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[lowpantsnochance]

I have a story at Horror Sleaze Trash for anyone that is interested. Link in bio, as they say. #horrorsleazetrash #fiction #shortstory #thenuge https://www.instagram.com/p/B4_LDsqjj39/?igshid=xmx73cg3jkch

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“Lungs Hearts and Livers” by Arthur J. Willhelm of Iron Lung Press. For more from Arthur Willhelm, follow the #linkinbio and check out and follow his page, @ironlungpress. . . . #horrorsleazetrash #hst #ironlungpress #arthurjwillhelm #lungsheartsandlivers #poet #poetry #poetrycommunity #poetryisnotdead #poetryissexy #like #follow #share #keepitsleazy #keepitreal #supportsmallpress #smallpress #supportindieartists #supportindieauthors https://www.instagram.com/p/BqX9TOuhPJS/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1sel8wla2bbt6

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‘Hope for the Best’ by India LaPlace

Hope for the Best

When there’s nothing you can do,  Including sleep, So you sit in a steamy bath And drink beer through a straw While you wait to hear if your mother has died in a hospital room 30 minutes away. I’ve been in my fair share of hospitals And I’m sure it’s colder than her bedroom, Where she’s been dying for the last 11 years.

And I feel a little guilty. Should I go up there? Visit her? It might be the last time I see her alive, technically, Even though it feels like she died in 2007. God. I’ve got to talk to my daughter about this and I don’t know what to say. Should I take my daughter to see her? Traumatize her the way I was traumatized when I was 16 and it was far worse than I’d imagined?

She was a husk of the woman who raised me. Like a caricature, But instead of being silly and exaggerated and humorous, She barely seemed to exist anymore. And she cried when she saw me see her. And she squeezed my hand for the last time. And she tried, But she couldn’t say my name. She tried to tell me it was going to be okay While I tried to hold back tears. And the next time I saw her, She didn’t know who I was. 

The dog is crying downstairs. He misses my dad. He knows something is wrong. I haven’t cried  yet. My tears for my mother stopped in that hospital room a long time ago. My sisters have cried while Speaking words like “quality of life,” And, “All we can do is hope for the best, whatever that means.” Feeling like assholes while we skirt around the synonymous thought we’re all having:

“I hope she doesn’t make it.”

So, listen. I get it. I loved Marvel too. But I’ve been watching my mom deteriorate for a decade. So when you send me your messages and snaps about Stan Lee, I’m not all that torn up. 

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Two Poems by Ben Arzate

LOOK INSIDE FOR ADVENTURE

I sit here stoned

Yet again,

It's another Saturday afternoon

And, as usual,

I'm sat here all alone

Six days into this

New adventure of mine

Of social isolation

And no drinking for a time

A month of torture

As no drinking means

My life turns inwards

Leaving me with nothing

But the thoughts that crowd my mind

But the books that feed my mind

But the films that feed my eyes

And the music because, well

That's always been there.

It's a time to remember

Who I am away from that place

That place that began to feel

Like my home and that stall

I dreamt was my armchair at the bar

Of fun.

Earlier I dozed so

Know tonight will be a struggle

As my body is used to just

Keeling over under a weight of

Booze which means tonight,

Well nothing but the ordinary

I may have to smoke myself

Into a simple oblivion and

Pass right on and out

Able to rest cursing any

Thought of tomorrow

When work will return and

The torture will ramp

All the way up to double

The pain as I begin to think

Only twenty-two days to go

Before I can walk back in there

Get drunk and not give a damn

But right now, just one-hundred

And thirty-six hours in I can't

See how it'll last that long as

I slowly begin counting, only

Five-hundred and thirty-seven

Hours to go, just the blink of an

Eye in this insane life of mine

The last time I tried something

Like this I was young, more than

Twenty years ago now and somehow

I managed it for a good couple of

Years whilst still going out all the

Time as then I had places to go

And people to see and meet but

Without the pub in this town I

Reluctantly call my home what is

The point, a cup of organic tea?

