Jeb and Zeek shifted uncomfortably in the trash compacter the authorities called an APC (or Aerospace People Carrier) although Jeb and Zeek damn well knew a fucking horse trailer when they saw it. This was a goddamn horse trailer.
Jeb and Zeek were traveling about 69000 kilometers an hour to the space colony named "47", but more infamously known as "Gayville". Jeb and Zeek didn't know why they were on this APC. To be honest, the last week has been a real blur.
Jeb and Zeek were picked up by the authorities last week when they were out in the woods. Jeb and Zeek pleaded that what the authorities saw wasn't what it seemed. It wasn't. But they were put in quarentine anyway, then on this APC.
Jeb whispered to Zeek "I think that fag is staring at me, I oughta kick his ass". Zeek grabbed Jeb's arm and whispered back "We've gotta keep cool, Jeb. We'll have to play along as to not draw no attention to ourselves."
"Whatchu mean, play along?"
"Y'know, pretend we're fags too."
"I aint no fag!" Jeb said a little too loud, as if the cowboy garb they were wearing wasn't drawing enough attention to themselves.
The vaguely feminine looking man in the aeropostle shirt sitting across the walk space from Jeb breathed through his lips and rolled his eyes.
"Hey, queer! You got a problem?" Jeb shouted, getting everyone's attention.
"Hey, Jeb! You need to calm down! This is the only place we've got now. Just play it cool until we find a way to get out." Zeek stressed out through his teeth. Trying to keep his voice low, even though everyone in the sardine can were paying close attention.
"I'm sorry to break it to ya, but there aint no way out" Said the queer in the Aeropostle shirt in a mocking southern accent. "And for your information, you bigots are the fags here"
When the APC landed they saw a large metropolis in front of them. Space colony 36, where Jeb and Zeek where born and raised, was a much larger and sparsely populated colony then 47. Jeb and Zeek came from rich families who could afford to live the privileged and old fashioned southern lifestyle of earth in space; open tracks of land, plantations, ranches and farmland. What Jeb and Zeek saw here intimidated them; 3000 feet buildings, millions of people walking about there business in the hundreds of spaceport overpasses and underpasses all within sight. Jeb and Zeek stood dumbfounded for several minutes, mouths agape. They'd never seen so many people, heard so much noise and seen so many lights in their lives. Then they heard a voice.
"You cowboys looking for something?" A rather butch lesbian, sporting a Mohawk and tartan, skintight pants asked Jeb and Zeek.
"We want to get back to Colony 36" Zeek offered. Jeb was aghast; he's never seen a woman look like that.
"HaHaHaHa" The lesbian laughed heartily, her shrunken chest bobbing up and down. "You ain't ever goin' back to 36" Said the lesbian said in a more noticable southern accent. One the cowboys would recognize.
"You're from 36?" Jeb asked, with a bizarre mix of incredulity and hometown pride.
"Fear god, fear the flag" The lesbian said, reciting the colony motto. "Yep, born and raised. Got kicked out age 13, caught me kissing my step sis. Once you get sent off on the gay love boat, they never let you back."
Jeb sunk to his knees. It finally sunk in. He was never going back home. He heard things about 47 from his Sunday school teacher. That it was full of heathens, sinners, the unclean. That they were evil, and to be feared and despised by country church folk as themselves. He heard stories on the playground that they ship in straight men from all over the universe just to be slaves to rich gay men. That if they ever knew he was straight, they'd rape him, then sell him into slavery.
Jeb and Zeek wandered the streets neighboring the spaceport, saddened and confused until an artificial night fell. As the artificial sun at the center of the colony dimmed, the people of 47 began to disperse either home or to bars littering every other city block. That's when Jeb and Zeek, conspicuous as all get out, saw a police car. The Cowboys ran as fast as they could away from the police car. Jeb and Zeek kept running what must have been a mile down the road, never looking back to see whether or not the cop was making chase. Whether or not there was more cops coming. Coming to come inside Jeb and Zeek.
Jeb and Zeek finally ran into an alleyway outside a closed french restaurant. They breathed heavier and heavier until they both came to tears.
"I'm not a fag! I'm not meant to be here!" Jeb cried, leaning against a wall.
Zeek was bent over, hands on knees, was still trying to catch his breath.
"I'm not a fag!" Zeek sobbed louder.
Zeek stood straight up and looked at Jeb.
"I'm not a fag" Jeb crying softer.
Zeek held Jeb in his arms and kissed his neck.
