*Below I have provided a list of the slang words used in this story. Their origins lie somewhere within the minds of widdled teenagers from Bergen County.

Suburban Dictionary:

Ski- suffix used by douche bags; as in blowski, doneski, suckski, puffski, cuntski, dumpski,

Mon- money

Lo'ed- drunk enough to bone a fat bitch

Block- opium

Yonnin'- yanking someone's dick

Daigens- Nubian brothers

Bone- million $$$

Reggin- read backwards

Runtles- blunts

Mellin- to smell someone's sexy parts; to perform any sort of lingus or latio

Naggin woon- catching snatch

Zooted- fucked up

Bukeness- the act of shitting from one's mouth

Widdle- weed

Wugglin'- high as fuck

Yipper, Snarf- coke

Tics- narcotics

Drugs, drugs- true, true
ORIGIN late Dumb English : from Gay French, or from Fake Latin; True to truth to roof to roofie, which is a drug.

In-out- sex
ORIGIN A Clockwork Orange

Runkle- masturbate; taken from the famed character Runkle on Californication who enjoys to perform such a religious act anywhere he can.

Piddle- piss

Six roper- an ejaculate that spits six times

Ronnie- blow job

Papernag- to place a paper bag over a girls head before proceeding to nag her woon.

Vectorious foolion- Guido jibberish.

Wooner- one who woons


Chapter 13

A Bong, a Body, and a Blowjob on the Beach

And I am driving to my dealer's house so I can pick up an ounce of some Utopia Haze that his brother had sneaked back into the States from Amsterdam via UPS about a month ago, and maybe to indulge in the cornucopia of other narcotics that are currently guests at his not-so-humble abode. His name is—well, I don't know his name, but everyone just calls him Fluff. He is the little brother of some little brother, just another low quality product of three unsuccessful marriages. I met him one night at an underage house party in Hoboken about four years ago; he was fourteen at the time. My friend/dealer/twenty-six year old lowlife working at a pet store in the one-square-mile town, Roc, introduced me to him. Fluff is not book smart by any means but does consider himself a fine connoisseur of stupefacient drugs, especially with regard to the vacuity of useless drug information. From what I have noticed, there is something about having an ardent superiority of knowledge in certain cruxes of history that acquiesce men to sprout proverbial circus tents in their trousers. We all want to be historians, to be experts in some obscure conjecture, to know everything there is to know about one brick holding up a mansion. But postulation is merely preparation for a Sophist's intellectual arsenal, providing them the means to pontificate when they see fit; it is veritably an agonizing pose. And Fluff is one of the legitimate sons of some Internet tycoon who created apposite software that enables banks to converse or some shit. He is exceedingly wealthier than I am, which makes me wonder why he deals drugs in the first place. But for the most part, I do not give two squirts of ejaculatory because his product is always a part of the upper echelon of narcotics.

Every now and then, he asks me to hang out with him; he gets too bored with wasting away in his basement room of his parents' mansion and committing genocide on a piece of three-ply toilet paper, and always wants to go on some adventure, especially when he has the chance to use his father's private jet. We flew to St. Thomas once just because it was a Tuesday. There, we drunkenly staggered to Duffy's Love Shack where he took some high grade molly, which actually helped him overcome the stutter he had for sixteen years of his life—he even goo gooed with a stutter—and was stabbed in the leg with a hypodermic needle by one of the natives, but for some reason he thought the needle felt awesome and he went back to her place where she and her accomplice, a Bob Marley looking dude, robbed him of only four hundred dollars, an eighth of Gush (G-14 and Kush), and a black and chrome Diagono Classic Bulgari watch his father bought him after Fluff received a B in 10th grade Science (possibly Physics). He was only mad about the Gush. I, on the other hand, found myself lying on a beach chair, moaning along the better end of the best blowjob of my life. And I am not proclaiming that the girl had a magic mouth, but it veritably came down to simple environmental advantage. I would consider getting a blowski on the beach, with the moon in full swing, the ocean breeze tickling the goose bumps on my exposed, vulnerable taint, and the stars melting to the pure pulchritude of it all, on par with...well actually nothing. And I do not want to say that she was half-bad at the procedure either; I would marry her mouth if I could.

