Chapter 1. Romance ended in bloodshed. One x One. Private.

[Cortisol]

Private.

[Cortisol]

R O G E R

Roger sat behind the wheel of the 1992 Crown Victoria. White. Slightly rusted. Knuckles wrapped around the leather steering wheel. He shouldn’t be nervous. s**t, on weekends Roger went on hunting trips and gutted animals for their meat and pelts. Something like human interaction shouldn’t be enough to send him shaking like a ******** school girl. He had a 9mm handgun snug in his glove box and a police radio within arm’s reach. Roger reached under his seat and produced a pack of Marlboro reds. He had quit smoking a year ago. That’s what he told his girlfriend. He placed the cigarette between his lips and his teeth. It was the same brand his mother used to smoke. He lit up in memento to his dear dead mother.

They were just prostitutes not terrorists.

His partner had gotten the shits, and had to run to the drug store for some imodium. Roger, being smooth told him to just call it a night, he can handle everything. All he had to do was get them in his car before arresting them. Slap the silver bracelets on their wrists and bring them into the station. Keep them safe and locked up. Sign the proper documents. Allow them to scream, vomit and s**t in the detox room. Then release them the next morning. Repeat. However, it wasn’t that ******** easy. The things that Roger saw were already being to gnaw at his flesh like some tropical virus. Kids…they were ******** kids! The last one he took to the station was fourteen! A baby for Christ sakes.

Roger rolled down the window and exhaled. The waiting game. Tonight was different. The media conducted a survey. Wanted to know the statistics for male prostitution, and assigned ole Roger to do some field study. He wasn’t ******** queer. Having him do these jobs. Bullshit. He pulled up next to the curve. Geared into park. Engine still on. He could ask for directions. If a male prostitute comes up to his window he’ll just apologize and ask for the nearest route to the highway. They didn’t give Roger a crash course in male prostitution slang. He heard of the hand signals in public bathrooms. Politicians fell for those hand signals. But, not Roger. No Roger wasn’t going to be seduced by some man. Roger reeked of masculinity.

This particular neighborhood was different. They were all pieces of s**t that should just be bulldozed to the ground. He heard rumors at the station. About drug trafficking hiding behind rings of prostitution and strip clubs. The biggest drug bust of the century and Roger could have front row tickets if he played his cards right. Which brought Roger sitting in that piece of s**t 1992 Crown Victoria. Sweaty palmed and sucking down a cigarette which he quit a year ago. Trying to solicit a male prostitute. This is exactly where Roger wanted to be at twenty-seven. Perfect.

[U n d r a w n]

C a l e b


The other male grabbed him by the collar and ripped him forward. "Bullshit!" He screamed in Caleb's face. Caleb flinched pulling his head backwards, trying to space himself. "I'm not lying man! Chill!" The hand around his shirt tightened as he shoved Caleb against the wall. "You owe me 4o more!" Caleb shook his head. "I already gave you all of it! I swear to God that's a lot ******** more than half! That's all he gave me!" He screamed shoving his hand away from his shirt. A fist came flying up and met Caleb in the cheek. [********] He screeched moving backwards before throwing a punch back at the other male, Allen. Within moment his head was bashed into the wall and a knee dug into his back as Allen ripped his arms backwards, threatening to break them. "I want my money." He moved his arms, all he could do was struggle trying to break the grasp. "Allen I don't have anymore. I don't have any!" His arms where released and he quickly scrambled to the side. He narrowed his glare as Allen glared back. "Fine." He spat on the floor, taking off his sweatshirt and his shirt underneath. "I don't want to ******** you." Allen quickly stated as Caleb tightly held his shirt and sweatshirt in his arms. "Well ********! I'll just suck your co-" Allen cut him off again, "My girlfriend is coming over tonight. I don't need you, slut." After a bit more fighting Caleb was standing by the doorway throwing on his shirt and slipping his hands through his sweatshirt.

"I'm not a goddamn 2 dollar hooker!"
"You are until you get me the ******** 4o dollars."
"I hate having to ******** strangers two nights in a row!"
"Wouldn't be the first time."
Slam.
The door was slammed in his face.

Caleb was walking down the street and he spat on the curb as he shoved his hands in his pockets as he stormed towards the famous '84th Street' on the lower west side. It was famous for it's drug, prostitution, and gang violence problems. Hell, wouldn't be the first time Caleb bought drugs from that area. He didn't really live all that far from the shitty street anyways. The apartments were cramped and cheap. Basically what someone like him could afford. It scared him though. Having sex with a random stranger from this area didn't sound like fun. Caleb didn't have much shame to loose. Not after all the things he had done. Allen had his little friends, Caleb would visit them some nights and have his brains ******** out. He was usually paid a good amount by the men since majority were all set into their lives and had wives and families. He didn't know why they'd want to waste money on someone like him when they had it so nice. Once a wife and the kid came home in the middle of Caleb and the husband having sex. Within a second the man was shoving Caleb out of the window onto the fire escape completely naked. He threw out the clothes afterwards and slammed the window shut then locked it. There he was, naked in front of the whole city. Not all the husbands were that stupid though. Sometimes they'd just be straight up deranged. One bought out a motel room and left Caleb tied up to the bed. He was stuck there the whole night until the next morning the maid found him naked and covered in sweat and the after smell of sex. So yup, not much shame left to loose after some of the things he'd gone through. Although even he liked to see himself as above being a street hooker. Especially here.

He passed some girls who practically threw themselves on them. There was a group of three, without asking permission one shoved her hand down his pants right there and he had to rip away from them and sprinted around the corner. Geeze, aggressive much? Well... That's how you had to be here, wasn't it? He spotted a white rusted-over car and spotted a man holding a cigarette. Caleb moved over to the car and opened up the door, he brought one leg up and dropped it across the man's lap, going right ahead and straddling him there on the driver's seat. He gently moved his hips back and forth and he wrapped one hand behind his head, tangling it in his hair. He lightly tugged on his hair as he pushed his face forward, dropping his lips over the other man's. Caleb's free hand moved down the other male's arm, and he wrapped his fingers around the cigarette - plucking it from his hand. That would have to be the second reason Caleb didn't consider himself a street hooker. He was damned good at what he did. He lightly broke the kiss, moving his head away from the other male and brought the cigarette to his mouth, lightly sucking on it. He draped his arm over the male's shoulder lightly tapping his forehead against his. He let the smoke lightly slip from his lips. "Where you wanna do this?" He cooed in his ear. If this man was a lunatic he was gonna be pretty ******** pissed off.

[Cortisol]

R O G E R

Roger didn’t lock the door.

