Skullcrack City Read Online Free PDF Page B

used to buy from Hungo then you probably have some kind of proof.”
    Yes—I jumped. “Yeah, he was about my height. Long black hair. He was missing a couple of fingers on his left hand. Usually had a belt with two or three knives on the thing. He…”
    “No, pal.” His patience wearing already. “I’m saying that if you used to get the good shit from Hungo, then you probably have some tweeker tracks.”
    “Oh, well, I always did the pills. I never shot or…”
    “What about your dick?”
    “What?”
    “Your dick. Your junk.”
    He was smiling now. Playing a game. I could feel his buddy Port smiling from his outpost. They were still fucking with me. This was a preamble to a robbery, them regaining compensation for time lost. Watching half a worm chase escape.
    He continued. “What I’m saying is that most guys who buy Silvertops end up mistaking their junk for an enemy at some point.”
    And I laughed, because he was telling the truth and because the scenario was just past the point where even the most strident FUCK IT! WHY NOT? would normally carry me and yet I could feel something insane about to happen. And it felt good.
    So I looked him right in his unreadable all-black dead doll eyes and I whipped out my dick.
    Hindsight would like to mark this moment with a special sticker reading, “All Is Lost.”
    Then we’re both looking down and laughing. There’s a little embarrassment in the air, because it was cold and we were both staring at my penis, but the predominant tone was shock and recognition.
    “Oh, man—you fucked up your homeboy something fierce. Jesus. Shit’s like a hockey stick.”
    Port stepped forward, curious. “Dude, you broke your dick’s neck. Daaaamn. If you threw that thing it would come right back to you.”
    Exactly how long can you stand on a street corner showing two drug dealers your scar-tissue-induced radical penis curvature? The answer is twelve seconds. After that it feels weird.
    But those twelve seconds of busted-up dick made all the difference. It was as if I’d inserted a magical key into their minds and unlocked all the trust in the world. They were going to let me buy.
    Hell, Port even stayed with us in huddle formation so I could safely pull my wallet without being scoped. And the big bearded guy told me his name was Egbert. I knew Port and Egbert probably weren’t their real names, but some childish part of my mind instantly catalogued them as “P & E: My Buddies.”
    And I’m guessing some part of their minds instantly catalogued me as “Customer: Bent Dick Guy.” Still, I had a hard time not smiling on the way home.
    The blocks back disappeared like nothing. I raced to my apartment with six Hex pills in my pocket and anticipation as an engine.
    The night was vibrating with new potential, the beautiful after-haze of adrenaline and bad ideas fully embraced. Ugly thoughts crept in, forcing me to write off a growing list of concerning data: My old dealer gone mad and roaming the sewers; Egbert’s hand—notably short on its middle and ring fingers—reaching out to me with three tiny pill baggies; gas-masked kids dodging conscious thought like a plague; a trafficked tranny more concerned with evading cops than finding love.
    Tried to pay it no mind. Externalities.
    And then I’d made it home. Confirmed Deckard was passed out under his lamp. He slept with an enviable peacefulness and resolve.
    On the opposite end of the spectrum: Me, giddy, a pile of pills singing my name from the coffee table. I forced restraint, grabbing a beer and a carton of leftover kung pao. Flipped on the news and it was more bad buzz.
    “…a second murder in the beleaguered Street of Flowers district. Police have confirmed that both have been listed as homicides, and that the second case shares the same cause of death. Official details have yet to be released, but we spoke with the neighbor who found the body from today’s murder. A warning to our viewers—what you’re about to hear