I never do house calls, but this radge was overdue and I was losing patience. He was all meek and mild till the talk turned to readies owing – then he turned bubblegum warrior. Scumbag tore me down, wrapped a rag around my face and blitzed me with a dirty one. Man I was sick. He then proceeded to dip my pockets; relieving me of my stash and less credible credentials. That was a boot to the nads – and me with no bullets in my gun.
Here was the neighbourhood leech rattling my cage and I felt the filth rising, but there was no point taking unkindly to him – he was doing all he could to alleviate the surplus in my pockets and bring comfort to my bleary head. The gear was no good, and the sentiments attached were bogus, but they nearly did for me. I was a cathedral full of blind mice tuned to panic stations – they sang the siren song of closet tweakers; quietly, tunelessly.
My knackers were withered, but my thinking was still deep enough to cover my space. So I fixed laughing boy with my good eye and asked, “Why do they call you Painless?” He just laughed and flourished his kit before commencing with the washing up; there was trouble brewing in his pipe, but I had my school craft down – this old dog knew a few tricks. It was well past noon before I peeled myself from his rock star wife to emerge victorious by the narrowest of margins – where I often do my best work.
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