I think I'll pass, stay here and push

The walls just a little bit harder

As I flick from Vanishing Point, the

Unforgettable movie, to Howlin' Wolf,

Representing the dirtiest of the

Old-time blues, to old Jean-Paul

To remind me why I'm better off here

Than out there. ---

A POEM FOR MY BEER

At last, after a month of unrelenting tiredness and

No time to do anything but get through this life, get

It over, get it done, I now sit alone, drinking as the

Words begin to flow at fucking last.  I'm testing the

Waters and seeing if I remember how this thing works

And now it comes back to me, all thanks to the

Magical wonders of the glorious beer. --- . Instagram . Facebook . Twitter . Patreon . HST Merch! .  ---

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Jed and Ethel by John Grochalski

jed and ethel jed and ethel sleep on a bench across the sidewalk from the big supermarket they sleep while people complain about cantaloupes and the cost of pineapple jed and ethel have been living on the streets in the neighborhood for about two or three years now right around the time we were told the economy was back and full swing jed and ethel obviously never got the memo they sleep on the bench while people walk by holding wine bags and gourmet vegan wraps jed wears a green hat from a nintendo game character and a free t-shirt from the new hipster coffee shop who gave it to him for their ironic idea of free advertising ethel wears her winter coat in all kinds of weather she’s usually pretty quiet but sometimes she sits on the bench and screams at the people complaining about cantaloupes and the cost of pineapple sometimes she says to the people carrying wine bags and gourmet vegan wraps hey, but do you have a dollar for me? jed’s still able to sleep when ethel goes on like this he’s put up with way more than shouting sometimes jed and ethel smoke pot with another guy, maximillian they sit at the bus stop a block away from the bench and get stoned as people walk by carrying lackluster cantaloupes and over-priced pineapples complaining about the smell of the marijuana and saying to themselves well, if they have money to do that then why are they living on the street? as if getting the occasional life-numbing high from a third party is the equivalent of them somehow shunning the rest of us here in boot strap america but people like to say dumb shit like that because they are afraid of homelessness they see themselves in jed and ethel’s eyes deep down they know it isn’t all cantaloupes and pineapples and wine bags and gourmet vegan wraps or maybe they are just judgmental assholes and jed and ethel are just props to boost up their own self-esteem their own sense of value and self-worth as citizens road signs to prove that we aren’t all random cogs in an unforgiving capitalist mouse wheel to be honest jed and ethel aren’t even their real names i have no clue who they are where they came from why they chose this neighborhood if they’re married or just shackled together this way jed and ethel are just names that i came up with about a year ago when i was walking down the street on some lazy summer sunday afternoon swinging my bag from the wine store passing them sleeping on that bench on my way to the supermarket for some fresh fruit a cold six pack of beer and one of their kick-ass gourmet vegan wraps. --- . Instagram . Facebook . Twitter . Patreon . HST Merch! . ---

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Poetry by Bradford Middleton

LOOK INSIDE FOR ADVENTURE

I sit here stoned Yet again, It's another Saturday afternoon And, as usual, I'm sat here all alone Six days into this New adventure of mine Of social isolation And no drinking for a time A month of torture As no drinking means My life turns inwards Leaving me with nothing But the thoughts that crowd my mind But the books that feed my mind But the films that feed my eyes And the music because, well That's always been there. It's a time to remember Who I am away from that place That place that began to feel Like my home and that stall I dreamt was my armchair at the bar Of fun.

Earlier I dozed so Know tonight will be a struggle As my body is used to just Keeling over under a weight of Booze which means tonight, Well nothing but the ordinary I may have to smoke myself Into a simple oblivion and Pass right on and out Able to rest cursing any Thought of tomorrow When work will return and The torture will ramp All the way up to double The pain as I begin to think Only twenty-two days to go Before I can walk back in there Get drunk and not give a damn But right now, just one-hundred And thirty-six hours in I can't See how it'll last that long as I slowly begin counting, only Five-hundred and thirty-seven Hours to go, just the blink of an Eye in this insane life of mine

The last time I tried something Like this I was young, more than Twenty years ago now and somehow I managed it for a good couple of Years whilst still going out all the Time as then I had places to go And people to see and meet but Without the pub in this town I Reluctantly call my home what is The point, a cup of organic tea? I think I'll pass, stay here and push The walls just a little bit harder As I flick from Vanishing Point, the Unforgettable movie, to Howlin' Wolf, Representing the dirtiest of the Old-time blues, to old Jean-Paul To remind me why I'm better off here Than out there. ---

A POEM FOR MY BEER

At last, after a month of unrelenting tiredness and No time to do anything but get through this life, get It over, get it done, I now sit alone, drinking as the Words begin to flow at fucking last.  I'm testing the Waters and seeing if I remember how this thing works And now it comes back to me, all thanks to the Magical wonders of the glorious beer. --- Follow the links below to support and show your love for Horror Sleaze Trash.  --- Facebook . Instagram . Twitter . Patreon . HST Merch!

