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| © 2012 zygoteinmycoffee Ink. |
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| THE HUSTLER |
| by Peter Clarke |
| That night, meth saved Frank’s life. Although strictly poison to most casual drug users, meth to Frank was medicine. As a terminally ill old-timer drug abuser and pornographer, so many things were killing him quickly. Only meth brought death with patience and euphoria. By killing him slowly, it actually kept him alive. Never mind the medical importance of sleep or doctor’s appointments, meth gave Frank one last spark of a will to live, which of course is all that any terminally ill person really needs. If Frank hadn’t taken meth after skipping his doctor’s appointment, he would have died. The extra-special dose of pure crystal meth saved him. Just at that moment when the coma was about to otherwise send him to the shit burning cremator for actual fact… His nerves twitched. His vital organs gurgled gently. His eyes flittered. And his libido revved itself into a middle-aged-man’s inclination to take advantage of himself right then and there. And just so he veered back to life. Although sick and shaking, also he squealed with intense anger. He had fallen asleep again. Stomping around his room, he tore up old porn flick scripts and smashed half empty wine bottles and cursed the naked female body itself. On a scrap of paper he scribbled a note as consecrated instructions to himself: “Agenda: Kicking everything into high production gear starting now.” He studied the note and then added carefully: “If I’m not sucking your titty, I’m taking your money. I’m a hustler.” He tacked this note to his desk and then sat down with a profound harrumph. Taking some meth in his arm vein, he swore he would never let himself sleep ever again in this life. |
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| April 2012 |
| 137 |