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  • Steven Smith
  • “Sit down and cool it,” I ordered through the corner of my mouth, refusing to remove my cigarette. I kept my back to him as I walked to the demilune to pour myself a slug of Dr. Gumpus Wainwright’s Discount Whiskey-flavored Antiseptic Serum and Industrial Solvent. “Can I get you a glass?”
    “There’s no time! No time!” The fat man grabbed me by the shoulder and tried to turn me around. The last smartass who tried to get between me and my booze is wearing plastic teeth and shitting through a garden hose, and her face looks like someone took a backhoe to Eleanor Roosevelt. This guy smelled of money, though, and if there’s one thing I hate more than a fair fight with a man, it’s a missed payday. I escorted him to a chair.
    “Lookie-no-touchey, fat man. Sit down and tell me the problem.”
    He sat on the edge of the chair, his back unbending and his head craned upward, like an obedient dog staring at a lonely teenager’s peanut-butter-covered crotch.
    “Now you be a good dog,” I said, “and there will be plenty of peanut butter to go around.”
    “What?”

  • I don’t know whom to trust!!!

  • Dog

    whats sugma hot nutz

    • Dog

      who knows, dear dog, who knows