His knee was shaking uncontrollably, he was bored not nervous, and just when Roger was about to shift the gears into drive was when the driver door opened up. Everything happened too fast. There were no awkward introductions of hello or lovely evening. Just like a rushed date. Like a jackrabbit in March. Skip the dinner and a movie and hop straight into bed…or an alleyway if you couldn’t wait any longer. The kiss to his lips and suddenly Roger was a cripple. A quadriplegic. The stranger’s lips paralyzed Roger from the neck down. He could tell by the stranger straddling him that this was the male prostitute. Especially, the heat that was being given off by the stranger’s jeans, or was the heat being given off from Roger’s? Could this whore sense something about Roger? Did Roger give off some abnormal pheromone that attracted him? How ******** convenient.

‘Where you wanna do this?’ and that was all the evidence Roger needed before arresting him. That sloppy uneducated sentence pissed Roger off. The correct response was for Roger to cuff him and bring him into the station. However, his mind went completely blank. Within those few seconds of silence when Roger smelled the tobacco smoke that proliferated through those lips was enough time to plant the seed of doubt. Roger’s heart prematurely palpitated. Medical terminology for skipping a beat. With the sudden warmth and feeling returning to his limbs he grabbed the stranger. Grabbed the sides of the stranger’s face, not hard just enough to hold him still, and kissed him back. It was a dirty, sloppy, wet kiss. An amateur.

“Smoking kills, kid.” Roger spoke. No, that wasn’t what he wanted to say. “How about you blow my mind for five hundred dollars? I’m feeling generous tonight, and after let’s go for some coffee I have a few questions to ask you.”

If he wasn’t going to make an arrest he should have pushed him out onto the street. Roger didn’t respond. The logic section of Roger’s brain was shut down completely. His body was acting on its own. A foreign spirit took his place. Sorry, the number you have reached is not in service please check the number and try your call again. Fingers slipped underneath the stranger’s shirt and glided against the warm flesh exploring as he went up his sides. Not here. Not on this street. Not with witnesses. Not with so much evidence. He needed a motel. Some seedy motel preferably one with a lot of DNA soaked into every inch of the room. Roger knew just the place.


Roger wasn’t gay. But he paid for a room at a motel that charged by the hour, in cash; after going to the ATM machine. Roger wasn’t gay but he crashed his lips against the stranger’s when he pushed him down on the bed. There wasn’t love. There wasn’t passion. Just lust. Roger had a girlfriend at home. Roger’s hands couldn’t strip the stranger fast enough. Her name was Lillian. Fingers wondering, exploring. Her family was old money. Tongue wondering, exploring. Everything about her was as close to perfect as possible. Teeth. Nails. Clawing. But, if everything was so perfect why was Roger here? Bare flesh against bare flesh. Sweat. Guilt. Desire.

That’s right. Because the media was conducting a survey. Roger was here because he needed to interview this male prostitute. Needed information. He wasn’t gay. It was just part of the job.

[U n d r a w n]

C a l e b


It wasn’t too hard to tell this man didn’t order prostitutes on the regular. After he asked where the other man wanted to go, there was a long awkward pause. Don’t p***y out... Don’t p***y out... Don’t p***y out... Caleb begged as he lightly ran his fingers from the male’s hair to his neck. Want me. Please, ********. Want me. I need this. Because after all, going back to Allen without his precious 4o ******** dollars would probably mean something horrible would happen to him. The other male reached out pulling Caleb’s face closer and slobbered all over his face. Caleb wasn’t sure if this man was nervous, or simply was hiring a prostitute since he never had sex in his life. Either reason - he didn’t give a s**t because after the, “How about you blow my mind for five hundred dollars?” Caleb only needed 4o. The other 46o dollars was pure profit. Holy crap! Why hadn’t be thought of this before? Allen wouldn’t be forcing him to give up most the money if he didn’t find out Caleb was ******** somebody else! Hell that was nearly a whole month of rent right there. Once the second half of the sentence flowed through Caleb’s mind he couldn’t help but be curious, “...after let’s go for some coffee I have a few questions to ask you.”

Coffee afterwards? Caleb never had coffee afterwards. He wasn’t a fan of doing things afterwards, normally the men were too busy to stay and chat. Most had to get back to their families. However, for five hundred dollars. ”I’ll blow more than your mind.” Hands slipped up Caleb’s shirt and the man felt his sides. At first Caleb thought they’d be ******** right there in the car. However, the man had other plans. They drove to an ATM and he watched from the passenger seat - keeping his eyes locked on the man who looked like he was rushing for his life. Caleb couldn’t blame him because to be honest he was fairly good-to-go himself. He was so preoccupied on waiting for the man to hurry up he didn’t even take note of the shape of the car, the police radio tucked away up front, the obvious signs that he was an idiot. It’s not like his blood was going to his brain anyways.

The man pulled up to a motel and they bought out a room, Caleb rocking back and forth as this stranger spoke to the person behind the counter. Then they were both moving towards the hotel room and Caleb hardly had to move a muscle at first. He was pushed against the bed and his clothing was all removed for him. Wow this man was really trying to get to the good stuff. He didn’t take the beginning slowly in the slightest. Then of course, Caleb did what he needed to do for his 5oo dollars. {Insert all the stuff Gaia would ban me for here}.

He gripped the pillow as he let out a deep breath. His body was sweaty and he felt exhausted. Talk about working for your money. Caleb had never been so motivated to please anyone before. He tried his hardest, each time he touched the man, each sound he made, each time he curled his toes inwards or warm breath he gasped in the stranger's ear. It was all done at his 12o% worth of effort. Caleb took a few moments after the climax just to gather himself. He ran his fingers through his blonde hair trying to get rid of all the knots and mess it was tangled in. He glanced at his clothes on the floor. Then looked back at the other man. He wanted to go out of coffee now? After all that? Caleb was a bit curious when it came to the man although he knew better than to ask questions trying to get to the bottom of his curiosity. When someone ordered a prostitute they usually weren’t doing it because of your looks, brains, or because they thought you were an interesting person.

He slowly got out of the bed and picked up the stranger’s clothes, putting them next to him on the bed before he reached for his boxers and slipped into them. ”Your mind blown?” He asked lightly, double-checking to make sure he did the job good enough. Now he just had to wait to see if the man was serious about the coffee run.

[Cortisol]

R O G E R

Roger was a pretentious a*****e and there was no denying it.