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$300 Apartment by T.H. Cee

At the ripe old age of eighteen, I decided to move out and get my first apartment. Inexperienced and broke — never a good combination — I searched for the cheapest place to live, crossing out every ad in the newspaper above $300. I eventually found a place a few days later. In my mind, I’d stumbled upon the deal of a lifetime. Several units were available in a large and quaint old home converted into a two-story apartment house. From what I remember, the faded wallpaper masked an antique visage that borderlined on decay. A nicotine-stained ambience plastered the rooms with a cancerous yellow. You could almost hear the chipping lead paint crumble. Rehabbed just enough to convey the concept of occupancy, the structure appeared to be either on the verge of becoming an historic home or winning an eminent domain raffle. But the great news — the landlord advised basic utilities were included — all for $300 a month. In a hurry, I quickly leased a two-bedroom apartment on the second floor, and through a belief that my frugal search was somehow successful, mistakenly ignored the rest of the area. My naïve ears failed to warn me what the surrounding neighborhood tried to say. On a budget and motivated solely by price, the crazy taste of freedom had blinded me to the imperfections of what $300 could … and could not buy. ### The first day living there, I noticed a large hole in the bottom of a bedroom closet. A few hours later, I met my downstairs neighbor, Jizz Man. Jizz Man, when informed of my discovery, quickly held his needle ravaged arms up two feet apart. With wide eyes and a graphic vigor, he described the actual size of a rat he’d seen scurrying from his unit the day before. Somewhat of a philosopher, his potent use of simile immediately grabbed my attention. “That fucker,” he said matter-of-factly, “. . . was larger than a cat.” ### The next day, I met one of my next-door neighbors. For the record, I don’t recall his name. But for the sake of keeping things concise, being this is a story — let’s just call him “Old Alcoholic Dude” or Mr. Oad for short. It's also important to note that Mr. Oad was married, to none other than Mrs. Oad, who as my luck would have it ... was also an alcoholic. Mr. Oad banged on my door promptly at 8 a.m. With ass breath, he welcomed me to the neighborhood, and in a gruff tone, offered me the deal of a lifetime: a no risk chance to double my money, to experience high finance at its most primal level. “Just give me $10,” he said slurring his words, “and you can have $20 back in food stamps.” He then began to clear his throat with a cockeyed grin; in my mind, I watched three wet coughs form an imaginary ellipsis and introduce daylight to dark phlegm. My first impressions were that his liquid habit had washed away too many brain cells, that the man couldn’t chew a stick of gum and walk a sobriety line. I also surmised he probably wasn’t going to buy Girl Scout cookies with the proceeds — that is, unless they were somehow laced with rum. The scene played out like a dental nightmare, with Mr. Oad's breath reminiscent of a used anal thermometer thirsting for alcohol. The putrid wind expelled from his lungs hit my nose as if it were a fecal brick. In my mind, he’d become the unofficial spokesperson for the hazards of not flossing. Our conversation ended abruptly when I told him I had no cash. He quickly turned away quite frustrated, and in a welcome reprieve of sorts, spared me his next exhale. With a mixture of tenacity (and a possible case of the DTs) he started knocking on another door before I could close mine. In retrospect, I suppose many great sales motivators would have been proud. ### At the time, I had a girlfriend named Darcy. She was a Drama major and from what I remember a bit on the ostentatious side. Notorious for changing her hair color as often as her underwear, she possessed the unfortunate luck of being an eccentric bohemian. Back then, I overlooked these personality quirks primarily because of her bra size. That much I remember. As a young man in those days, I’d begun to look at many things on a sliding scale — and breasts happened to be one of them. Darcy was excited to see my place. She happily bounced from room to room and rambled on ad nauseum. “I love this. I love that,” she would say. In many ways, the girl was easy to please. Along with the apartment, we had a bed and didn’t have to use the backseat of my Gremlin anymore. I no longer needed to cover her face with a sweater attempting to keep the decibel level to a minimum. Not a huge fan of multi-tasking during sex, it was pretty much a win-win. ### Even my best friend Derrick liked my new digs. He’s been dead now for twenty years, but I still remember the first time he strutted into my apartment on that day — how he looked around a few moments before using his favorite catchphrase and part-time mantra. “Cool.” A person of few words, Derrick would always be cool to me — Miles Davis cool. If there’s a heaven, I surmise he's up there right now, fornicating with all the female angels and snorting fairy dust. Maybe even looking down at me and throwing high fives. We were kindred spirits back then, teenagers at that mysterious turning point of becoming men, keeping true to what decades later would be called the “Bro Code.” On occasion, I’d let Derrick bring women to my apartment after I left for work or school. From an economic standpoint, it became the barter system at its finest. All he had to do for me was leave a six-pack in the fridge and occasionally change the sheets. Mi casa, su casa.   ### My new life, however, did not escape peril despite these obvious perks. Enticed by the idea of saving money, I’d not yet learned how greed could inversely make things more expensive. An acquaintance talked me into taking on a roommate after a few weeks living alone. According to him, the dude “walked on water.” My main regret: finding out too late, he literally thought he could. I discovered after the fact that my new roommate, Brian, worked nights, and while not sleeping during the day, went door to door handing out his religious cult’s magazines. Unfortunately, this didn't get disclosed until after he'd moved in. Footnote for the naïve, the absolute first thing to ask before you shake hands and give anyone a key: You’re not crazy, are you? I'd always considered myself open-minded. Even somewhat spiritual. A huge fan of the “love thy neighbor” concept — especially females. If you’d asked Darcy, she would have vouched for me back then. But nevertheless, after several weeks, Brian’s proselytizing, no matter how much I tried to ignore it, took a strange and unexpected twist. With his “brotherly acceptance” stepping over into the dark side, he portrayed a different type of Passion Play, and to my surprise, soon crossed the thin bromosexual line of no return. Because he’d been my first roommate, I'd assumed it was normal to see him occasionally walk around naked. This belief, however, quickly changed when he added an erection into the mix, accompanied by garish bouts of living room masturbation theatre. Then, slinking into my room one night, his hands made the fatal mistake of moving from his penis toward mine. Not wanting to be a rape statistic, I taught him through a chokehold to speak in tongues. From the apartment to the hall, he got his ass pounded — and not the way he would’ve preferred. At the highpoint of our skirmish, my pugilistic rendition of the Last Rights almost introduced him to his maker. You would have thought he'd been thrilled. But when push came to shove, the man had no faith. Our battle ended with his baptism to the bottom of the first-floor stairs compliments of my large heterosexual foot. To summarize the moment: “‘No’ means no!” What devolved into a homoerotic adaptation of “Dante’s Inferno,” ended in forty days, and almost forty nights, if you included the evening I ended our arrangement by kicking that conflicted simian down a flight of stairs. In hindsight, the situation helped me understand a few things — like why my cousin, for amusement, always comes to the door naked when Jehovah’s Witnesses knock. ### A few days after getting rid of St. Brian (the Patron Saint for homos in denial), I discovered my other neighbor, who’d recently moved in, worked as a prostitute. This knowledge compliments of rolling paper-thin walls and a thick headboard that banged out a raunchy Morse Code. Weirdly, it was a result of this discovery that Darcy developed her own version of drama exercises to, I assume, hone her budding thespian skills. It started one night while both of us were in the throes of “enjoying each other’s company.” As we lay in bed, we overheard my neighbor on the other side of the wall working overtime. After listening to her and her John’s theatrics for a few moments, Darcy suggested, just for laughs, to emulate them. This meant, when my neighbor moaned or screamed, Darcy would do the same; when my neighbor’s “trick” made any sound, I would mimic it. We would also have to make these noises while doing what they were doing on the other side of the wall. In a matter of seconds, the moment transformed into an erotic version of Twister choreographed to an X-rated soundtrack. “Spank me daddy,” screamed the hooker. “Spank me daddy,” Darcy shouted. Et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum … If you’d asked Darcy at the time, she would’ve said the exercise had been about (in a dramatic voice): “transcending the emotion” or “being able to duplicate the acting experience.” That’s at least what she told me. This off-the-wall form of role-playing she’d concocted became hilarious. Especially, when we realized they could hear us on the other side, befuddled about what to make of it — like maybe their apartment was special in some way or had built in reverb. It also makes me wonder today if Darcy is now a porn star. When I consider all of the factors, it would make a lot of sense. “What the fuck was that?” said the John. “What the fuck was that?” I echoed. “Shut up and put your finger in my ass,” yelled the Prostitute. “That’s not your finger,” moaned Darcy. Et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum … The other thing that wasn’t so cool about my neighbor, the working girl — she had a pimp. This deduction came from the noisy conversations that often followed when he'd show up. Keeping pretty much to the same predictable script, he’d always start out yelling something like, “Aww Hell Naw!” and then make some loose reference to where his drugs were kept followed by many sentences ending in the word “bitch.” Their meetings either closed with a classic pimp ritual common to the “Slap-a-Ho” tribe or an S&M session on angel dust. After a while, it became too difficult to tell the difference. ### For most young people, one’s first apartment becomes a ceremonial rite of passage. A path toward adulthood. Mine, however, had jumped the tracks and taken a nefarious turn; before I realized what happened, I found myself trapped in what seemed a ghetto bar mitzvah — one where I'd wished my yarmulke (if I even had one) were bulletproof. To avoid the constant drama, I struggled to keep a low profile. If one tenant didn’t have the police at their door, another one did. I became the poor college kid amidst all this wild trailer trash excitement. Then, one day, everything went sideways and shitty. Mr. and Mrs. Oad began to go on longer binges where they brazenly avoided sobriety for days at a time. I’d hear them up at all hours yelling and screaming. Even crying. And sometimes around 3 a.m., I would listen to Mrs. Oad loudly whimper the following: “I’ll be your German. Let me be your German.” The deviant sounds that followed, molested my ears. Also causing me to throw up a little in my mouth. Had you been able to read my thoughts back then, you probably would’ve seen a pink elephant wearing a Speedo. And just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, the situation did. My