"I'm not a fag..." Jeb cryed softly, barely even making a noise
"Shush" Zeek said, quietly in Jeb's ear
"I'm not a fag..." Jeb mouthed silently, staring straight ahead, seeing nothing.
"It's okay Jeb, it's okay. We're home now" Zeek whispered reassuring in his ear. "Now take off your jeans, honey"
Jeb sniffed and smiled, "This sorta behavior got us 'ere in the first place, babe." he laughed as he worked off his large belt buckle.
"Shut up and lemme blow you" Zeek smirked, licking his lips and forcing jebs pants all the down to his cowboy boots.
The belt buckle read "Fear God, Fear the Flag"
Sunday
Saturday
BoBo goes on Vacation
Bob sighed, relieved to finally be home to his modest single wide. He jingled his keys huffing as his gut fell just below his Hawaiian shirt. His dog began to bark for its owner inside.
Bob was a middle aged man, balding, overweight and bespectacled; though this wasn't necessarily what he saw the mirror when he entered the bathroom. "Today's the day, BoBo" said the clown, luminescent, in front of the shaving cream and prescription medication in his medicine cabinet. Bob mumbled in agreement, penis in hand, as he emptied his bladder. It sure feels great to be home.
Bob walked out of his bathroom and over the dog, still barking. The Pomeranian obviously didn't know Bob was its new owner, but all that will change.
Bob took the cheap Xerox he found and placed it next to the empty cans of Pabst on the little linoleum dining only really big enough for one. Bob's small trailer didn't bug Bob much. Bob never had company over. Bob slowly unbuttoned his Hawaiian shirt, covered in hula girls, ones like you would see in old fashioned tattoos. He then kicked his shoes off, then rubbed his socks off his feet then finally let his slacks fall to his ankles. It sure feels great to be home he thought.
Bob, naked, walked the few feet to his fridge and opened it. Bob saw some day old Chinese food, a jar of Dijon mustard and a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon. It only had three left in it. I'll get some more on the way there, bob thought, and then get some food on the way back. Bob took the last three beers and the Xerox and walked to his room.
He had drunk the first one by the time he had walked through his bedroom door and got the Pomeranian to shut the fuck up. This Bob's most valued time and he wanted it to be perfect. Bob sat the beers and the Xerox on the make up table and sat down on his padded folding chair. In the spotlight framed mirror, Bob could see how he looked and watch himself transform into what he really was. Bob began to apply his make up, first a base of white, then blue around the eyes, then red around his mouth, arranged into corners up to his nose, accentuating his cheeks and all the way down to his chin. He saw a clown sporting a malicious grin in the mirror.
Then noticed his erection, and mimed surprise. He drank another beer, idly playing with his penis. Bob was now fully erect, and ready. The clown in the mirror concurred. “It’s show time, BoBo”.
Bob stood up in his chair and turned around to see a naked woman lying in his stained bad sheets.
“I didn’t see you there Susan” Bob said, feigning embarrassment, still lazily jerking off.
Susan said nothing, she just smiled and opened her legs, her thighs almost yawning, calling Bob to her.
“Well, don’t mind if I do, Susan”
***
Bob sat on the bed, cleaning his make up off his face with one hand, drinking the last beer and smoking a cigarette with his other. He looked at the Xerox and then the blowup dolls head next to it. He turned his head the other way and saw his semen lazily drip out of the pussy hole between its inflated vinyl legs.
The Pomeranian was barking the whole time he did it, but Bob was pretty sure that was the best nut he’s busted in a while. His dick was a little sore, but a good kind of sore. After he got through the second Marlboro red, he came back to earth, the dog still barking furiously at him, it’s body jumping back as it yapped at Bob.
“Oh shut the fuck up...” Bob realized he didn’t know the dog’s name.
He put his beer down and grabbed the Xerox photocopy next to the blowup doll and looked at it through the glasses he just put back on.
Just under ‘missing dog’ was Susan, a blond woman, mid-thirties, holding fluffy in the frame of the picture.
Bob took a shower, put his best Hawaiian shirt on, (a classy number with cubist palm trees on it) and then took fluffy into his Subaru station wagon.
“You’re going to be fine” BoBo the clown said reassuringly, gleaming from the rear view mirror, back at Bob.
Bob dialed the number.
Bob was a middle aged man, balding, overweight and bespectacled; though this wasn't necessarily what he saw the mirror when he entered the bathroom. "Today's the day, BoBo" said the clown, luminescent, in front of the shaving cream and prescription medication in his medicine cabinet. Bob mumbled in agreement, penis in hand, as he emptied his bladder. It sure feels great to be home.