He remembered reading a short story in high school English; written by a poet who married his thirteen year old cousin and died broke and drunk in the Baltimore gutters. The story told the narrative of a man whose sanity crumbles upon murdering an old man with a ‘vulture eye’. His guilty and paranoid conscience eventually overrides him and he admits to the murder in the end. Exhausted and worn out like an old joke that was never funny in the first place, Roger rested on the bed until he caught his breath. It was the first time he had ever been unfaithful, and he wondered how long it would take before Roger becomes overridden with guilt and paranoia. But, Roger didn’t have time to ponder over a dead poet’s works and how it affected his life. Leave that s**t for the English scholars. Roger needed answers to more important questions.

“Practice makes perfect I suppose is how the saying goes. Remind me to write you a letter of recommendation. ” Roger said finally. He didn’t even know his name. He ******** a nameless stranger. He should really consider writing a story and submitting it in to Penthouse. Headlines: Undercover cop ******** male prostitute then takes him out to coffee for questioning. Doesn’t everybody read the articles?

Sitting up he watched the stranger bring over his clothes. They called it “getting” and “spending” terms thrown around for “prostitution” and “male ejaculation”. Prostitution was the oldest profession in the world, and here Roger was paying five hundred dollars for a b*****b that he could have gotten for free at home. Humans were such fascinatingly sick creatures, really. Only…Roger wasn’t like the other filth who ******** other dudes. Roger was different. He was classy, not classic. It was part of the job.

“You’ll get the money after coffee. Humor me until then.”

As much as Roger would have liked to showered and cleanse his flesh of the whore he didn’t want to risk it. This whore was a flight risk, and if you’re a flight risk you’re held in civil contempt and without bail. Roger got dressed and fixed his appearance in the dirty mirror. Good, Roger still looked the same. Nothing had changed. Still egotistically handsome as ever, he didn’t know why he thought he would turn into the hunchback after one night.

“Let’s go. I have questions to ask. Time is money.” Roger said as he snapped his fingers and pointed towards the door. The whole hour of their lovemaking was now totally irrelevant. Past tense. Forgotten.

The diner was one of those themed diners that were opened up twenty-four hours a day seven days a week. A seedy diner fit the seedy motel motif tonight. Roger sat in the red vinyl booth and took out a pad and pen and then his pack of Marlboro reds. The waitress who was as ugly as sin came over with a mug of coffee, said something stupid, and left. Roger uncapped his pen and scribbled on the pad until a dark line of black skid across the white paper.

“Yo.” Roger finally said and forced a smile, as he raised his hand as if to say hi. Introductions were probably necessary now. “My name is Roger, and I’m a reporter. I’m here to ask some basic questions for my expose on male prostitution.” Lying had come naturally to Roger. People were more likely to open up to a reporter than a cop. Environment was also important. People were more likely to spill their guts in a comfortable setting, like a diner or in the back seat of a taxi, than down at the police station in one of the interrogation rooms. This was all basic psychology.

“Let’s see…I’m going to need…your current age, age when you started, reasons for starting…are you homeless…are you on drugs…any STDs…” Roger paused to take a sip of his coffee. Only to spit it out, and make a face. He called over to the waitress and pointed at the mug. “Excuse me…excuse me sweetheart this coffee is cold. I’ll give you twenty dollars to make a fresh pot of coffee.” Roger used the same tone with the waitress as he had done with the stranger. Roger really needed to pay attention in those sensitivity classes.

Roger turned his attention back to the stranger. “Oh, and for a personal reason I would like to know your name.”

[U n d r a w n]

C a l e b


“Practice makes perfect I suppose is how the saying goes.” Caleb raised an eyebrow. Now that didn’t make him feel any better about the deeds he had just done. He knew most men didn’t emotionally attach themselves to prostitutes, but after the sex there was usually at least one: God I needed that. or [******** you’re perfect. or some other form of them wanting to admire him. This man just flat out called him a slut, though. He wanted to make a comment on Roger sucking at sex compared to him, although you don’t say anything bad towards a person who is about to pay you 5oo dollars. You smile and nod your head until it is placed in your hand - then you take off and never see them again.

It only took a second for the man and his attitude changed to pure business. He swore it was like a goddamn button was pressed on this man and he was cleaning himself up in the mirror “You’ll get the money after coffee. Humor me until then.” Er... No. That’s not how this worked. Caleb wanted his money now. This stranger already got the orgasm of his life. Now he was lonely enough to force Caleb into spending time with him?! However, instead of protesting and bitching about how he wanted his money now. He shut up. The lonely man wanted some company, fine. He got it. “Lets go. I have questions to ask. Time is money.” Then he snapped, treating Caleb like a goddamn dog. He bit the inside of his cheek before following after, slamming the door to the room behind himself and spitting on the floor outside. The stranger brought him to some diner he’d never been to before. Caleb couldn’t help but think about all those: Hooker in the trunk jokes you saw on the TV during the ride there. Maybe this man was really just a lunatic who wanted to murder him. He was just sitting on the curb near one of the worst streets in the city. How was he to know what the ******** was going to happen? He couldn’t help but feel relieved after they pulled up to a diner, and not a graveyard.

Caleb followed along and he took his seat nice and snug before crossing his arms watching Roger. A waitress came over with some coffee, when a cup was placed in front of Caleb he just looked down at it. He ******** hated coffee. If it were up to him there’d be hot chocolate or some s**t in there. His eyes darted back towards Roger when he heard the click of a pen. What was that pad of paper for? What the ******** was he doing? He got a sudden feeling of urgency to get himself the ******** out of that diner. Who the ******** did he just ********?

“My name is Roger, and I’m a reporter.” REPORTER?! CALEB ******** A REPORTER?! He forced himself to sit there, he could feel his right eye twitch. Don’t you dare ******** react. Calm. Look calm. His blood was boiling though. He was trying to expose male prostitution. Then he went ahead and asked Caleb’s age, when he started, reasons, if he had a home, drugs, STDs. Caleb could hardly absorb all the ******** questions. He was so caught up on being outraged this man used him as some sort of... Report. Roger was caught up on bitching about how the coffee was cold and he’d throw out some money to get a fresh pot of coffee. He turned back towards Caleb asking what his name was. He stood up and grabbed the cup of too cold coffee hoping it was hot enough to pack a punch. He threw the cup forward, the coffee getting all over Roger. ”My name is Greyson. I’m 25. And I have AIDs. ******** you.” He lied. Every word of that was a lie, normally he gave out that fake name and age for the sake of trying to separate ******** strangers with Greyson, and trying to leave a little dignity left in Caleb. It was a bit psychotic to think about, trying to be different people, it helped though. Of course, Caleb didn’t actual have AIDs. He just threw that in for the sake of being an angry a*****e. Greyson didn’t have AIDs either. It helped comfort him when he could tell himself Greyson was the one who was humiliated. Greyson was the one who got ******** last night. Greyson was the one who gave that b*****b and got tied against the bed. Not Caleb.

