV for $900.
An iMac with all the bells and whistles for a grand.
If Woody wanted these things, he’d be on TV, too. You come to Kelly’s, to me, when you’re lookin’ for something that can’t be picked up in a store. Or those things not in an ad. And the fuckin’ guy is still shakin’.
“There’s a house on the on 5th that’s runnin’ a deal on $1 rocks…$2 shots of H. Go down there and—“
“—You think I do drugs?” he cuts in.
“I know a junkie when I see one, pal,” holding up the next shot of whiskey, making my hand shudder enough to spill a few drops. “Body don’t lie.”
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