In addition, a couple of months ago he ordered a chimpanzee from some illicit website he found on Google. I was not able to see the chimp in action but I did attend the funeral after he/she overdosed on several ecstasy tablets it somehow found in Fluff's Reservoir Dogs DVD case. We mourned his death by taking some more of the smiley-faced tablets, an act that culminated in the warm embrace of six druggies on a MediaPad Lovesac with black velvet cover.

I enter the lavish abode and ask him if his parents are home.
"That's a joke, right?"
"Ye-yeah," I say, forcing a laugh.
Laughter is like an orgasm; with enough practice, we can all fake it.
"Come in, man; it's been eons."
"It's been two weeks, bro."

We go downstairs where his room is inundated with excessiveness. He has three LCD TVs—one 108" Sharp television he bought after watching an episode of HowStuffWorks, one 52" Sony Bravia he keeps above his bed so that he can watch porn while fornicating with escorts that have been referred to him by his father, and a 42" Samsung that he keeps in the bathroom in front of his Jacuzzi and elongated, white Breeza warm 60 heated deodorizing toilet (so he can watch the Lakers game while taking a shit) he ordered from Japan after seeing it in an ad in the back of a High Times magazine.

"Sit, man, sit," he says as he grabs the controller and continues his online game of Domination on Call of Duty. "So, what you lookin' to pick up this time," he says, getting down to business, "some more Chocolope?"
"Nah, kid, I want some of that Utopia Haze you just copped."
"Shit's more, you know?"
"Yeah I got the mon here," I say. I must forewarn you that our use of vocabulary is very much fucked, so if you do not understand our vernacular, then just look it up on Urban Dictionary, because God knows he spends enough time on the Internet to add some of his drug-crazed lingo to the list.

"Drugs, drugs," he says while tossing his controller into the vague corner after finishing another unsuccessful game. He then grabs his hookah, which is resting in the corner of his room; he decides to pack the bowl with Sex Bologna (fruit cocktail and mint shisha), OG Kush, kief, a tincture of opium and Royal Jelly hashish.

"Damn, I've never tried block before. Dunno if I'm up for that tonight."
"What? Are you lo'ed?" he says pausing with the Royal Jelly suspended above the bowl. "You're just yonin', right?"
I pause for a brief moment, realizing this is what the world has come to and persist, "Yeah. Yeah, man, Ha, you know it." I fake a smile.
"Good. I hate it when Daigens get all fuckin' worked up over drugs," he says as he places the aluminum foil over the 'I'm done with the world' concoction. "You know, this drug allowed Alexander the Great to establish an empire?"

"Yeah, but it also ruined a country of billions," a small, muffled voice murmurs from the corner. I look in its direction and take notice of a man of about twenty-four years, lying face down, half-comatose, on one of Fluff's expensive divans. Upon further inspection I realize that it is Chode Lobe Guy. Everyone calls him this because no one can remember his real name, and also because his earlobes really do resemble tiny chodes. To put things in perspective: he is Fluff's 'guy on the couch'.
Have you ever seen the back of a twenty-dollar bill...on weed?

"What was that, you lazy fuck?"
Chode Lobes lifts up his head moderately, the enervate slightness of his fat form fornicating the La-Z-Boy couch and utters, "But it also ruined a country of billions."

"The population of China was still less than half a bone when that happened, you rotting carcass," Fluff says while lighting the coal with a blowtorch he stole from some welder during his Thursday trip to Punta Cana. "Before all these bullshit regulations, each drug was considered a gift from God. Before all these bullshit regulations, our leaders, our mothers, our pillars of society used them. Block has always been known as a drug of escape. Now tell me you're not trying to escape from something...because we all are."

"Yeah, well, what are you trying to escape from?" I ask him in an attempt to continue the conversation.
"Monotony" he says, taking a lingering breath, "solipsism, man. Those are the engines of life that every human is trying to escape from." And above the electric fireplace in his basement he has a mural of Timothy Leary as an older man with a poster next to him that reads: IS THERE LIFE AFTER YOUTH? "What are you trying to escape from, you fat fart."