He couldn’t stop beating himself up over this. No wonder he left the clients towards Allen. Allen was right, ********! Allen was ******** right! Caleb hated that. ”WAY TO ******** PROSTITUTES AS PART OF YOUR JOB. REALLY, NICE WORK!” He screamed, this time louder as an attempt to draw some attention towards Roger. He wanted to humiliate him in public. If he wanted to expose male prostitution he could ******** do it through someone else. With those words Caleb turned around and quickly walked out of the diner. He didn’t even know where the ******** the diner was, he was too caught up on worrying over ending up dead in Roger’s trunk to pay attention to the directions. He thought he had a sense of where they came from, though. He quickly began to move his lengthy body down the street. Allen was going to rip Caleb a new a*****e next time he saw him. Caleb thought about trying to find someone else he could let ******** him, but he was exhausted and sore as it was. He didn't want to feel like he was being ripped in half. Let alone going back to that ******** street. Knowing his luck he'd probably run into another lunatic who would kill him.

Maybe he could just rob someone on his way home. Jumping someone would be easy enough. Maybe if it was a woman at least, he didn't exactly have a switchblade on him at the moment. Threatening wouldn't work so he figured taking a cheap shot on some chick on his way home would be his best bet.

[Cortisol]

R O G E R

Then again, sometimes, reporters were treated just as shitty and suspicious as police officers. It was a lose-lose situation. Roger figured a reporter was lesser of the two evils.

It wasn’t the first time that Roger’s emotional indifference caused somebody to react so violently as to pour a beverage on him. Usually, it was something cold or something alcoholic. Actually, the response jarred Roger internally. Like cologne the coffee stuck to his flesh and covered up the stench of sex. He expected the stranger to punch him in the nose. A broken nose would be an equal punishment for Roger’s attitude, and perfectly acceptable. Without skipping a beat the not reacting Roger leaned over and began to pluck the recycled napkins from the silver canister; while the stranger, who called himself Greyson, began screaming. Roger cleaned his face but the liquid soaked into his shirt and coat and pants. He looked down at his crotch. Perfect. Looked like he pissed himself.

A broken nose was masculine. A wet crotch was just humiliating. He would rather have a broken nose. Can we have a redo?

Roger opened his mouth to say something, anything to calm the other down, but like a race horse he was off at the sound of an imaginary gun; leaving Roger at the starting line. Roger should have just ended it right then and there. He should have apologized to the customers and waitresses, and gotten into his 1992 Crown Victoria where he would have returned to the station to shower and change his clothes before going back out. The punctual and tactful and responsible Roger would have done just that, but, his organs were still jarred. He didn’t understand it himself, but he was running now. Roger saw him, the whore---no he had a name now---he saw Greyson up ahead. Blonde hair. Jacket---er jackpot. Roger never forgot a face.


He grabbed onto Greyson’s arm and slammed him up against the wall. That wasn’t his intention at all. His police training kicked in and exploded and manifested into pinning him to the wall with one hand while the other hand reached for his gun. Normally he would have reached for his gun; which was in the glove compartment of his shitty, slightly rusted vehicle. A wallet would do in this situation. “Let’s see…is at that ‘Greyson’ spelled with an “e” or an “a”? That question would have been bothering me for weeks slowly eating away at my sanity. You see spelling counts and all.”

Pulling out the wallet he released Greyson. “I’ll give you a lesson in vocabulary, Greyson. A prostitute is someone who ******** for money. In order to turn your statement into a truth value I would have to pay you, correct?” Roger than grabbed Greyson’s hand and placed the wad of bills into his palm and then curled Greyson’s fingers around the money; just in case he forgot how to hold things. Putting his wallet back into his pocket Roger put his hands up and backed away slowly. The universal 'I surrender' pose.

Then Roger did the unthinkable. He stood on the stage. Looked the camera in the face and lied through his teeth. Using all the correct emotions he learned to feign. However, Roger didn’t want to admit that most of the lies he said were true. “Listen, my younger sister…got into drugs when she was fifteen. Met some casanova b*****d who got her addicted to smack. He began pimping her out…the police found her butchered in the alleyway when she was sixteen. I’m sorry. I just wanted to know some information.” Lies. Lies. Truth. Truth. What were the lies and what were the truths? That's what being a cop is all about.

Roger was in too deep. He should have just stayed back at that ******** dinner and drank his ******** coffee and have a lovely ******** evening. This was that pivotal moment that Roger would smash his head against the wall over and over when he looked back at his life. He had to think quick. Had to cement everything smoothly before something else came up and ******** imprinted it forever.

“It’s too late, Greyson. We’re practically in a relationship. I can’t leave you alone now. I’ll pay you, not for your body besides we both know I’m straight, just for information. Think of it as a motivational speech. You wouldn’t go to a kindergarten classroom on career day and tell kids you’re a prostitute…no.. that approach won’t work. Okay, how about this…just tell me what I have to do to prove that I am a trustworthy guy? Anything okay? Lets be friends.”

So, let the lying games begin.

[U n d r a w n]

C a l e b


He turned a corner and narrowed his eyes, spotting a girl walking along. She had a purse in her hands and Caleb already knew that’s what he wanted. He took a step forward when all of a sudden his arm was grabbed and Caleb was being thrown up against the wall. ”Ooaf!” He screamed out as he hit against it. It was ******** Roger. Now this ******** was stalking him?! Caleb spat out right towards Roger’s face. ”Leave me alone you b***h!” Roger casually began asking if Greyson was spelled with an e or an a. Caleb just narrowed his eyes glaring at the other male. [******** off.” He barked as Roger stayed calm, taking out the money and explaining to Caleb what a prostitute meant like he was some goddamn idiot. He shoved the money in his pocket, still glaring towards Roger. Of course the male felt the need to break down and tell him his stupid story. Caleb didn’t give a s**t about his sister, nor did he give a s**t about Roger, or the b*****d who got her addicted to heroin and sold her off. Tough luck, but that’s how the ******** world worked. Caleb wasn’t exactly interested in normal feelings, or caring for other people. He had a brother himself, who he hadn’t spoke to in months. His parents hadn’t spoken to him in years. Caleb wasn’t great at holding relationships. Why would he give a s**t about someone he didn’t even know? He crossed his arms, waiting for the man to say: Sorry for tricking you into ******** a retarded reporter you don’t want to be involved with. I’ll leave you alone forever now. He didn’t say any of that. Roger said the complete opposite. “It’s too late, Greyson...”

