Gary’s on whiz, going buzz-buzz at the bar, talking up fat city bass lines and silky-slick loops. Gary likes Michelle. Michelle doesn’t like Gary. Michelle likes Wozza. Michelle thinks Gary’s a northern horse fucker. Gary tells Michelle he’s the shit, the fucking bomb, best DJ in the East Mids, better than that fat tosser mixing the tunes tonight. Michelle laughs, suggests Gary should remove his cunting hands from her tits. Wozza’s on Ecky’s, fucking lovin it on the dance floor, space cadet city style, arms raised, Jesus Christ, pilled up to fuck. Ecstasy innit. Michelle likes Wozza. Sometimes Wozza likes Michelle. Wozza likes to dance, The Smiths, Joy Division, Iggy Pop. Gary likes Michelle. Michelle doesn’t like Gary. Michelle thinks Gary’s a spasticated pig fister.
Why Do We Exist?
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Literary Fiction, Noir, Pulp Fiction, Short Stories