Skullcrack City Read Online Free Page B

possible. I wasn’t a hoarder, but I knew my place gave off a Feral Child Hidey Hole vibe.
    Foyer closet—one pea coat, one snow jacket, three stolen bowling balls with other people’s initials engraved. Oh, and under a pair of winter gloves, my prized “Big Booty Only Vol. 3” hard drive—such a glorious rediscovery that for a moment I almost forgot my search for the phone.
    Under the coffee table? Bupkus. Behind the entertainment center? Some kind of dust bunny civilization creating grand structures from dander.
    Hit the streets? Head to Hungarian’s old haunts?
    I was hoping to make a call first. Verify he was still the right guy. Apologize profusely. Try to defuse any future stabbing urges. Avoiding answering the question, “What is a blood moustache?” seemed paramount.
    Frustration made my apartment feel smaller, the air more reptile-tainted.
    Maybe it’s time to cool down? Are you sure this is the right move, pal? Have another beer. Turn on the television. Check your accounts. Let Deckard out for a roam. Maybe you just need a relaxing weekend. Sleep on it.
    That voice. Always preaching reason and paths of least resistance. The gear pin locking me in place.
    No. I looked at myself in the mirror above my entertainment center. Bloodshot eyes, hunched back, neck tie still in place. Decades would pass—an ever-faster whirlwind of free donuts and supplications and the gradual crushing of whatever the fuck I was supposed to be and night after night I’d sleep on it until one day I woke up in Willy Loman territory with an elderly turtle as my only heir.
    “Deckard, I’ve got to head out for a while. Keep this spot on lockdown, okay?”
    No response.
    I grabbed a can of Hi-Pepper Bear Spray—a vestige from the week after I read Walden and decided I’d redefine myself as a woodsman—stashed on top of my fridge. It was the closest thing I had to a weapon, a provisional measure in the event Hungarian decided I was still persona non grata.
    I turned on Deckard’s heat lamp and dropped in some TetraVit flakes for him. He stared straight at the flat rock corner of his enclosure where half a worm was trying to find purchase on a glass wall. The gutted worm flopped toward me, as if to say, “Hey, buddy, can you help me out of here? I think the big guy over there’s going to eat me.”
    But I knew his situation was even worse. Deckard was full. The half-worm flopping himself to a slow death was the night’s prime time entertainment in turtle town.
    I know it’s irrational to anthropomorphize a feeder worm, but it was an ugly way to end. My heart went out to that worm chunk like he was an elderly woman who had to stop for walker oxygen every third step. I reached in to crush the guy with my fingers. Deckard hissed. I snapped back to the now.
    I drained my stout, threw on my pea coat and left my beautiful brute of a turtle to revel in his homemade snuff show.
     
     
    The moment your car reaches 45 th Street, you lock your doors. Even a tourist who accidentally strays into the red zone can feel it in their bones. This is not a safe place.
    Since 45 th was a major thoroughfare the city council pushed to have it rechristened “The Street of Flowers” and devoted taxpayer money to developing curb planters and medians full of roses and lilies.
    It took the residents of 45 th exactly ten hours after ribbon cutting to strip and re-sell the landscaping. Medians became dealer/whore islands, curb planters became impromptu biohazard bins blooming with needles.
    I had walked to 45 th . I had no car doors to lock in protection, and a pocket full of anti-bear spray so old I wasn’t even sure it would work. My jacket and tie sold me as square, but it also said I was looking to buy. My face wasn’t busted open and my hands weren’t shaking, so the dealers and pros knew it was likely I hadn’t been robbed yet. That made me a mark.
    I wasn’t close enough to the chaos yet to make a venture at Hungarian’s location. The stretch