The offer was a lot to think about. If Allen found out he was anywhere near this guy he’d be torn to shreds. On top of that the money, if Caleb was suddenly having money out of nowhere Allen would take it all, then demand to know how the hell he got his hands on it. It wasn’t like Allen stopped him from living his own life, though. He wouldn’t notice. At least not if he was secretive about it. He closed his eyes and narrowed his eyebrows. Roger continued trying to convince him. Talking about Caleb having children one day, that remark made Caleb want to sock the man in the face for that remark. Roger quickly picked up on this and began asking what he could do to prove he was a trustworthy guy. He wanted to be friends. Caleb opened up eyes, scanning the ground still. He didn’t want to look this ******** in the eyes. He knew he’d end up losing it and pick a fight. Caleb wasn’t in the mood to get any new scars or bruises on his body.

Yup, Caleb was positive this was a horrible idea. No way in hell he was going to do this. He turned his head away and looked down the street to see the woman he was planning to steal from was out of sight. Not that he needed the money anyways, he had just gotten the 5oo Roger owed him. ”Buy me a cellphone, add the number and I’ll think about it.” Caleb said stupidly. He couldn’t help it if he was an impulsive guy. Plus, the world revolved around money. It was really, really difficult to turn away such an easy way to get some cash. If he just wanted information Caleb could easily just make it up anyways. He didn’t even need to tell the truth if he didn’t feel like it. Plus, it wasn’t like he was telling Roger where he lived. Allen gave Caleb a cellphone, but that was basically for... Business affairs. With a second he’d be able to contact this guy whenever he wanted some money. If he ever got fed up he could easily just throw the cellphone out and never hear from him again as well. So either way it obviously worked in Caleb’s advantage. It was weird, having something over someones head. This man wanted insight into the underground world of prostitutes, he need Caleb. He was the only connection Roger had at the moment. So naturally that put Caleb in the better position. He wasn’t used to that. Normally he was the in the shitty position needing to make sacrifices.

”And it’s spelled with an E, dumbass.” He stated bluntly - just wanting to call the man names. ”And like ******** are you straight, you’re a ******** f*****t.” It felt good taking out some pent up anger, even if it was just pushing around this guy with some words. ”And I don’t want your ******** sob stories with your sister or family and crap. I quite frankly don’t give a ******** about anything you’ve been through. Nobody does. Anyone can be a ******** reporter. I could be one easy if I finished high school. You're not ******** special.” He growled out as he finished off his little speech of rude comments towards the reporter.

[Cortisol]

R O G E R

Roger wasn’t a ******** idiot even though he often acted like one.

The woman with the purse. The prostitute who needed cash. It was the perfect mathematical problem with an easy solution. Roger wouldn't let Greyson solve his problem. No! Roger would have never used violence to overpower somebody. Especially, a woman. Roger was never the one to be wasteful, unless his coffee was cold, but ********, even Roger is allowed to have some vices. Not excess violence though. Not excess force though. Just the right amount. He was trained in defensive combat, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t trained on how to bring a man to the ground with a few blows. Greyson spit in his face. ******** lovely. His eyebrow twitched but the reaction didn’t breech the surface of his impermeable blank face. Always the one to be expressionless.

It was okay because Greyson had enough emotions for the both of them. They were already working as a team. Greyson’s attention was distracted by Roger and it was then when the woman vanished from harm’s way. Roger scuffed at the pavement while Greyson closed his eyes. Avoided Roger’s eyes all together. Thinking about the win-win offer that Roger served up on a ******** five hundred dollar platter.

‘Buy me a cellphone, add the number and I’ll think about it.’

“Okay, let me place a call. I’ll have your cellphone ready within the hour, Greyson with an ‘e’.” Roger spoke his tone went up but not by much. It wasn’t like he was exactly excited to have his plan work out not so perfectly. It was just easier this way...right?

Beautiful. Cooperation was truly the most beautiful thing in this world, probably. Everybody had a price if only you can find it. Everybody had a price. Even Roger. Just then Roger walked up to a phone booth a few feet away, it reeked of vomit and piss, and picked up the receiver. It worked. He began dialing a collect number when Greyson began verbally abusing Roger from behind. s**t. Another one. Greyson’s words stung Roger. Boxed his ears in. This kid didn’t even finish ******** high school? Jesus Christ. With the receiver to his ear Roger turned to stare at Greyson. He didn’t give him a sympathetic look. Not even a reassuring smile. Just a raised eyebrow and stoic expression. He stared at Greyson as if Roger was looking at a child throwing a tantrum. Waiting until the child exhausted himself.

If Roger had a quarter of the emotional capacity as Greyson he would have hugged him and enrolled him in a GED program. But, Roger wasn’t ******** special. He didn’t have the right to feel sorry for Greyson. Just because Roger was born with a ******** golden spoon shoved up his a** didn’t give him the right to feel sorry for Greyson. It wasn’t like Roger had a God complex. Didn't want to save everybody he encountered on his day to day life. Jeez.

“Yo. It’s Roger. I’m on my way to pick up the cell phone I talked to you about early. Yeah…clever.” Roger than forced a laugh and hung up. “Come on one last adventure together its a few blocks up.”

Standing outside a pawn stop was a sweaty overweight fifty-three year old Italian, wearing a filthy stained muscle shirt, and shorts cut off at the knees. His whole body covered in blubber and hair and a god awful body odor. When he saw Roger he smiled revealing a mouth full of damaged and chipped teeth. Vinnie was one of those informants that conspired with the police giving them information in return for immunity. “Yer lucky ya called when ya did. Waz ‘bout to close up shop. Here ya go. We still got a deal, yes?” Vinnie said in his busted up English, as he handed Roger a standard looking flip phone. Black.

“Yes, I’ll submit the article on your pawn shop this week. The Pawn King, right?” Roger smiled awkwardly and Vinnie slapped Roger on the arm and spoke as he waddled away completely flatfooted, “Yer good people, Rog, good people.” One of the most important tasks about being on the police force that they don’t mention in the classroom was compiling a group of informants. Roger looked back at Greyson and flashed the peace sign. It didn’t look right because he barely smiled. Like every other social interaction it looked awkward.

It wasn’t just a standard looking flip phone. Instead hardwired with a tracking device that Roger could use GPS to find it wherever it was. The cellphone was virtually indestructible. It could be burned. It could be thrown off the empire state building. It could be submerged in water. A cement truck could run over it. After all of this the cell phone would still be intact. One of those black market Chinese phones. Not available for the public, but available to Roger. After filling in Roger’s information he closed the phone and handed it off to Greyson.