Bob walked out of his bathroom and over the dog, still barking. The Pomeranian obviously didn't know Bob was its new owner, but all that will change.
Bob took the cheap Xerox he found and placed it next to the empty cans of Pabst on the little linoleum dining only really big enough for one. Bob's small trailer didn't bug Bob much. Bob never had company over. Bob slowly unbuttoned his Hawaiian shirt, covered in hula girls, ones like you would see in old fashioned tattoos. He then kicked his shoes off, then rubbed his socks off his feet then finally let his slacks fall to his ankles. It sure feels great to be home he thought.
Bob, naked, walked the few feet to his fridge and opened it. Bob saw some day old Chinese food, a jar of Dijon mustard and a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon. It only had three left in it. I'll get some more on the way there, bob thought, and then get some food on the way back. Bob took the last three beers and the Xerox and walked to his room.
He had drunk the first one by the time he had walked through his bedroom door and got the Pomeranian to shut the fuck up. This Bob's most valued time and he wanted it to be perfect. Bob sat the beers and the Xerox on the make up table and sat down on his padded folding chair. In the spotlight framed mirror, Bob could see how he looked and watch himself transform into what he really was. Bob began to apply his make up, first a base of white, then blue around the eyes, then red around his mouth, arranged into corners up to his nose, accentuating his cheeks and all the way down to his chin. He saw a clown sporting a malicious grin in the mirror.
Then noticed his erection, and mimed surprise. He drank another beer, idly playing with his penis. Bob was now fully erect, and ready. The clown in the mirror concurred. “It’s show time, BoBo”.
Bob stood up in his chair and turned around to see a naked woman lying in his stained bad sheets.
“I didn’t see you there Susan” Bob said, feigning embarrassment, still lazily jerking off.
Susan said nothing, she just smiled and opened her legs, her thighs almost yawning, calling Bob to her.
“Well, don’t mind if I do, Susan”
***
Bob sat on the bed, cleaning his make up off his face with one hand, drinking the last beer and smoking a cigarette with his other. He looked at the Xerox and then the blowup dolls head next to it. He turned his head the other way and saw his semen lazily drip out of the pussy hole between its inflated vinyl legs.
The Pomeranian was barking the whole time he did it, but Bob was pretty sure that was the best nut he’s busted in a while. His dick was a little sore, but a good kind of sore. After he got through the second Marlboro red, he came back to earth, the dog still barking furiously at him, it’s body jumping back as it yapped at Bob.
“Oh shut the fuck up...” Bob realized he didn’t know the dog’s name.
He put his beer down and grabbed the Xerox photocopy next to the blowup doll and looked at it through the glasses he just put back on.
MISSING DOG
POLMERANIAN, GOES BY FLUFFY
CALL SUSAN, (907) 338-6121
Just under ‘missing dog’ was Susan, a blond woman, mid-thirties, holding fluffy in the frame of the picture.
Bob took a shower, put his best Hawaiian shirt on, (a classy number with cubist palm trees on it) and then took fluffy into his Subaru station wagon.
“You’re going to be fine” BoBo the clown said reassuringly, gleaming from the rear view mirror, back at Bob.
Bob dialed the number.
Puppies and Butterflies
“Maybe you’re getting used to the way they smell” said Lumpy to John. If Lumpy had eyebrows, he’d have one raised.
“No, Lumpy, I’m sure they’re beginning to smell less” coughed John, a grizzled old man trying feebly to push a shopping cart full of his belongings forward.
“Well, John, I really don’t see how that could be the case” Lumpy retorted, taking a condescending tone.
“Lumpy, you don’t even have a nose”
“Touché, John”
***
Dave and Macy, Biology and Psychology undergrads respectively, adjusted their gasmasks and cocked their shotguns. They’d cleared 5 rooms on the fourth level of the apartment complex and the found biters in every single one of them. They weren’t making any allusions to fucking around.
Dave kicked the door 4 times before it began to splinter and sag at the lock, after which it was one stiff kick before it gave entirely. Dave and Macy rushed into the apartment, Dave into the room adjacent to the entrance to the apartment, Macy to the bathroom across the hall from the bedroom. There was nothing in the room besides a bed, a dresser, a computer and some DVDs in a rack. Dave shouted “Clear”. Macy saw no biters in the bathtub, they were always in the bathtub. Macy shouted “Clear”.
“Maybe there’s no-one here?” Dave queried, cautiously optimistic.
