Fuck who is that.
It must be Jack, thought Stan.
He got up off his bed. He was vegging over the television.
He had scored some Valiums from Dr. John and was feeling relaxed and euphoric.
Dozing in and out, he only took the pills to take away his anxiety.
He had this feeling that what he gained could easily be taken away from him.
He was sloppy in tying up loose ends.
‘Very sloppy,’ said Kumar, who let himself in once Stan got around to opening the door.
‘I was fucking knocking for five minutes and that Muslim security guard was moments away from blowing my brains out.’
Ahh, Abdul is doing what I've paid him to do, said Stan who was happy to see his partner in crime.
'You just can't be secure enough, hay?' said Stan who seemed to briefly snap out of his wasted state. 'So what bad news do you have?’
'You just can't be secure enough, hay?' said Stan who seemed to briefly snap out of his wasted state. 'So what bad news do you have?’
It could only be bad news. No one leaves Brown Sugar unless they have some bad news.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Kumar, ‘but the Feds have been snooping around. They suspect foul play.’
Stan had to think. Was it about that floater he disposed of in the Chayao Praya River in Bangkok or his recent Houdini act. Now he didn’t really escape death, did he? It was more a JC performance, of rising from the dead. But he wasn’t capable of making such distinctions in his foggy, I'm off my fucking tree state.
Good idea, said Stan, 'now let's go check out that karaoke bar next door, I hear they have some big titted whores, the silicon sponsored by their Korean and Japanese boyfriends. A few San Miguels might help us think straighter and boy, I bet you are eager to spend some of that hard earned cash you made out of me.'