“This is the part where I give you the after school special speech. I put my cell phone number in there. Call me anytime you want to talk, or anytime you want money, and I also put my address. You have all the power, Greyson with an ‘e’. I suppose you could break in and steal s**t…but I’ll warn you now. I don’t have anything worth stealing except maybe my great grandmother’s old tea set, but then again who can really put a price on family heirlooms? Am I right?” Roger still had that dry so very dry humor.

Roger began walking back when he turned around, “It’s been a lovely evening, Greyson with an ‘e’. Next time…coffee will be on you. Call me. Chao.” He raised his hand the same motion he used when he said yo at the diner, then he turned back around and kept walking. This time not looking back.

Roger really needed to separate pleasure from business, really.

[U n d r a w n]

C a l e b


The reporter made one phone call and then when he came back he spoke about how his phone would be ready in the hour. Yeah? Just like that? He crossed his arms tightly, waiting awkwardly as he was stuck around this ******** Roger man who he didn’t want to be stuck around. They walked a few blocks until they entered into a pawn shop. Caleb had only been to one other pawn shop before. He had to run an errand for Allen. He knew pawn shops were illegal in the city, so it was hard to find them. Caleb looked around the shelves at all the things that were for sale. Music boxes, switch blades, a huge selection of stolen jewelry. “Yer lucky ya called when ya did.” Caleb looked up and glanced the man over who owned the illegal store. He wondered if he had to pay any taxes. Maybe he wrote off that he was a different business on his tax reports. “Yes, I’ll submit the article on your pawn shop this week. The Pawn King, right?” Then the shop owner called him a good man. I hope you burn in hell. Caleb thought as Roger was handed a phone. He watched as the other male looked over the phone putting in his dumb information. He handed the phone over to Caleb and explained he also threw in the address. He looked up at the male unamused as he threw around jokes about stealing and family heirlooms. Not that he was surprised the man went straight to stealing jokes, but, at the same time it pissed him off. With a goodbye Roger was walking away leaving Caleb right there in the closing shop. He went in the phone and changed the contact name to: f*****t Face.

He looked at the shop keeper as he slipped the new cellphone in his pocket. The thought of having one for the hell of his enjoyment was nice. ”How do I get to 77th street from here?” The shop keeper nodded his head, “Yeah, ya’ just head over towards that way.” He said nodding his head. “You’re at 72nd.” Caleb sowly nodded his head. ”Oh. Thanks.” Then he moved down the street with a new jingly feeling pocket. He didn’t know how he felt ******** a man for 5oo dollars all to himself. It was awesome, but at the same time the whole situation was confusing as ********. He walked slowly to his house, not feeling like he was in a rush. He walked up the stairs and down the hall, then turned the knob and kicked the jammed door until he opened. Caleb slammed the door behind himself and walked through the small room that was covered in liquor bottles, trash, and clothes. He trudged through the s**t hole and moved to the bedroom. The small apartment was only three rooms, the small living room, a kitchen, and a tiny bedroom. He shoved the money under his mattress and only kept 6o dollars of it in his pocket. He figured he’d give that to Allen now.

He grabbed a subway to the man’s house, then walked along knocking at his front door. ”Allen!” He called out. There was a long pause before Caleb knocked again. ”Allen!” Bang. Bang. Bang. The door opened up quickly. “What?” Caleb held the money out for him to take. “About goddamn time.” Allen stated, he grabbed the money and then shoved Caleb inside afterwards. ”Is she here?” Caleb whispered. “No. Take your shirt off.” Caleb let out a frustrated sigh. ”I’m just going to go home. I’m tired.”

Within 5 minutes there was a fist fight, screaming, and it all ended with Caleb getting pushed down against the bed and stripped down. Then a lot of Ow’s filled the air, along with some Hurry up you’re hurting me!’s. After Allen was finished with him they both just fell asleep together on the bed. He didn’t bother making the trip back home, nor did Allen mention him leaving. All Caleb could think about was Allen finding the cellphone he forgot to take out of his pocket. He'd ask who the "f*****t Face" in his contacts was, then Caleb would protest and say, That's not my phone I swear! I don't know how it got there! Then Allen would say that answer wasn't good enough and beat him up, then Caleb would make up some lie and try to wriggle his way out of the problem. He wished he just left the stupid phone at home. It took him a while to fall asleep, but Caleb finally managed to close his eyes and fall sleep an hour or two after Allen.

[Cortisol]

V A L E N T I N E

Fear, at the primordial level, was the only real human emotion in Valentine’s opinion. Everything else was just conditioned. Hollywood was brainwashing everybody and telling them how to feel, and how to look when they feel. They wouldn’t brainwash Valentine.

The basic survival mechanism and Valentine was drunk on surviving. There was a moment in Valentine’s life, maybe when the gasoline was being poured over his back, did his thirst for survival intoxicate him. The realization that, why should Valentine have to die, occurred. Why was Valentine’s life so ******** worthless that it didn’t matter if he lived or died? Everything changed when the match was lit. The catalyst of survival burned up every moral fiber that Valentine once had, and turned him into a real piece of ******** art. One of those avant garde pieces. A hideous deformed beast emerged and called itself Valentine.

BANG. BANG. BANG. It wasn't gunshots. It was the sound of paranoid knocking.

The sound of somebody banging on his apartment door woke Valentine up; which was just fine and dandy because thirteen years later and Valentine was still reliving that nightmare. That sick ******** Valentine hoped he repeatedly got raped every day all day, repeatedly. Covered in a cold sweat, and delirious, he rolled off the couch, only to trip over a half-naked body. [********] He thought as he caught his balance. His head had the whole percussion section of an orchestra pounding between his eardrums. Throb. Throb. Throb. He hoped that whoever she was wasn’t dead but merely passed out. Taking a five minute recess. He reached the door and peeked through. It was Oscar. The middleman. Holding something close to his chest.

Valentine undid the five locks that kept him in and the junkie babies out. He bought two more locks, but never got around to installing them. They collected dirt on the kitchen counter. When Valentine opened the door Oscar jumped inside so fast that he pushed the door opened, and smashed Valentine in the face with it. ********! While Valentine felt his face for blood Oscar paced around his living room. “I don’t know man…I don’t know.” Oscar muttered as he walked around in circles clutching the thing tighter and tighter. “W-w-ho the ******** is she? S-she dead? She dead? Y-y-ou killed her?” Oscar stuttered as he pointed to the half-naked brunette lying face down on the floor.

Shutting the door Valentine shrugged and threw up his hands, “Not my b***h. Not my problem. Now what do you want, Oscar?”