“Don’t be so sure” Macy told Dave, pointing at the locked door just past the living room/kitchen.
They could just make out the sound of someone vomiting.
***
“What do you want you bet its brain parasites? Or bacteria!” Lumpy said to John.
John just grunted.
“What’s wrong John?” Lumpy asked, concerned. Ever since it happened, John hasn’t been the same. It started it off small and contained, for a month or so it would be done, but then it would happen again. John was determined to hide alone until it was over. Every time John and Lumpy found people, the people seemed to just go insane and kill each other.
That and they never seemed to take kindly to Lumpy.
Lumpy was John’s daughter’s before she moved away. Even though the long seasons of solitude made him question his memory, he never really recalled Lumpy talking much before it happened.
"What's wrong, John?"
John grunted again.
“Either way, It’s rate of recidivism is pretty impressive” said Lumpy blithely. “It couldn’t be anything else besides bacteria or a brain parasite. It would kill off a group, then transmit itself to another enclave of survivors somehow then kill them off… maybe its airborne?”
“Whatever it is, we’ll never know Lumpy” John sighed.
The difficulty of pushing the cart was getting ridiculous, John figured there was something stuck in the wheel, he kneeled down to check and of course the smell got worse.
***
The smell, even through the gasmasks, was fucking horrible. Between the decaying, half disemboweled body on the bed, the vomit, the shit and the general smell of death permeating from the very wallpaper, Dave and Macy could barely hold back their gag reflexes. When they find biters, they either find them eating each other, shitting barely digested flesh in their pants, or vomiting it out.
“Aren’t zombies supposed to just eat us? Not throw us up?” Macy asked.
Dave would’ve subconsciously pushed his glasses up if he wasn’t wearing a gasmask at the time. “One, they’re not zombies, they’re not even dead. They’re just people eating other people raw, and we’re just not that great at digesting raw human flesh.”
Macy gave him a glare through the coke bottle lenses of her gas mask. “Okay, Mr. Biologist smart ass. If they’re not zombies, what are they?”
“I don’t know! They were people, and I guess they still are. I guess they’ve gone little nuts.”
“A little nuts? Severely schizophrenic maybe, but you don’t just catch schizophrenia.”
“They remind me of this brain parasite that affects rats. They infect rats and reprogram their brains to find and get eaten by cats. These parasites thrive in a cat’s digestive systems.”
“Makes sense, but biters don’t infect other humans, they just eat them”
“True” mused Dave, “There must be a carrier, someone who has it but isn’t a biter: they just give it to those who don’t have the parasite.”
“Hey, Dave, what does that look like to you?” Macy pointed at the blood splatter on the retro wallpaper with her shotgun. The splatter behind the biter they just took out with two rounds of buck shot, one from each of them.
“Uh, the brains of that woman we just wasted?” He didn’t see where she was going with this “I think I see a tooth”
“No, no, no, Dave. You ever hear of a Rorschach test?”
“Oh yeah!” Dave said merrily and paused for a moment to decide. “It looks like puppies”
“Puppies?” Macy asked, baffled “It looks like more like a butterfly to me”
“No, it’s two puppies sitting sort of back to back, you see it?”
Macy turned her head and said “Oh!”
***
Dave and Macy left the apartment complex cheerily swinging backpacks they had filled full of canned food and knick-knacks scavenged from the fourth floor until the sight of an elderly man with a shopping cart chastising a sock monkey stopped them in their tracks.
“No, Lumpy, I’m not going to touch it with my bare hands” hollered the old man.
The old man gave pause for a reply.
“No, Lumpy! It’s a goddamn finger stuck in the wheel.”
Pause
“You don’t even have bones!” He began to cough.
The old man didn’t notice Dave and Macy cautiously walk out in front of them, shotguns at the ready. Dave politely coughed to garner the old man’s attention. The old man looked up at them as if interrupted from serious business, not showing any outward signs of fear of the two shotguns being pointed at him.
“Yes?” said the old man, annoyed.
“Are you talking to a sock monkey?” questioned Macy, bemused.
The old man looked at them blankly, then to Lumpy and then back at them. “Yes” said the old man, as if talking to a sock monkey was completely normal and that that was a stupid question. He let out a chesty cough.
Dave and Macy looked at each other and realized this conversation would be going nowhere unless they changed tactics.
“Why are you pushing your cart through a pile of bodies?” Dave asked the old man. The old man raised an eyebrow to the couple then began to look around him; seemingly shocked to find that he was in fact pushing his cart through formally neat rows of dead bodies, and had been for some time. Rows of bodies that Dave and Macy taken out of the buildings to rot in the street.