neighbor’s long benders bled one into another and took on a sinister dimension, becoming one never-ending event. Mrs. Oad, the more dramatic of the two, did one of two things intermittently: She would climb naked out of her second story window onto a large tree and scream at passing airplanes or she would run naked around the building with a machete. Before I realized what happened, it became a National Geographic episode outside my door. I’m not sure where she got the machete. Truth is, her charging at me with the mighty blade effectively killed my curiosity to stop and ask. Every time I heard some bimbo tell me about how grueling her aerobics class had been in those days, I’d think of Mrs. Oad, her wrinkled and gravity-ravaged body, weapon in hand, chasing me up a flight of stairs. It somehow didn't compare. The situation, over time, took on a theatrical déjà vu. When she screamed naked from her tree at airplanes, the moment reminded me of the character Tattoo on “Fantasy Island,” the little person known famously for the line “Da Plane! Da Plane!” Thirty years later, this memory remains. When flying, I often catch myself looking out the window, wondering if there are other Mrs. Oads down there somewhere, and if so, are they staring upward, challenging me in some unknown existential way. Say what you will about the woman, her movements were quick despite her obvious age. The police came out numerous times, but every time they’d show up, she’d sneak into her apartment before they could record the offense. This wouldn’t happen today, as the same circumstance would’ve easily gone viral the first hour. Viva la YouTube.   ### Along with the approaching heat of summer, however, Mrs. Oad’s psychosis escalated. Her behavior became more defiant. Everyone sensed she was moving toward an impending and inevitable face-off — one where I'd hoped to enjoy eight hours of sleep after someone carted her ass off in a straitjacket. But after several weeks, there was still no end in sight. Like a hurricane stalling offshore, this quagmire of dysfunction neither waxed nor waned. But then one day, everything suddenly changed. I remember how Derrick and I trudged our way into the local grocery store. We were there in aisle three, when Tom, an old friend from high school appeared. Along with serendipity and a giant bag of weed, he'd moved back into town. He also needed a roommate. Thirty minutes later, the three of us sat in Tom's van, and over a few beers and the occasional bong hit, a new roommate alliance was forged. He even offered to help move. My luck appeared to be changing. That afternoon, we became the Three Musketeers, local Ganja Chapter 420. Poster boys for P.S.A.'s against reefer madness. Our perspective clouded by copious amounts of THC, we could have doubled for the Three Stooges with a profound case of the munchies. Derrick and I, for humor’s sake, decided not to warn Tom about Mrs. Oad's theatrics while on our way to retrieve my stuff, and on a last minute dare, looked forward to the opportunity of watching him discover this spectacle for himself. The moment would be priceless. Of course, when Derrick and I decided to do this, we planned on only letting Tom carry the light stuff. Say what you will about my sense of humor; I am not a monster. Once we arrived back at my $300 apartment, however, the timing could not have been worse. We found ourselves staring into the pinnacle of Mrs. Oad’s latest and greatest binge. She sat perched in her tree, like a sentry at a bipolar nudist colony, babbling something about Germans again. After Tom stopped laughing and got up off the ground, we each drew imaginary straws. Our strategy was simple: The three of us would slink onto the property and take turns running into the building like wasted commandos on some secret recon mission. We hoped to avoid any confrontation, and with hands full, desired to bolt out the front door with as much of my belongings as we could carry. I’m not sure what was worse, the threat of seeing an approaching machete or Mrs. Oad’s prune-like naked body with breasts jiggling at half-mast. The circumstance nurtured in me, apart from the potential risk for retinal scarring, a rock-solid appreciation for older women who wear support bras. We’d just finished loading up the van when police arrived. In my opinion, six months too late. Mrs. Oad held the machete in her hand with her eyes locked on the approaching news helicopter while she clung screaming from her tree. Caught up in the pandemonium, I suddenly heard my landlord’s booming voice. He’d just pulled up behind the gathering crowd, seen all my belongings in Tom’s van, and realized I was moving out. As a bargaining chip, I said he could keep my deposit in exchange for early termination of my lease. I also promised not to walk over to the news crew and tell them about his many code violations. Although initially annoyed, he quickly accepted my proposition. Smart man. We ended the transaction through a quick handshake. With a firm grip, he wished me well over the windy effects of the chopper and sporadic bullhorn shouts from police. He even said he’d give me a stellar reference. In many ways, I often think of that moment as my first step toward a higher credit score. From the front passenger seat of Tom’s van, I now saw Mrs. Oad on the ground in the fetal position, her naked body tangled and sedated in a police net. A tranquilizer dart protruded from her cellulite riddled ass. I took one final look back at my $300 apartment. Immersed in the bittersweet dysfunction of it all, I sensed my residency there had come full circle. I realized someday I would hold a different perspective and have to laugh … maybe even write a story. --- T.H.Cee has had other short stories published in Black Fox and New Praxius. He also had another story that will be published this month at Oddville Press.   --- Show your love for Horror Sleaze Trash by following us and checking out the links below! --- Facebook . Instagram . Twitter . Patreon . HST Merch!

