ISSN 1758-6488
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White Hitachi Fiction |
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“Horn on me you’d hang your coat off,” said Tee-J.
“If you were told the stuff’d make you fly you’d be feelin’ for wings,” said Patrick.
Tee-J sniffed at the palm of his hand.
“That ridey-lookin’ till girl still workin’ at the Maxol, Patch? Girleen with the dick-stud in her tongue?”
I’m on my mat, thought Patrick Mullaney, and that’s that.
There was nothing good coming. Enya’s father would get a lamp on Patrick Mullaney sure as God made little apples. The guards would take badly to word about the crystal meth that was putting the hearts skaw-ways in the crowd below in Roxy’s. The wire-cutters was still in back of the van, he had forgotten to bring it into Doggie, and it was enough alone to put Patrick Mullaney back in Castlerea jail for a stretch. His teeth were falling out. It was greyer he was after getting. There was the situation with the lack of a roof over their heads and the situation with all the chest pains and all the stress. Tee-J’s odds on staying out of scraps were long. There was only the half-chance ever of finding some peace and rest. People were fly-tipping their rubbish everywhere. Oh and the white Hitachi was set fast to its tracks and the tracks led in one direction only. The Hitachi also was making some fairly severe choking sounds. But Patrick Mullaney reckoned that if he got the exhaust sorted on her at all, she’d be one hundred per cent.
