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He was dying for a fix, just dying for a hit. He could kill for a fix, just kill for a hit. He could stab someone. Stab. He was off his rocker and he hated it. Nobody ever loved it. Any see you next Tuesday who ever said he loved it was a flaming see you next Tuesday. It had been so long since he'd had a hit that the dogs had stopped speaking to him. They used to say, G'day, Joel, but with dog accents. He had tried to explain it to Samantha one night after they had just had a quicky and were enjoying a PFL (post effing light-up). He had mana...
This story takes place in the future. Should the characters in the story bear any resemblance to people yet to exist, and these potential persons read this account of themselves, please be made aware that my lawyers have assured me that I cannot be held liable to a defamation suit. If the law in regard to this should change against me I hereby retract all that I have said about Dr. Rupert Archibald Malick. His senses came to life every time he entered the room. It was just as if he, Sebastian Semaphore, were newly created. He thought that i...
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