"The army, man, I got real drunk one morning and joined the Marines, man." He chuckles for a moment then continues, "I also got this bitchin' tattoo from some reggin in Harlem." He pulls down the left side of his sweatpants and on the fat of his ass are the words Thug Lyfe! right next to a picture of Danny McBride (Red) holding a shotgun and smoking a doobie.
"What the hell were you doing in Harlem?"
"Trying to get some chocolate lovin" he says as he humps the divan a few times.
"Only in America," I say.

"You know what the most cwaze thing about America is?" Fluff pauses for a moment to wait for an answer to his rhetorical question. And all I can come up with is the fact that sixteen is the age of consent. "It is the fact that marijuana is still illegal."
"Yeah, for sure," I say as I French inhale the 'shit happens' concoction.
"Marijuana isn't illegal," Chode Lobes mouths to the couch.
"Yeah it is, you writhing corpse of Louie Anderson, where the fuck you been? The only reason this fat fart is here by - the - way is because he's my bodyguard. When you push, you need a little protection."
When I push, I am not a fan of protection.

"I just went to a 'moke shop the other day, man...with you. I was 'mokin runtles, mellin biddies, naggin' woon in the district, and gettin' zooted out of my gourd by the end of it."
"Man, that was over six months ago, you sloth."
"What the hell is he talking about?" I ask, now confused.

"He's talking about Amsterdam. I flew him there back in April. Anyway, ignore that camel toe. As I was saying, in Hindu civilizations they believed that Shiva endowed man with this weed as a gift. It traveled from the East to Spain to the New World. Everyone smoked this shit. Herodotus used to set fire to vast amounts of this plant, all bonfire like, and would place a huge tent over the 'moke and hotbox the Greek out of his people. Fuck, even Napoleon, who found it in Egypt, introduced it to the people of France...and they even preferred it to their cherished Brandy because it didn't invoke the bukeness. Once it got to America, people used it for stomach pains, sleeplessness, shit, even Malaria. God, even Queen Victoria used it for curse cramps!"

And I just want to stop him; see, I told you he loves to ramble on about useless drug facts. "Ludlow and other celebrities of the time used it. Shit." He inhales heavily, blows a few smoke rings and rests his back against his Italian leather sofa. "Even the jazz movement embraced it. Jazz and widdle go together like a melody and lyrics. We all have W.R. Hearst and the Great fuckin' Depression to thank for the fact that weed is a Schedule I."

And I add my three cents worth of knowledge by asking, "Didn't Anslinger illegalize it when he was commissioner of the FBN?"
"Fuck Anslinger. He was just an unsatisfied bureaucrat." A great mind, wasted. "Yeah, they always name Anslinger, but I know the truth. Listen, Hearst started the whole 'Marijuana Menace' campaign. Anslinger went to Hearst in utter desperation and W.R. convinced Ol' Slinger that widdle was a revolting, crime-inducing naughty-no-no, especially among the reggin and spic population—no offense."
"I'm only half offended."

"Sure. Anyway, each drug banned has been a result of America's cherished racism. They have cited "uncivilized" races as a reason to illegalize the drug; they use them as scapegoats. With regard to widdle, they used daigens and lawn gnomes because those minorities worked harder than displaced white Protestant workers, even while wugglin'."

