Prelude: Daphne

Prelude: Daphne

Daphne: 

“Eyes open, soldier,” says Boober Fraggle from the end of the bed.

It’s how every day begins, for as long as you can remember.  Boober Fucking Fraggle. Sitting on the end of your bed with those stupid cripple muppet-legs crossed, wobbling around like he has Jim Henson’s hand up his ass.  He stays around for a while, provides some color commentary about your habits or hygiene, and disappears when your back is turned. Asshole.

“It’s almost noon, Susan!” he continues, the smug, fluffy cunt.  He leans over and sniffs an empty bottle. “I think you may have had too much to drink.”

“Fuck you, Boober,” you moan.  You kick your leg out, but he’s gone.  

You slowly become aware of your environment.  You’re in a bed. Mason’s spare bedroom. There’s a smelly, tattooed, sasquatch of a man sleeping next to you.  Jim? Mike? Asshole. The sleeping guy’s name is Asshole. Asshole isn’t quite sleeping. His eyes are rolled back, eyelids fluttering.  He’s got an erection the size of a Louisville Slugger – that explains the ache between your legs – and his hands and feet are twitchy. This happens sometimes.  Your milkshake brings all the boys to the motherfucking yard. Maybe it’s a contact high. He’ll recover. Maybe. Most do.

Mason’s place is on the third floor of a triple-decker on the not-fun side of 8-mile road.  It’s a dump, but it’s secluded enough that he can distribute to his network of dealers from the gutted second floor.  You’ve proven yourself useful enough to get crash-pad privileges. Or maybe it was the milkshake. You’re pretty sure Asshole is one of Mason’s “enforcers”.

You crawl/fall out of bed and stumble around, gathering your clothes.  The jeans, t-shirt, and leather jacket are piled up in the corner. No sign of your combat boots or a scrap of your underwear.  After you’re dressed, barefoot and commando, you go rifling through Asshole’s coat looking for a cigarette, but all you find is a faggoty-assed vape pen, so you lift a twenty off him so you can buy smokes.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.  Just-fucked hair and four days since your last fix.  You take a puff of Asshole’s vape to try to get the spiders out of your head, but you just end up with a mouthful of some strawberry cardamom bullshit.  You resist the urge to shove the pen up Mr. Sensitive’s ass and head out of the room to find your boots.

The first thing you note about the main room is the pool of warm blood your bare foot steps in.  You blink, trying to make sense of it. Your eyes follow the blood a foot or two to Keith. He’s slumped against the wall.  Looks like a bullet went in the back of his head and tore a softball-sized hole out of the front of his neck. You blink, trying to make sense of Keith, dead against the wall.

You look up.

There are five guys in the room.  Black SWAT gear. Closed helmets. Compact automatics with silencers.  Mason is draped across the coffee table like a fucking Greek statue, about a dozen bullet holes in his chest.  That stupid Desert Eagle of his hanging off his limp fingers. The rest of the crew is dead too. Six, maybe seven of Mason’s hangers-on.

The guys with guns are pointing them at you now, and you wonder if they’re going to shoot you, too.  You spare a moment to grieve for poor Asshole, who probably won’t know what hit him. Then you spare a moment taking it back because Asshole gets to die in the post-coital bliss of a proper Epic Cosmic Daphne Fuck whereas Daphne gets to die with her foot in a pool of fucking Keith’s lukewarm blood and her aching cooch chafing against the crotch of her Levis.

One of the Gestapo SWAT Things raises a weapon that doesn’t look like the others.  There’s a click sound. You catch the scent of apple pie for some reason, then you’re laying on the ground, face up, unable to move.  Three of the Gestapo SWAT Things approach and look down on you.

“That her?” asks Thing 1, his voice muffled behind his gestapo-mask.

“Yup,” replies Thing 2.

“Really?” asks Thing 3, as if your being “her” was the most ridiculous thing in the world.

“Hey, fuck you,” you say, but you’re pretty sure it’s only in your head.

“Go clear that bedroom,” says Thing 1.  Thing 3 wanders away.

Poor Asshole, you think, before everything goes black.

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