“J-j-judging by those marks I’d say you ******** her, and if she’s dead that’s not my problem! I’m not going to jail for this s**t. Not my problem!” Oscar rambled and stuttered on. Valentine had gotten used to Oscar’s paranoid schizophrenic ramblings over the years, but with that migraine Valentine had very little patience. Red lipstick and blotchy red marks dabbled Valentine’s exposed flesh. He was wearing a black hoodie that he quickly zipped up and yawned. Just then Oscar slammed down a large metal box on the counter, and Valentine turned to look.

“Not my problem…your problem. Push it…push it all by the end of the month.” Oscar hysterically laughed, and before Valentine could respond, Oscar was out the door and slamming it shut behind. End. Valentine stared at the metal box, and realized it was a lunchbox of Wonder Woman. One hand behind her head and the other making a fist. Tits were still big though. Somebody had a good sense of humor. Turning on the faucet Valentine didn’t bother to get a glass. They were all dirty anyways. He leaned over and took a sip, no, a big ******** gulp until it felt his stomach was going to explode. Cowboy style. With water still dripping down his face Valentine sauntered over to the metal lunchbox. He opened it, and gawked. Jaw dropping cartoon dramatics.

“What is this s**t?” Valentine spoke out loud. He wasn’t expecting an answer. It seemed like the only logical response. The lunchbox was jam packed with zip lock baggies. The powder varied from white powder to gold powder to a brown powder. It reeked of vinegar and band aids. “This s**t heroin, girlie?” Valentine asked as he peeked at the woman still occupying his floor like a decorative rug. “How the ******** am I supposed to push this? Do they think this is still the 80s?”

Valentine ran an underground pharmaceutical company. He sold pills and weed. He sold many different kinds of pills. All pills. Ones that make you large. Ones that make you small. You know how the song goes. Don’t ask Alice…ask ******** Valentine. He sold them all. He sold methadone to junkie babies who couldn’t afford the real deal, and sold adderall to those ******** rich college kids. His clientele didn’t include heroin addicts. Mostly pill popping junkie babies with a dash of weed for your everyday needs. [********. ********. ********] Valentine slammed the top back down and locked it. Valentine ordered pills…not ******** heroin. [******** you Wonder Woman.

Valentine reached for his phone and decided to make a complaint call to customer services.

[U n d r a w n]

H o l d e n










"Oh slow the ******** down. I goddamn ODed last night. Again." He stated as he rolled his eyes to the side. "Stop being a p***y Holden." He narrowed his glance towards his friend. He reached out grabbing the pills looking down at them. Now Holden wasn’t one to turn down free drugs when they were handed to him - although he was feeling hungover, exhausted, sore - and ******** it. Holden always felt like that. He shoved the pills in his mouth, grabbed himself the water bottle and sucked them down. Afterwards he tossed the waterbottle back to his friend. ”What are we doing today?” He asked. “[******** I dunno man. I’m bored as ********. There isn’t s**t to do.” Holden shoved a hand in his pocket as they moved down the street. “Wanna go to the park?” Holden shook his head. ”I ******** hate that place.” He said sighing. He looked up at the sky, getting that tight feeling like his eyes were being sucked into his skull, that usually meant his pupils were getting dilated. It was hard to focus on anything directly and he got that shaky feeling in his hands.

“How about we go to... ********... Why the hell is it so goddamn boring in this city!?” He asked letting out a huge sigh. Holden shrugged. He reached in his pocket and counted out the money he had. ”Wanna get a hit of acid?” He asked. Jason nodded his head. “Yeah might as well.” So, the two ventured off. They sat at some local cafe as they waited for the dealer to free up and meet them somewhere. Took four hours, not like it mattered. The two were high and had plenty to entertain themselves with.

”Hello? Yeah... No that’s fine... Yeah.... Yup... Nah we can meet anywhere.... Now?... Yup give me like, 5 minutes and I’ll head over.” He shut his phone and nodded his head. ”Welp, lets trip.” He stood up and knocked the chair over - you know, just for the hell of it. Then they walked out and moved down the street at a fast pace. “When if the first time you tripped?” Holden looked towards the sky before stretching his arms outwards. By now they were feeling that tingly sensation that felt like your body was getting the chills. Something like a cold day, being stuck in the wind shivering to death. It was annoying, sure, although that was half the reason they were getting something else to distract themselves with. ”I dunno. I was young. 11? Stole some s**t from my brother.” He let out a small chuckle. ”Back when I looked up to the piece of s**t. I wanted to be just like him. Thought it was candy. Tripped my ******** balls off.”

As Holden finished his story of the first trip he went on they approached the apartment complex the dealer claimed to be at. The two boys trotted up the steps and moved down the hallway on the second floor. "Daviddd I'm hommeee." He called out as he twisted the doorknob. They walked inside to see David The Dealer sitting on the couch. Next to him was the guy who owned the apartment(or so Holden assumed). David had a blunt hanging from his lips and the two were viciously playing xbox. "Shut erp an' siddown." David struggled out from his mouth as he tried to keep the blunt from slipping out. He slammed his hands down on the controller before the screen faded to red. "s**t!" He yelled as he pulled the blunt from his mouth and chucked the controller on the table. "WHY CAN'T ANYONE PASS THIS LEVEL?! WHY?!" Holden laughed. "You just suck at this game." He threw down the dollars on the coffee table on top of the controller, reach reached out plucking the blunt from David's hand. After smoking some of the blunt he handed it off and then raised an eyebrow.

"Right, where is the acid?" David gave him a sheepish look. "Alright, my bad. Turns out I ain't got any." He said shrugging his shoulders. He pulled out a baggie and dropped it on the table. "Salvia? Got some of this s**t laying around." Holden and Jason looked at each other, but ******** it. Both were bored as ********. He sat down with the bowl in his hand and after flicking the lighter twice it lit up. He inhaled the smoke and quickly handed the bowl off to Jason.

With the blink of the eye half his brain left like it was shut down. Suddenly all the faces turned black, and smokey. The eyes began sinking into their faces. "HOLY s**t." He darted away from everyone, his body slipping over something and he fell to the ground harshly. Jason - walked forward to help him up and Holden saw it as a demon trying to eat his soul. He grabbed his switchblade and tried stabbing his wrist. Jason jumped backwards. Holden let out another screech before leaving the hell hole and sprinting down the hallway. He sprinted to the stairwell and darted up the stairs. Some poor woman who was walking down the steps was shoved down the flight by Holden. He began darting down the next hallway screeching bloody murder. His body slammed into the wall, then he looked behind him at all the walls melting down and tried jumping through the window - his only escape. His body his the window at the end of the hall and fell right back towards the ground. Luckily he didn't break through. His body which made impact suddenly felt like it was unraveling apart from his body. "HOLY CRAP MY ARM. MY ARM HOLY s**t IT'S GONE! NOT MY ******** ARM! s**t! SOMEONE PICK UP MY TATTOOS!" Could probably be heard by everybody on the entire floor of the apartment complex.