“Why are there dead bodies in the street!?” screamed the old man, wheezing.
“Wha- wait, have you been living under a rock?” Dave asked, baffled “The sickness? The biters?”
John gave the couple a really sardonic look, the best he could muster. “I know about all of that,” hacking, coughing and then catching his breath “but don’t you idiots know you’re supposed to burn these bodies?” Lumpy would have been proud, that is, if he wasn’t a sock monkey.
Macy gave Dave a nudge and whispered “I told you so”.
Dave would have come up with a witty retort, but fell short. Instead he said “Hey, look, we can take you to other survivors, we’ve got a whole building just 3 blocks ahead”
The old man looked at Lumpy, then back at Dave and Macy and nodded in agreement, too busy coughing to say anything. Dave and Macy helped John move his shopping cart and took Lumpy and John to the survivor’s building, coughing all the way.
The Warehouse
Fate will go about it's business much like a mailman in the early hours of the morning. You never see the mailman, but you see his work. Day in and day out they'll put in your bills, your expenses for living your privileged existence, in your mailbox without a hitch. Sometimes you'll find the mailman staring at your children as he reflects the early morning sun off his knife.
These things happen, but they're rare.
***
Matthew rolled out his bag of coke on the bathroom sink. He looked in his pocket for something to cut it into lines with. Zack, his cohort, was babbling about shit Matthew didn't care about and could only half hear anyway.
"Hey Matthew man" Zack mumbled nervously, rubbing his nose "That new intern, Molly, she totally wants to fuck you man"
The way Zack punctuated every thought with "Man" pissed Matthew off. He found a card in his blazer pocket; too thin an flimsy to be a credit card, but just thick enough to be used as a tool. It felt laminated, but it was the size of a business card.
***
The building Matthew was standing in front of was too big to be mistaken for anything else, but the dockside darkness shrouded it, concealed it, made it look almost church like. He read about a building like this a long time ago. His then law professor gave out files for on a case in which he was a prosecutor. He told the class that a man had abducted two children, took them to a warehouse like this, then tied weights to their legs and drowned them alive in the bay. The man said he was drawn to this building.
Matthew had no idea why he was here or why he was opening the door.
The one room was large, larger then what the outside had appeared and there was practically nothing in it. A pallet truck lay, clearly unused for some time, to the side. Straight ahead of Matthew, at the back of the warehouse, was a freight elevator: the only thing lit in the entire warehouse.
***
Matthew rolled out his bag of coke on the bathroom sink. Zack had brought a friend, Markus. Oh fucking great Matthew thought to himself, annoyed I have to share with two cocksuckers today
Matthew brought an even bigger amount of coke the the next day. His dealer was having a party, and even though Matthew wasn't one to party with his nigger dealer he decided to stay and party anyway. He had a really great time, so great a time that some cunt whore got her jaw broken. I don't even think she could see out of that swollen face I gave her by the time she got to the hospital Matthew smiled to himself. Sporting an erection every time he thought about her scream.
***
When Matthew got back to the freight elevator, the mailman with the permanently bloodstained hands was being awfully more vocal then usual.
"You sure you wanna do this, Matthew?" the mail man turned to Matthew and smiled. Matthew never noticed the mailman didn't have eyes. Just sockets.
"I don't remember asking you, fucko" Matthew spat back.
"Just making sure" grinned the mail man.
"I'm here, aren't I?" Matthew said, getting impatient.
The mailman rose his bloodstained hand and hovered it over all of the elevators buttons, all representing a different level of the warehouses basement, all flickered out besides the very last one. All six of them representing a floor where Matthew experienced pleasure he couldn't ever imagine. A pleasure he could only experience once and never come back to again. A pleasure only getting more vivid then the last. A pleasure that made real life seem less real.
The mailman told him the rules.
Once he had left one level, he was only to go to the level below it.
Matthew was on the last level.
***
Zack rolled out his bag of coke on the bathroom sink. He looked in his pocket for something to cut it into lines with. Markus, his cohort, was babbling about shit Zack couldn't really comprehend. This bag was way less then he was used to.
"Hey, wheres Matthew?" Markus asked fidgeting with an pen he had on hand
"I told you man" Zack pulled out a card from his blazer pocket; too thin an flimsy to be a credit card, but just thick enough to be used as a tool. It felt laminated, but it was the size of a business card. "He quit to become a mailman" Zack laughed, "I don't get it, Matthew was a really killer attorney, man, but he just didn't show up for work a couple weeks back." Zack went back to cutting lines with the card "Last I heard he was a fucking mailman"
"Fucking bozo" Markus said. Snorting a line. "Hey, whatever happened that intern... whats. whats her name?"
