The four sat lazily on an under–stuffed couch in a damp basement room, moist concrete walling them in on all sides. Heaps of boxes, piled high in the corner, hosted a wide array of molding clothes, blankets, and fabrics; most stolen from a nearby thrift store during one of their many drug–addled freakouts. A dim bulb hummed from within a gaudy turquoise lamp, cigarette burns dotting the shade. There was a closed wooden door facing them offering the pitter–patter of a gentle rain popping against the other side. A puddle had formed beneath the doorjamb.
“Killer Wheeze, chug me on over another punch–packing sip of your mary jane juice if you can wile away some bounce, dig?” Killer Wheeze, an attractive, young–faced girl, fumbled for the thermos sitting in her lap, and after what seemed a druggy eternity, passed the bottle over to Foochie. Killer Wheeze drifted her soggy eyes Foochie’s way, an embarrassingly gross tooth–filled grin spreading over her face. The braces on her teeth gleamed in the low light, uncontrolled saliva spilling from her lips. “Take the ride, bake the tide,” she said, her eyes closing, head waving imperceptibly.
A sudden bonk on the door from the hand of a stranger did little to interrupt the slow, groovin’ mood of the basement. This bonk was followed by some words.
“Y’all in there? It’s Moochoo, I’m looking to hang, and catch it quick, Rick, I’ve got real sticky fingers, diggy doo?” His voice was muted and flat through the wooden door but his audience was quick to listen as he had brought many drugs for doing! That was what the “sticky fingers” was all about.
Killer Wheeze was on her feet, dancing a wild stroke over to the door, jamming and jiving for the benefit of her audience – all of whom did not notice. She opened the door slowly, like when you think it’s the cops!