He cards a few lines of yipper on his glass coffee table, an act that reminds me of the Snow Balls he used to throw once a month back in high school. Fluff used to throw these sick coke parties where girls would talk much more than they already do (kill us now!) and guys would listen to their balderdash with the hopes of making sweet lust to them; but when they finally convinced the girls to quiet the fuck up and devote their tongues to dicks on tenterhooks, my male friends would curse the yak for rendering their Little Dippers obsolete, then would proceed to initiate fights at beer pong (or beirut—I don't really give two love stains what you call it) tables and start brawls over house rules or other daft bullshit. "Do you want some?" And before I can answer 'no' he says, "Of course you do. Shit, everyone does Snarf, even Mark Twain, Pope Leo XIII and Thomas Edison—all of them drinking Vin Mariani. Fuck, we can invent the light bulb with this shit." I close my eyes and hope that he is not there when I open them—wishful thinking. "This is the champagne of drugs, man. The New York Times knew what's up. Fuckin' Sherlock Holmes even shot up this shit. We all have Asa Candler to thank for this beautiful bumping powder...putting it into a drink beverage—fuckin' genius, man. A shot in the arm, that's what Coca-Cola used to be. There was even something called Cocarettes. Damn, I would give my left nut to buy that at the local 7-11." He snorts several lines, shakes his convoluted head and persists, "Fuck the Harrison Act, man. Shit made the Feds aware of the fuckin' fact that addiction isn't a disease. Those dumbasses unintentionally created the black market for drugs." Chode Lobes picks his restless nose, looks at the green gook favorably, and names it Kermit. "Now we have more than half of our incarcerated population in the daigen dungeon for tics, man."

"Yeah, and that fuckin' 'Just Say No' campaign," says Chode Lobes while pumping his fists but never lifting his head.
"Yeah, brosef, I hated the shit out of that shit, but I'd give Ol' Nancy Reagan the old in-out if I had the chance."
"Haha, I'd runkle all over her face with a six-roper, the whole time shouting 'Just Say Nooo," laughs Chode Lobes.
"Amen to that, my brother. I'd nag her old woon in a nanosecond."

"Ay, I gotta take a piddle," says Chode Lobes.
"Use the bathroom upstairs, this one's fucked up, re - mem - ber?" Fluff says while giving Chode Lobes a duplicitous wink.
"F-that, man, I hate stairs; I'll just piddle in the plant."
Chode Lobes rises from his padded grave, his portly body leaving a permanent impression that brands the expensive divan. And I am wondering what secret is hiding in the bathroom.

"Damn, man, you know what happened to me the other day?" I shrug my shoulders and he persists, " So I was coppin a ronnie from this girl I met a while back in her basement this past Saturday, which is funny because the first time I heard the song, "I was gettin' some head" I was actually coppin' some domeski from the bitch. Anyway, her phone kept going off so she stopped mellin' my melon to text her friend. She texted her: 'I'm sucking a dick, call you later'. Awesome girl—I know. Only, instead of sending it to Christina's Cell she sent it to Dad's Cell because he had just called her to ask her where she was (his daddy senses must have known a druggie's dick was close to his daughter's mouth). When he called her back, she said: 'I'm in the basement' but neglected to inform him of my presence, instead she just said she was watchin' a movie. She looked worried, and told me that if he came downstairs he would prolly try and kill me. I laughed but she just stared at me...so I gathered I was in a nickel of trouble." Nod and laugh, Hayden, nod and laugh. "Anyway, so next thing we hear are the creaky noises of her old ass floors upstairs, bringing an angry and irrational Irish father closer to me and possible death. He opens the door and starts to come downstairs. Meg (the biddie) was about to cry and I was equally upset because she stopped nommin' my dick, and she wasn't half bad at it—" And Chode Lobes shouts from behind the plant, "Not as good as Rabbit." Fluff shakes his head and says, "Not as good as Rabbit, but hey no body is perfect." Smile and smoke, Hayden, smile and smoke. "So, the dad immediately saw me, fully clothed, sadly, and asked who I was. Meg started to introduce me, but I stopped her and did the only thing I could think of that wasn't a karate chop to his pasty, Irish neck. I introduced myself; only I used that gay lisp I am way too good at. Meg caught on and stopped acting like she was just blowing me, although her wiping the drippage from the edges of her mouth didn't help." Cough and snort, Hayden, cough and snort. "The dad's hatred for me immediately went away since I was no longer a 'threat'. I continued talking to him about how I was a log cabin republican—if you don't know what that is, it's minority of gay republicans within the party. The father had an autographed picture of Bill O'Reilly and several photos of Ronald Reagan so I figured if I had to be gay, I might as well spin it in a way where he didn't feel the need to lynch me." He catches his breath by taking another puff from the hookah and continues, "So, in the end, he winds up going back upstairs and eventually to bed and I copped a couple more blowji; it was unfortunately or for some desperate fucks fortunately, that time of the month. Point is: my creepily accurate gay voice, ironically, got me some blowjanskis from this biddie."