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‘Crossing Styx’ by Rob Bliss

Damn me, Charlie, where you been?  You can’t be busy this weekend – long weekend, everybody out of the city except poor bastards like us.  Thanks for picking me up – colder than a nun’s ass out there, damn winter’s never gonna end, colder than hell.  Oh right – Danforth and Main – gotta pick up, then I gotta go back to Sherbourne and Bloor, delivering to a guy.  You know Nicky – Rasta guy, long-ass dreads, really cool, got everything you need – I need. I swear he never sleeps.  What is it?  Four a.m.?  No shit. Damn, I’ve been riding high all night. Look, you know I got no money to pay for this, right?  But we’re buddies, we help each other out, I can pay you after I see Nicky.  We cool?  You’re a friend, Charlie baby, a friend.  Your dispatcher’s not gonna give you shit, is he?  You got a fare, it’s regular business, you get paid, you just don’t declare this kind of payment on your taxes.  Death and taxes, Charlie, the only guaranteesSorry, I’m rambling.  Nicky’s got the shit.  I mean serious.  I’ll introduce you if you got the time, don’t have to hit the road too soon – he can supply all.  I’ve done shit I didn’t know existed in this country.  And I mean just in the past twenty-four hours.  I met him through this chick I banged at an after-hours club. Hot piece of ass, bubble butt, big tits, crazy hot.  I just hope she was clean, I went commando, but hell, if she wasn’t, she was worth it. I’ll deal with a dead dick later. We were both flying that night, she might’ve dropped E the way she was crazy for me.  She wanted more after we banged in the alley so she took me to Nicky. Great guy, real nice, cool, chilled out, no worries like some dealers.  Remember that guy who laced his shit?  I swear – was that angel dust?  Who has angel dust anymore?

