The Coyote Kings, Book One: Space-Age Bachelor Pad by Minister Faust

Author:Minister Faust [Faust, Minister]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Narmer's Palette
Published: 2011-06-14T10:00:00+00:00

FORTY-NINE: NIGHT OF THE LIVING CREAM-PUFFS

So we’re there already, this new place. They closed down the other one, The Catacombs, after the stories broke about cannibalism, but this new place, I don’t remember if they’re calling it The Hostel or The Hospice, but it’s not bad. An old abandoned walk-up, like a hotel for the chemically challenged. It’s quite nice, actually. If I were a junkie, I think I’d happily live here.

Ah well, six of one, we’re here, I’ve got my piece, we’re fine. The door opens crustily, and all three of us enter.

They could do with some domestic help, honestly. The trash, graffiti, broken vials, cigarette butts, bottles—these I can take. But basically, it’s the stench of human waste that flaps my unflappability. Plus, the people don’t smile enough. I’d like to see a bit more enthusiasm. We are making their dream come true, after all.

“Moog, say ‘Ho-ho-ho.’”

“Har ho HORrr.”

“Merry Christmas, ya buncha shit-shakes!” calls Frosty, full of unseasonal cheer.

“Santa’s brought some gi-ifts . . . . ” I sing. I even flash a tiny vial, just to lift their spirits.

Their shrivelled bodies unravel and rush towards us with surprising speed for people who’ve lost around forty per cent of their body mass. The Mugatu steps forward, and his giant chest and arms all the warning we need. They back off pretty quick, basically.

“That’s so much better,” I say, “isn’t it?”

A woman (?) approaches me. I’m glad she isn’t afraid, but lord could she use some Irish Spring and Scope. Not to gargle with—she’d probably try and drink it. As perfume.

“Zeng, please, please, drop me some Christmas. I’ll Maxwell House you to the last drop, just give me some . . . . ”

Where do these junkies get lines like that? Sounds like some corny thing Frosty would write for her. This one . . . I think I remember this one, now . . . Sharon, or Sharla or Charlene or something. Maybe Tina. Anyway, we helped her out late last year, October I think. She looked about twenty-eight years old at the time. Now she looks like a very old sixty. It’s kind of nostalgic, actually—given her hair colour and her change in build, it’s the shift between young, dewy, starlet Rosemary Clooney and old, saggy, post-career Rosemary Clooney.

I don’t think I can take her deal. I’d better let her down easy. “As arousing as the notion of having my cock turn purple and rot off is, basically I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. Next.”

She sobs and pleads, but I gesture to The Mugatu and he throws her away. I have no idea how this is physically possible, but when she hits the wall, she sounds just like a bag of glass.

“We don’t have all day, people,” I call out, tapping my Rolex. “We’re on a sche-dule. Who’s got real money or quality trade?”

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