Posted in Fiction, flash fiction

Dysfunctional Dealers

The Naga

I’m pacing the floors going back an forth, wearing out the soles of my Doc Martens. The anticipation is killing me! “Where the fuck is she?” I ask. Waiting is the hardest part. I get myself all worked up over pleasure that turns into pain, that turns into longing. Here I am, peeking out the window every few minutes. Sometimes these fuckers play games, when I’ve already sold my Xbox 360.

   Communists have more class than my dealer. She’s a trashy transplant from Beechview, currently residing in Andy Warhol’s old neighborhood. Some would say garbage can, for which I concur. This trash can move a sought after product.

   Her domestic life makes mine appear to be picture perfect in comparison. There’s always a belligerent argument, debate, over this or that. Roaches in the Cheerios, subhuman living. Her spouse however, holds all the aces, since the orange bottles are…

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