I force a rhapsodic laugh—nodding and chuckling, smiling and smoking, coughing and snorting.
"Have you ever papernagged a girl?" he asks without blinking an eye. And Chode Lobes finishes, shakes his junk and finds himself back on his padded home.
"No, no I haven't"
"Man, it's illmatic. Just cut out a mouth hole and maybe some eyeholes—if her eyes are pretty as shit—and you're pleasant."

I fake laugh again. And as I am inhaling the beautiful, narcotic 'forget the truth' concoction he has made, I can hear the sound of gunfire from outside the mansion.
"What the fuck is that," I say now scared out of my gourd—possibly because of the weed—and yet without showing any emotion—possibly a side effect of the opium.

"Shit. Shit. That's fuckin' Badi, man." And I laugh for a brief moment while hiding under his chic coffee table because I remember how his last name is Bader and on every Bar Mitzvah invitation he was addressed as Master Bader. But at that explicit moment I hear another series of gunshots and the drollness that had found solace in my clairvoyant mind dissipates.
Fluff rises to his feet and looks outside the window. "Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck."
"What, man, what?" I ask, praying to Freud it is decent news, but knowing, deep down in the cesspool of my seminal vesicles, it is not.

"He's got two semi-autos, man. He's walking down this street with two semi-autos."
"Why, man, why?" I say while still trying to mask my fear.
"Cause I sold him some yoke cut with mostly baby lax, man," Fluff says, displaying true trepidation.
"Why, dude, why?" I say, trying desperately not to soil my pants.
"Cause I could, man. I do it to almost everyone...except you, man," he says; and I give him a sharp look because I know he has.
"Well, what do we do? Do we call the PoPo?" I say as I look out of the blinds—and sure enough there is Badi, walking down Huyler Landing in Tamibrook with two semi-automatics in hand.
"Nah, yossef, do you know how much shit I have here? It's enough to put us in the State for years, man. I can't go to the Penn, man; I have a small anus."

There are two knocks on the front door that are too loud to be replicated by knuckles so I discern that Badi used his semi-autos.
"Answer the door, man," Fluff says shitless.
"Nah, man. I'm not going to answer the door; this is your house."
"Yeah, but you're not a guest anymore. Don't the chimp times mean anything to you?"
"I never even knew the chimp, broski." I take another breath. "You go get it."
And he shakes his head with an apprehension I haven't seen since my father came face-to-face with that lion in Sub-Saharan Africa when I was seven.
There is a fine line between David Livingstone and Francis Macomber.

"Fine, I'll go," I say fearing for my life, absolutely sure this is the death that the palm reader was talking about. I walk up the stairs, each prepense step echoing my demise. I answer the door without actually opening it. "Who is it?"
"You know who the fuck it is; open the door, dick-lick."
"I'm sorry, dick-lick isn't here; please state your motive of business."
"To murk meller, Fluff; that's my motive of business. Now let me in you vectorious foolion."
"Vec–what?" I like where this is going. "Okay, but no guns allowed. House rules."
"Go fuck your mother."
"Tsk. Tsk. What a mouth on you mister."

And as I open the door, Badi perfervidly pushes through, passed my flopping design, and runs downstairs, guns in hand, to Fluff's room, shouting, "Where is that sunuvatycoon?" I laugh inside because I know that not only is Badi the beneficiary of a ninety-million dollar trust fund from his departed grandfather, he is also a twenty-two year old world-renowned DJ, the type that makes ten gees plus a gig.

I run after him, but halfway down the steps I realize it is too late. I hear a series of shots go off from downstairs. I get to the end of the carpeted staircase and see Fluff's 108" LCD TV in ruins, sharp, jagged glass rests suspended in place still trying to figure out what exactly happened.