[Cortisol]

R O G E R

Greyson didn’t call. He was ******** dead…probably.
Roger wouldn’t admit to a lot of things.

For example he will not admit that he spent the next seven days worrying incisively over Greyson. Greyson didn’t call. Roger also wouldn’t admit that he called and checked with the Medical Examiner’s Office to see if anybody fitting Greyson’s description was brought in. Greyson didn’t even text message Roger. b*****d. Roger would think if they already did x y and z that Greyson would at least give him a call. Roger probably wouldn’t even mention logging onto his laptop and tracking the cell phone’s progress.

It was no surprise when he walked into the overpriced coffee shop and slid the envelope over that he was told he was officially working off the grid on this case. The man sitting across from Roger was the lead investigator. He opened up the envelope and scanned the pages but when a photo fell out recognition flashed through his eyes. The picture of a man looked hazy. Black and white. Not a professional photographer. One taken from a security camera. Vinnie’s security camera to be exact.

“Who is this?” the man spoke as he showed Roger the photo.

“He calls himself Oscar…” Roger began but was immediately interrupted by the man saying, “He was fished out of the river yesterday morning. Medical Examiner couldn’t rule if it was a drug overdose or homicide. I want you to gather information on him. His prints were in the system. Did some jail time a few years back and got awfully ******** tight with Marcello and his crew of shitballs. I’ll send the documents over to your apartment ASAP. Don’t bother showing your face around the station. It wouldn’t be long before somebody starts tracking your every move.”

“Will I be Detective Roger? Or Reporter Roger?” Roger asked blandly.

“Reporter. Listen kid, if Marcello catches a ******** detective snooping around his territory you wouldn’t be getting off with a bullet between the eyes…Anyways as he contacted you?” ‘He’ meaning Greyson. “No…I’ll have to find...” Roger replied in that same emotionless tone. Only to be interrupted again. “Rose was released this morning. She’ll probably be back on the streets tonight. Make a deal with her. She’ll ******** sing if it means she’ll be able to see her kid. Christ. Every time we get close somebody else ends up dead. Bring me names next time Roger! If I don’t start seeing results you’re getting pulled from this case. Next Thursday.”

It was already nine o’clock at night when Roger arrived at Vinnie’s Pawn shop. The sign said closed, but the lights were still on, and when Roger turned the handle it was unlocked. He heard an unsettling sound coming from the back of the store. Grunts. Growns. Crying. Without hesitation Roger pulled the gun from his back holster and called out to the back. “Vinnie? Everything alright?” What he found was Vinnie’s shorts around his ankles and a prostitute underneath him. She screamed when Roger walked through the door with a gun pointing at them.

“If you would excuse us I have business to attend with Vinnie.” Roger said as he placed the gun back in its holster. Vinnie scrambled to pull his shorts up as the girl clumsily covered herself up. “Oh before you leave where are you working tonight?” What he got was a slap across the face followed by a “Go to hell you a*****e.” It was only then when he got a good look at her. Her tear stained baby face. She was too young. Another ******** baby. He suddenly lost it. Forgot all about Vinnie and his original reason for being here. He followed the girl outside.

“How old are you?” Roger asked. “[******** off.” She said wiping her eyes.
“Do you work for Marcello?” Roger asked as he followed in step behind her. “Are you a cop? Am I under arrest?” She snapped.
“I’m a reporter. My name is Roger.”
“A reporter with a gun? HA!”
“$100.” She stopped moving. Halted. Her fingers twitched. She needed money. Just like Greyson needed money. But she was just a baby. A child. “I’ll give you $100 to have coffee with me and answer a few questions.” She would talk. She had to talk. Roger took off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders.

[Cortisol]

V A L E N T I N E

Valentine sat crouched in front of the open refrigerator. A day had passed since Oscar paid him a visit and left Valentine with a lunchbox of anxiety.

The metal lunchbox of Wonder Woman was vertical and sitting on the middle rack. A staring contest commenced. He didn’t know how to ******** store heroin. He stared at it some more as if instructions were going to pop up. The other things in his refrigerator were a container of olives, and the ingredients to make a dry martini. He was feeling classy that day at the grocery store. ******** what was he going to do with the lunchbox? He let out a raged groan and slammed the door shut. It wasn’t satisfactory. He reopened the door and slammed it shut three more times before turning his attention to the brunette throw rug. She's been there for over a day in the same position. Not moving. He could already smell it. The rotting flesh.

“Hey! You can wake up now.” Valentine yelled as he shook her. No response. “WAKE UP!” Valentine screamed as he rolled her over. Her lips were blue. Foam in her mouth. Skin pasty. Her eyes were open and glossed over. ********. ********. ********. Not again. “No! No! You can’t ******** OD here you ******** b***h!” Valentine slapped her in the face, once twice three times, and shook her some more. He let out another raged animal howl that filled the apartment. “I don’t even know you! Why are you doing this to me? Get out of my apartment!” Valentine spoke as he began pacing around his apartment combing his fingers through his hair and biting on his thumbnail. Panic seizing him by the second.

Valentine was an opportunist. He picked her up by the armpits and began dragging her towards the bathroom when he heard a scream. It scared the s**t out of him and he dropped the brunette and jumped back. Goosebumps bubbling his arms. For a second he thought it was her…for a second he saw a hallucination of the brunette screaming. Jaw unhinged and all horror story b***h. But it wasn’t. He heard the screams again coming from outside his door. Recognized the voice. He opened up his apartment door to verify. Sure enough there lying on his back was Holden. “Dumbass!” Valentine whispered loudly which defeated the whole purpose of him whispering. He turned back into his apartment and when he came back poured a glass of water on Holden’s face. Shock value.

He didn’t know what Holden was on this time, but he didn’t have time to ******** ask. He stepped over Holden and grabbed his shirt before leaning down. “Shut your ******** mouth! Just s h u t u p. Okay junkie baby? Are you trying to get me arrested? Get the ******** in my apartment and kill yourself on your own time!” Valentine was stronger than he looked or maybe Holden made things too easy, but regardless Valentine shoved dragged and kicked Holden into his apartment before locking all five locks. With his back to the door Valentine covered in a cold sweat inhaled deeply.

“We have bigger problems on our hands, junkie baby…like how I woke up to a dead b***h lying on my floor!” Valentine spoke as he motioned his hands to the brunette lying at Holden’s feet.