The raindrops had declared war on the tin roof. As if I needed any help stayin awake. I reached into the darkness till I felt the chain on my bedside lamp and pulled. “Christ thats fuckin bright” I thought to myself as I squinted and gave my eyes a minute to adjust to the light. My pupils finally focused enough for me to read the crooked clock on the wall. 4:37 AM, “guess I’m the early bird today, time to get the worm”. Here I was, Jimmy the fuckin wolf, wakin up in a cat-piss motel, sharin a room with the cities finest cockroaches and fleas. “Livin large kid” I scoffed to myself as I took a swig from the bottle of hooch sharing my pillow. Beleive it or not, I used to be somebody. People used to hear my name and it meant somethin’. Not no more though. Now they just laugh, like I’m some sorta fuckin clown. I slipped my jacket on, grabbed a fork full of last nights rigatoni and went for a stroll. Where I was goin didn’t matter. I had done the last of my smack last night and I had to score another taste of the good stuff. The fella 2 doors down had some decent product but I already had racked up a hefty debt. “Worth a shot” I thought to myself as I approached his door and banged on it. “You up? It’s me Jim”. …..silence. “Wake the fuck up!”…..still nothin. I put my hand on the doorknob and paused. I took a moment to decide how badly I needed a fix. Bad enough. I twisted and bashed my shoulder into the flimsy hotel door, easily bustin it open and I entered the room. “Gimme the shit or shit out your teeth pal” I announced. “Sorry, Not fast enough” I said before unloading my pistol on the bed before me. Fuckin idiot, I finally found the light switch on the wall and flicked it. If there was an award for killin a sleepin guy I woulda won it. I felt a sharp pain in my weener hole and remembered I had gotten a giant splinter right inside my urethra last night while I was trying to have sex with the corner pocket of a pool table. Sure it stung a bit, but it was nothin that 47 consecutive hits of crack couldn’t take care of. I had a lil bit of a heart attack on the bathroom floor and decided I should pump the breaks with the crack and take a nap. Then came a loud knock on the door. I checked for teeth under my pillow…..nothin. I had a feeling this wasn’t the tooth fairy. Faster than I could bust on a juicy titty , 3 cops burst into the room. “I don’t remember ordering pork boys” i quipped, “never been a fan of pigs”. I’d been in the game long enough to get to know most the cops round here, and I know for fact that they knew me too. “Pull ya cocks out and have sex wit each other” I demanded. This was my fuckin city, and I was gonna make sure they understood that. “Aww fuck boss it’s fuckin Jimmy” said one of the officers as he began to cry, “I told you it was gonna be Jimmy boss, for fuck sakes we are all gonna fuckin die here”. He wasn’t wrong. “Less bitchin more fuckin” it felt good to be in control, like a kid watchin his pet fish swim in the fish tank, holdin a handful of batteries just above the water, just bout to nutt. “You with the gray beard” I muttered “fuck the small one.” “Yes jimmy sir I’m sorry Jimmy”. The more scared he got the harder my little friend jimmy junior got. That’s my cocks name. “I’m gonna cum!” Yelled the good for nothin cop. “Strange choice of last words” I chuckled as I reached into my pocket and grabbed my 8 foot bazooka.

For most of you this would be the craziest night of your life. For me……it was just Tuesday. It was me against the world and the world was the underdog. Did I kill em? Maybe. Maybe I had a change of heart and let ‘em go. But then again maybe I ain’t no bitch. I think you know the answer. For a moment I worried the cops might show up, but then I remembered they already did , and I fuckin killed em. I thought to myself “aren’t the cops the good guys? Does that make me the bad guy?” Then I decided I wasn’t a fan of thinkin no more. I grabbed a butter knife and spun it on the table. Whatever direction it pointed was the direction I would go. It fell off the table and landed blade down stuck in the carpet so I dove into the ground hard as I could and snapped my neck. That’s just the type of guy I am , if I say I’m gonna do somethin I do it. Luckily for me I was in a shady part of town that cops didn’t care about, other than the ones who showed up minutes earlier and were brutally massacred. I rested on the floor for 18 months till I could walk again and decided it was time to ditch this place.