"Molly" Zack replied, rubbing his nose.
"Yeah, does she get the spot? I mean Matthew's spot?"
"No" Zack let out a laugh a little too loud. "No, dumb bitch went missing" Cutting a sad line, Zack began to notice that this wasn't one of his business cards. The Warehouse it read. Then an address.
"What are you looking at?" Markus asked, only half interested.
These things happen, but they're rare.
***
Matthew rolled out his bag of coke on the bathroom sink. He looked in his pocket for something to cut it into lines with. Zack, his cohort, was babbling about shit Matthew didn't care about and could only half hear anyway.
"Hey Matthew man" Zack mumbled nervously, rubbing his nose "That new intern, Molly, she totally wants to fuck you man"
The way Zack punctuated every thought with "Man" pissed Matthew off. He found a card in his blazer pocket; too thin an flimsy to be a credit card, but just thick enough to be used as a tool. It felt laminated, but it was the size of a business card.
***
The building Matthew was standing in front of was too big to be mistaken for anything else, but the dockside darkness shrouded it, concealed it, made it look almost church like. He read about a building like this a long time ago. His then law professor gave out files for on a case in which he was a prosecutor. He told the class that a man had abducted two children, took them to a warehouse like this, then tied weights to their legs and drowned them alive in the bay. The man said he was drawn to this building.
Matthew had no idea why he was here or why he was opening the door.
The one room was large, larger then what the outside had appeared and there was practically nothing in it. A pallet truck lay, clearly unused for some time, to the side. Straight ahead of Matthew, at the back of the warehouse, was a freight elevator: the only thing lit in the entire warehouse.
***
Matthew rolled out his bag of coke on the bathroom sink. Zack had brought a friend, Markus. Oh fucking great Matthew thought to himself, annoyed I have to share with two cocksuckers today
Matthew brought an even bigger amount of coke the the next day. His dealer was having a party, and even though Matthew wasn't one to party with his nigger dealer he decided to stay and party anyway. He had a really great time, so great a time that some cunt whore got her jaw broken. I don't even think she could see out of that swollen face I gave her by the time she got to the hospital Matthew smiled to himself. Sporting an erection every time he thought about her scream.
***
When Matthew got back to the freight elevator, the mailman with the permanently bloodstained hands was being awfully more vocal then usual.
"You sure you wanna do this, Matthew?" the mail man turned to Matthew and smiled. Matthew never noticed the mailman didn't have eyes. Just sockets.
"I don't remember asking you, fucko" Matthew spat back.
"Just making sure" grinned the mail man.
"I'm here, aren't I?" Matthew said, getting impatient.
The mailman rose his bloodstained hand and hovered it over all of the elevators buttons, all representing a different level of the warehouses basement, all flickered out besides the very last one. All six of them representing a floor where Matthew experienced pleasure he couldn't ever imagine. A pleasure he could only experience once and never come back to again. A pleasure only getting more vivid then the last. A pleasure that made real life seem less real.
The mailman told him the rules.
Once he had left one level, he was only to go to the level below it.
Matthew was on the last level.
***
Zack rolled out his bag of coke on the bathroom sink. He looked in his pocket for something to cut it into lines with. Markus, his cohort, was babbling about shit Zack couldn't really comprehend. This bag was way less then he was used to.
"Hey, wheres Matthew?" Markus asked fidgeting with an pen he had on hand
"I told you man" Zack pulled out a card from his blazer pocket; too thin an flimsy to be a credit card, but just thick enough to be used as a tool. It felt laminated, but it was the size of a business card. "He quit to become a mailman" Zack laughed, "I don't get it, Matthew was a really killer attorney, man, but he just didn't show up for work a couple weeks back." Zack went back to cutting lines with the card "Last I heard he was a fucking mailman"
"Fucking bozo" Markus said. Snorting a line. "Hey, whatever happened that intern... whats. whats her name?"
"Molly" Zack replied, rubbing his nose.
"Yeah, does she get the spot? I mean Matthew's spot?"
"No" Zack let out a laugh a little too loud. "No, dumb bitch went missing" Cutting a sad line, Zack began to notice that this wasn't one of his business cards. The Warehouse it read. Then an address.
"What are you looking at?" Markus asked, only half interested.
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