TFW CH 21: LION WITH A BIT OF SHERRY

A Quitter Never Wins

Lotta music here baby.  No apologies.  Let's go.

You drive.  To truly connect with your vehicle, you may choose to drive bare-footed. Other times, you need to wear them black boots.

Always mind your leather, baby.

Them Shoes   by Patrick Sweany

L I O N

Them Purple Robes from Armed-men-ia fixed themselves in the middle of the desert with nothing to lose, but everything to gain.  They rose into power from investing in two things:  Electricity and water.

Folks will always need water to drink and to grow food, and they also like their power.

The dam and its irrigation canals and the electrical generators that fed the ugly king of the desert with water and electrical power gave them Purple Robes control of Fuckno.

The man in the power truck was a Purple Robe, but quite low on the scale of their totem pole.

Both he and Joey lied unconscious on the tar beside the demolished power plant structure.

But one had a powerful ally.

The ghost of Katheena had come to his aid.

Katheena looked down at the young man before her.  She looked over at the man who lied by the tiny truck that still purred in the darkness, lit only by the red light of the moon rising up in the east.

She knew that he was one of the evil people.  She turned and knelt by Joey.  She screamed into his ear.

Joey awoke with his ears ringing.  His jaw hurt.  His shoulders felt like someone had taken a baseball bat to them.  His knees were numb.  His hands bled at the knuckles, and they held the grit embedded in them that one gets from taking a dive out of the door of a fast moving vehicle before it crashes into a building and cuts off the power to a huge city.

He looked up and saw Katheena.

He about shit his pants.

Walk Idiot Walk    by The Hives

S H E R R Y

The old man wiped his foul tasting mouth on the arm of his nasty overcoat.  He pulled strings of thick drool from his beard and flung them to the floor.

He staggered up from his knees and felt the place spin a bit.  The plastic bottle of vodka fell to the floor and rolled, leaving a trail of clear liquid, to join the drool and the vomitus pile.  He needed to rinse his mouth, and there was only one thing he could see that would do the job.

He lurched forward and gabbed the bottle up and put it to his mouth.  He tilted his head back, and the liquid filled his mouth.  Oddly enough, it tasted sweet to his white-film-coated tongue.  His liver shrank back, but his gullet called for this nectar.

He closed his eyes as they rolled back into his head, and he swallowed.

The heat in his belly exploded out to his arms and legs, and he grinned.  He felt really fucking good.

Sherry was victim number two, and she had walked-in to this old drunk man who lived in a condemned building.

And now, she had his addiction to drive her, as well as those of the man who had killed her.

God Help Her.

She stuffed the bottle into the big side pocket of her trenchcoat and looked around on the floor.

A Walkin will do what a Walkin will.

Walk The Walk    by Poe

S V E N

T U R N S

Sven Slindlivrenn looked down at his hands.

He was a Walk-In, and he had simply followed the light.  He was in a new body now.

The hint, the whisper of an eternity spent in the fires of Hell evaporated before his eyes.  Sven saw that his hands were not without their skins on them.  He’d witnessed their removal from his hands, but now, he was simply amazed.

Perhaps he had somehow become immortal though such an event?

He did not know that he had indeed become timeless, but he missed the mark by a hundred years.

You see, he did not understand that he was a Walkin.  He did not know anything at all.

He thought that he was invincible.

That would be his downfall.

He looked about the room and saw young people all lying about, in sleep.

In front of him sat a candle, and beside it, butane torch lighters and spoons and arm wraps and needles and small plastic bags of yellow powder.

He had awakened in a decrepit room in a forgotten building on the asshole end of the ugly king of the desert, and he did not know what the fuck.

As he stood, he looked down at himself.  He was dressed in the clothing of folks who lived a life of leisure.  God Help you if you laugh at this following description: it was the 80’s.

Sven found himself wearing a velvet track suit and tennis shoes.

He shook his head and swore under his breath.  “Arrrgh, farr degrader…”

He kicked the feet of those around him, but they did not stir.  They were in another place.

Sven assessed his situation.

These were rich druggies, probably spending the wealth of their parents, and they were completely vulnerable to any intruder at all.

This revealed to him two things, which were these:  

He was in a place of trust, without any protection at all. They were out for the count.

He could do as he pleased with them.

Sven smiled.  This did not bode well for his new friends.  He began to search for their weapons.

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

Soothing long time song for you as antidote.

Misty’s Nightmares 1 & 2   

by Father John Misty