Yellow fingers and slimy tongues running over brown-stained teeth, a sniffle to his left, the clink of shot glass number who’s-counting-anyway as it’s slammed down on the cracked wooden table,
smoothed and blackened from thousands of sticky fingers drumming and scraping and the ash that had fallen askew of the tin trays.
The fetid smell of tobacco and cheap whiskey and Marley the barmaid’s cloyingly sweet perfume all blended together in a heady, honeyed cocktail of poison and petunias.
Grimsley took a savory breath of it all, drinking in the venom that gave him his fix,
and caught a glimpse of Marley’s ample cleavage as she refilled the glass of the sweaty Palpitoad masquerading as a man sitting across from him.
Moving, always moving (the sick ones are always moving), skittish and itching for the fix, ready to grab and jump and squeeze and never let go.
It was under his grimy nails that he hadn’t cut in weeks and damn they were getting long. That leggy brunette he’d left in his dingy motel room this morning had complained about them.
And listen, for the record, you don’t complain about shit when you’re getting paid, and he’d paid well. Money won spent better than money earned, but to a whore it’s all the same.
Maybe he should’ve cut her some slack. She’d been doing this a lot longer than him and she’d had the decency not to lie to his face about his less than pleasing performance last night.
Or maybe she just knew he’d catch her in the act. He always had been good at spotting a lie. The whores were better, and they knew it.
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