"Get out, you wooner. Show your face."
"Um..uh...no?" Fluff says from under his glass coffee table. "Could you, maybe, put the guns down and we'll talk this out like civilized human beings."
Badi shouts, "No, you fuckin' dick-lick," and fires again, this time at his 36" revolving red hookah. As the water explodes out like an undinist in ecstasy, Badi shouts, "Get the fuck up."
"I'd rather not," the scared and completely high Fluff says, "I'm way too comfortable here."
Badi shoots at the edge of the coffee table, shattering the glass and revealing Fluff's vulnerable design. Fluff raises his hands in a surrendering, waving-the-white flag-manner and says, "Don't shoot, I'll give you whatever you want, man, just no more shooting."
"How could you, man?"
"I'm sorry about the baby laxatives, bro; I'll give you whatever you want."
"Baby—lax—no, man, I'm talking about Meg, you dumb pothead."
At this point, the deadhead realizes what Badi is referring to, but still asks, "Wait, what?"

"You think I don't know about Meg, man; I know everything, you log cabin Republican fuck. Where is she?" Fluff looks at Badi with an apprehension that swathes his countenance and shrugs. "Where the fuck is she?" Badi reiterates, this time pointing the semi-autos at Fluff's boyish frame. Fluff, zonked out of his gourd, gives in and guides Badi to the bathroom. I remain in the common room, sitting on the Italian leather couch and involuntarily convulsing, onanizing the cushions with my sad soma. All I can hear from the bathroom is the sound of the curtain sliding open and Badi's grisly gasps as he coughs up something profound. "What - da - fuck?" I silently look into the bathroom mirror at the grandiose pieces of a story tale I can barely witness from my padded purgatory. Badi is standing there with the two-semi autos tucked underneath his arms and wiping his dewy cheeks with his empty hands. Fluff has the neck of his shirt placed over his boyish nose; it serves as a makeshift catcher for his innocent, organic tears. "If you want to kill me, then...just do it. I understand." But Badi says nothing. I can see the shock vomit all over his buried countenance. He does not say a thing; instead, he begins to weep with short breaths and deep sighs as his shoulders tighten and loosen with each exhalation. I decide to rise from my seated grave and enter the crime scene. I gasp as I enter the pretentiously white room. There, I witness everything that room has to offer. The white of the room is juxtaposed artistically with the red of the tub. The inhabitants stand statue-still like models for David. And lying in front of us is a contemporary Marat, a vulnerable, in the buff corpse resting in peace on the marble tub, fully submerged in her own stilly blood, dried ichor dreaming upon the vague space between her nose and lips as well as the tract between the edges of her hands and the bellies of her forearms. The water rises just passed her unabashed breasts; her unwashed yet soaked pubic floss taunting the witnesses.

"What the fuck happened here?" I ask, although scared to know the truth.
And Fluff cries without saying anything coherent, "She...She...over...over...coke..."
"Why does she have cuts on her wrists?"
"I...I...tried...to...to...help..."
"Why does she have fuckin' cuts on her wrists, man?"
"I can't go to jail."

And resting on the sink counter is a note with a multiplicity of scribbles and crossed out words. A faux-suicide note. And after an ineffably long period of silence, Badi regains his virility, points his impractical guns at the axis of Fluff's boyish chest, and yells, "Get the fuck in the living room." Fluff complies and once he leaves, Badi points them at mine and says, "You too, dick-lick." I comply. And Chode Lobes is still "passed out" on the expensive divan.

As soon as we enter the common area, I see a woman of about twenty-eight years standing at the foot of the steps with a .22 aged rifle accompanied by a silencer, the aggressor pointed at me and only me. She has auburn hair and a slightly boyish frame but, for some reason, she reminds me of Arabella. She is dressed in an intimate body suit that clings to her grandest organ like a latex condom—Ultra Thin. "Good job," she says to Badi without moving a muscle in her beautiful design.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What the hell is going on here?" I ask, now overwhelmed by the amount of firepower in the room.
She cracks her neck, again without moving a muscle, and says, "Do you remember Rosa?"
"No," I lie.
"She said you'd be a puto."
"Who?"
"Hands up, chocho."

