Did you see Randall Randy with his depixelizer couplet gun and his striped gangrene tracksuit at the arcade? He was pressing some old beige codger to push the button built into the back of his sternocleidomastoid.
Touch it, or I’ll find somebody who will! he screamed into the poor cranky’s ear. The aging bloke had just bet his entire bucket of coins on the number three plastic horse, but Randy’s voice clogged the horses’ hooves mid stride, with yellow number three leading and red number five a nickel’s length behind.
The old man was a hollowed out huffer in a Disneyland t-shirt and fell like an oily feather when Randy grabbed his finger and thrust it into the gristly pentagon soldered into his neck, sending security into paroxysms of nausea, instantly smoking the cameras and exploding the lights, tumbling the token changer machines and disintegrating every digital device in the room, and it was a room the size of an unkempt, ash blue city block.
When an addict has no social support, we all lose, don’t we?
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