Mo money, mo problems, i beleive it was puff sissy who originally said that. He nailed it, truer words have never been spoken. I grew up with jack squat and I hated it. Hell, I remember havin to wear a pillowcase as a winter coat for a few of my younger years. One day I woke and said to myself, “fuck this pillow case, fuck bein laughed at and most of all fuck anyone who has a problem with it”. Failure wasn’t an option, even if I failed I’d just start again, and again , and again till I won. Cause I knew if I didn’t win, I was a loser. I was a fuckin bulldog from that day on and not only did i do alright, I kicked the shit outta anything that got in my way. Kicked the shit outta it, and spit on its fuckin corpse. I’d like to think it was this bulldog inside me that led me to becoming one of the top detectives in this rotting, wretched shit pile of a town. With my success came a bit of extra scratch, real good money. Enough money to buy laziness, addiction and more bullshit than a bull farm with shit on it. Which is a sizeable amount of bullshit. The first 10 g’s was one hell of a feelin, hittin 100k was even better, a million made me think “hey I’m pretty good at this detective gig” and 10 mill made me think everyone was a fuckin joke compared to me. I went toe to toe with devils, jumbo Johnny, that fuckin creep they call the creature and that sack of shit McSALTY. But after all them were outta the picture, after I had accomplished my goal of scrubbing the shit outta the city’s asscrack, I had nothing left to do. Just spare time and enough cash to forget what the word “no” meant. Whores, drugs? Yeah maybe at first but that’s chump change. That’s what street level dope dealers do and they think it makes them some sorta fuckin enlightened wise guy. That’s bus stop shit compared to how deep I dove. The life of a top detective is one rush after another after another and that ain’t somethin you quit cold turkey. Fuck, even say this makes it sound fucked but, I’d buy expensive exotic birds just to chop their fuckin heads off in my shed. I’d buy one of a kind art pieces and light em on fire right in the gallery. This one time I bought a river just to dump batteries and gasoline into which ended up killin millions of people and literally ending 2 Seperate countries. Like ending them, they ain’t on the globe no more. I would search and search for a taste of the satisfying glow that detective work gave me but it had vanished. It was hiding somewhere inside me, but I didn’t have a map for that. First I searched my asshole and although I did kinda like the feeling of my hand in my shitmaker, it was empty. I was deeply and terrible hooked on strokin my fuckstick to the point that my unit started to look like a sweet potatoe minus the sweet. I’d ask prostitutes how much they’d be willing for me to accept to kill them. I’d pay em, kill em, and take my money back. That’s outlawed now but back then it was allowed. I traded myself for money which is a long way to say I sold myself. I farted right into a blind little boys face and knocked him onto his back and permanently melted his ears off. I wish I could end by saying “but it got better”. I’m still that person, I’m still a waste. I fingered either a Dalmatian or a Doberman which led to my arrest and subsequent 2 year prison sentence. I shared my cell block with dozens of killers, maniacs, dealers and chinaboys, nearly all of which I had personally arrested or atleast known. My cell mate was a fella by the name of “Slimy Chico”, he was doing 15 years for pretending to be in the 8th grade. People always ask “and then what?”. That was it he just went about his day to day life tellin people he was an 8th grader. Slimy was a Hispanic fella, tattoo’d from head to toe. Had one leg longer than the other from a bike crash he said. This made him accidentally walk in circles most of the time, it really was sad to watch and I felt for the guy. Slimy made it clear on day one that he didn’t like me, I remember setting my bunk up and him saying “hey guess what? Don’t like ya”. I was hurt but I understood. On the outside him and I weren’t playin for the same team, I was the enemy in his eyes. About a month in, slimy and I farted at the exact same time and nearly died laughing, he shot me. Slimy was like a bird. He was a strange guy to say the least but we slowly bonded. He told me that my name was jimmy, which I already knew. He told me that we were in jail which, yet again, was no surprise.

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