I comply. Involuntary and hereditary sweat pours from each of my pores with anarchic urgency, gallivanting passed every facial protrusion until they huddle in intimate groups at the edges of my slightly cleft chin, taunting the floor with each collapse and re-congregation. At that moment, Chode Lobe rises from his pseudo-sleep with a shotgun in hand and points it at the hitwoman; Badi has one gun pointed at Fluff, the other pointed at me; I pull mine out as the lady's eyes are preoccupied with the fat fuck on the couch, (a 9mm I borrowed from my father's collection) and have it pointed at the woman, too. A Mexican standoff with authority. And Fluff is huddling in a fetal position, crying at the absurdity of it all. The air is thick with smoke and evaporated tears. The metallic smell of blood and the noxious fumes of death plague the anxious air. The world is silent for a moment, and the only sound that breaks this silence is that of the flatulent leather couch as Chode Lobes switches positions. There is a brief moment where I pray to a spiteful God to spare my insignificant life. Then, Chode Lobes fires his shotgun at the hitwoman without compunction and her gun shoots off into the distance, the bullet hitting another one of Fluff's television sets. The blood sprays onto my naked design with a fervency that reeks of dissolution. Her vulnerable blueprint drops to the floor, her knees collapsing due to fell gravity. At this moment, Chode Lobes cocks his shotgun and shouts, "Thug life!" and Badi shouts, "da-fuck?" Overwhelmed, Fluff shouts, "Da-hell is going on?"

And everyone stares at each other through their peripherals for a brief moment. The silence echoes passed each one of our frames, taunting us with its lack of words. And Badi fractures the silence by saying, "This...this woman paid me two gees to come in here, guns blazing, and scare the living daylights out of everyone."

"Wait, what?" says Fluff.
"Who sent her?" I respond.
"I dunno, man, I just did as I was told."
"Wait, what?" Fluff reiterates.
"What the hell happened with Meg?"
"Wait, what?"
"Meg, man, Meg."
"Did you see how I murked that bitch?" says Chode Lobes.
"Who is she?" I yell at Badi, again.
"Wait, what?"
"I've never shot anyone in my life, man," continues Chode Lobes.
"I dunno, man. She paid me two gees, man. What happened with Meg?"
"Wait...hmph...what?"
"Where'd you meet her?"
"She came to my house and bought an OZ of yip last night."
"I would make a fuckin' ill Ranger," says Chode Lobes.
"Wh—what?"
"And she just asked you to do this?"
"What the fuck happened to Meg, man?"
"Whoa...what?"
"Thug Life!" says Chode Lobes again, this time flashing his pale white ass at us.
"Did she give you her name?"
"Nah, broski, nah."
"Shit. What am I going to do with two dead bodies in my house?"
"Just get your housekeeper to clean up the mess," laughs Chode Lobes.
"Why do you have a shotgun?" says Badi.
"Wait...what?" says Fluff. "Oh, for protection."
"Look at her chest, brah, donzo."
"What am I going to do with the bodies, man?"
"Get me two trash bags; I'll deal with them."
"Where are you going to put them, Hay?"
"Don't worry about it, just let me borrow your car."
"The S4?" says Fluff. "No way."
"Do you want the bodies gone or not?"
"Thug life! Ha, ha."
"I'm just gunna peace; is that alright?"
"Yeah, Badi, get the fuck outta here, dick-lick," I rejoinder.

Badi leaves, Fluff gives me two huge black bags his Mexican landscapers use to trash grass and Chode Lobes smokes a blunt he pulled out of the crack of his ass. "You wanna 'moke?"
"No," I say, "I'm good."

And I cut up the bodies with a sharp saw I got from the garage, place them in Fluff's not-so-spacious urine yellow Audi and take them to a place where things go to die. Where Rosa is quietly sleeping and the marshes are quietly whispering. And a hole is dug. I take them to this place in the ways, where no one can find them and the stink of New Jersey racks the nose of each expatriate. And the Giants are playing, again. And a hole is filled.