I smoked a whole pack of Enthusiams


Dark was the night. Like the inside of a still baking lasagna, all soft with the cheese and reeking of meat and hot as hell. And not the dry heat neither. Me and the suet sack slunk shadow-wise down the alley, knowing they were there, waiting, beyond the dark, in the in-betweenings. Sure we were afraid, just pull my finger and you’d smell just how much just that fast. But we were obligated. It was out job. The fatso and me. On the clock. And to tell you the truth making some of the tuff luv for the forces that would rob sleeping children and grandma and all else of their peace and of their smiles, well, that was kinda fun. What a mix, fun and fear. Ha ha eek. You know how it goes when you’re smacking night terrors up side the head, it can get all over, that sticky stinky glooping mania and believe you me that crud is hard to get off. You have got to scrub. So when me and the chubby wonder hit the back streets on the hunt for the worst versions of bad news, well hell, tickles, I’ll tell you what–life becomes the rawhide hand grenade it was meant to be. And I wouldn’t trade it for any single stupid, awesome thing. Let me at ’em. And so says the dingus rotundus, too.


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