Just up a bit, like half way to that light, there’s a street and this alley, the guy lives in a house with a bunch of people.  I just knock on his window – he’s got the basement apartment – and he passes it through.  He knows Nicky, they all know each other – and I know you, buddy.  So, seriously, what do you want for this?  What’s your poison, my man?  And I mean you don’t have to go pot – sky’s the limit. Something to save, to keep for the next long weekend or whenever you take a day off.  Hell, man, you work, I don’t know how you do it – what is it, ten, twelve hours a day, a night?  Damn, you got the money.  That’s good, you’re a hard worker, got a steady job.  Not me, I can’t do this shit.  Seriously, I can’t stand a boss telling me what to do.  Any boss.  They always sound like my old man.  Fuck that. Tell me what to do with my life and you’ll be kissing my cold ass as I walk out the door.

Okay, just right here, yeah, it’s just up a bit, see that fire hydrant, yeah there. Cool.  Cool.  Can you wait, you gotta go somewhere?  I’ll be, like, two minutes, in and out, knock on the glass, get the shit and I’m back. We cool?  Thanks, man.

Ah, damn, this is it, this is the shit!  Charlie, dude, check this out – oh right, yeah, thanks, man, back to Sherbourne, thanks. Look at this.  See that?  That’s high-grade.  Damn. Can’t do anything with it, though, it’s all Nicky’s, I’m just picking it up for him.  But look at that, you can’t get this here.  Hell, none of my business how Nicky gets this in the country – but you know how much this shit goes for?  I mean only bankers and CEOs can afford this.  Nicky’s got connections all over, from the sewer to the skyscraper, he supplies the city and keeps it humming.

  You cold? You got the heat on?  I’m freezing my nuts off, soaked up a chill or something, just in and out of the car for two seconds but it’ll get you.  What is it, like, forty below?  Feels like it.  I can feel my bones shiver.  Once we get to Nicky he’ll have something to warm us up – only way to kill the cold in this damn country.

  Seriously, I’m thinking of going down south, maybe move there, Nicky’s been telling me about it, always warm, sand and surf, bikini girls all year round, no assholes to deal with.  I mean, it’s poor and there’s no jobs, but that’s how the drugs get here, right?  So if I can get into that, transporting them or something, then I should be okay.  Think of it, all the celebrities, all the computer millionaires, they all got yachts and bungalows down there, right in the heart of the drug pipeline. You don’t think they get supplied. Think all their parties are booze and unfiltered cigarettes?  Right, right, I know, could you imagine?

  It’s really dark tonight.  You see this? I mean, no stars, no moon – it’s not snowing or overcast – it’s just the sky.  Weird sky.  Everything looks really dark.  Even the streets.  Gotta be some street lights out of something.  You got your lights on, Char, can you see?  I feel like I’m going blind or something.  Dark and cold, damn winter – damn country.

  You look kinda cold, too, Charlie, seriously, look, I can see your breath. Aren’t you cold, you got the heat on in here, your window’s not open is it?  No, I’m just wondering ‘cause your skin looks weird – no offense, you’re, like, blue or something, turning blue.  Shit, you got a light in here?  Look at my hands – do they look weird to you?  Like they’re really really white, grey-white, blue-white.

  Goddamn, I can see my breath too.  Why is it so cold, Charlie?  Char, I don’t feel so good.  Are we almost there?  I gotta see Nicky, get something soon, pep me up, put a spark under my ass.  I can’t get warm.  Can’t really feel my feet anymore.  Feel my fingers, do they feel cold, numb and cold, are you cold or is it just me?

  Something feels different, I don’t know.  Why don’t they have any street lights on – this is a city, someone could get mugged in the dark, especially on Sherbourne, you know the city inside and out, me too, where to go where not to go, this is one of the worst areas, you’d think they’d turn on some lights.  You could get killed, you know?

