Different Strokes for Different Folks


“Gimme that horn, yo.”

She was hogging bad. It was my fucking money, even if she was the one who scored.

“Wait your turn.”

The lighter was almost spent, the flame so tiny it was lost in the daylight.

“You better not snuff all that up,” I said, knowing she wouldn’t. For an addict, she was pretty thoughtful. She just hated going second is all.

“Here,” she said, handing me the pipe. I’d made this one from a Bic pen, the clear plastic that don’t melt.

Smoke rolling, everything better, nothing ugly no more.

Just what I was looking for.


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