  Hell, you could die in an alley and no one would notice you ‘till the sun came up, as long as it didn’t snow overnight and cover you head to foot, then they’d have to wait for it to melt, and how long would that take?  

  Imagine if the sun never came up ever again.  

  Could you imagine, wouldn’t that be weird, freaky shit, bizarre?  Feels like the sun’s gone down forever, feels cold, this dark is cold.  It’s really dark.  Goddamn. Charlie, why is it so dark?

  You’re a good friend, Char.  You got your head on straight, you got respect, you got a job, you don’t waste your life. You’re a man, a real man, taking care of the shit you gotta take care of.  And still you picked me up, helped a buddy out.  Thanks, man, a good man.  Some of us aren’t, we never had the chance, got shit on our whole lives, and shit just leads to more shit.  You get what you can, by hook or crook, try to stay out of the cold, think about going someplace warm, retire, take it easy, live on a beach under a palm tree, die happy.

  I’m thinking now that no one dies happy ‘cause no one lives happy.  Why the drugs, why is everybody hooked on something, booze, smokes, even gambling I’ve heard, or porn even, or even just fifty cups of coffee a day – it’s all drugs.  TV and movies are drugs, and sports, and any mind-numbing shit, all drugs. Society needs its drugs, I guess. That’s where I fit in.  Gotta fit in somewhere, I suppose.

  You’re quiet, Charlie.  It’s all so quiet and dark out here.  Goddamn, yeah that’s right.  You could be dead in an alley on a night like this – OD from all the weird shit in your system, you don’t know what it is, could be laced with anything, who the hell brings this shit into the country, crazy people, junkies, pimps and pushers and whores, politicians and CEOs and computer hackers in skyscrapers.  They get the drugs in, we just roll down here on the street.  Roll and roll and roll.

  It’s a big city, Charlie, and you and me we’re just little guys.  We’ll always be little guys, just trying to make it. Gotta get away from this winter, too cold, too dark.

  Charlie, damn, I can’t feel my hands, dude.  I can’t feel my feet, I don’t know if I can even walk out of this cab.  I’m scared, Charlie.  Take me to the hospital, fuck Nicky, I’ll ditch his shit before I go in, or you take it and deliver, say I was too fucked up. Goddamn, take me to the morgue is more like it.  Roll me off the bridge into the river.  I got a bad feeling, Charlie.  I don’t think…ah, Jesus, buddy…I don’t feel alive anymore.

  I’m not alive.  I’m not alive.  It happened, it finally happened.  I died back there where you picked me up.  I’ve been dead the whole time, haven’t I?

  You’re a good friend, Charlie, a good friend.  Just keep driving, okay?  Never mind Nicky or the hospital, it doesn’t matter anymore.  I’ll find a way to pay the fare, somehow.  You can have Nicky’s shit as payment, take it all, but go slow, it’s strong shit.  Let’s just drive for a little while, I don’t care where, anywhere, maybe out of the city, it’s the long weekend, party weekend, just drop me off in the country, a farmer’s field, near a lake, a body of water, I could really use the sound of water right now.  None of the sounds of this shit hole.  It’s all just shit in the end, ain’t it, Char?

 Just keep going, I don’t want the ride to end, not yet, just give me  a little longer, just another mile or two.  Maybe the sun will come up soon, light this place up, burn it down, a nice warm blaze eating every brick in the sky and line on the road.  Then I’ll get out.  I’ll get out with the sun.  No more darkness, no more cold.

 I got a bad feeling I don’t think I’m ever gonna see the sun again.  Charlie.  Death and taxes, right, but no guarantee that the sun will rise every day.  There never really has been a guarantee to anything we do. I guess that’s what life is.  Too bad you only find out at the end, and it’s just not enough of an answer.  You never get the answer. --- Rob Bliss has a degree in English and Writing from York University, Canada. He has over fifty stories published in various online magazines, including Twisted Dreams Magazine, Sanitarium Magazine, 69 Flavours of Paranoia, Ideomancer, and Death Throes Webzine.  He also have stories in two anthologies: "Bonded By Blood V" (SNM Magazine Press) and "Timeless Worlds" (Schlock Press). Rob Bliss was chosen Author of the Year, 2013, by SNM Magazine. His first novel, Cut, was published by Necro Publications in 2014. --- Facebook . Instagram . Twitter . Patreon . HST Merch!