Things were no different than any other night, not perceptibly. Judas, as always, could use money or a free meal. The club, as always, had more than enough potential sources of either, if he wasn’t too picky about how he’d come by it. The same way as always; it was a calculated risk every time he went looking to expand his client base. A risk of saying the wrong thing to the wrong person, a risk of being asked for a license he didn’t have and couldn’t afford.
Posts Tagged ‘Richard Slade’
People don’t know me, they assume I’m some don’t-give-a-damn punk. It’s the hair, the piercings, and maybe a little bit the clothes. I don’t dress in ripped band shirts and jeans full of safety pins, but it is enough I have to change when I get to school. I don’t really mind; in high school it kept people off my back. Certainly wasn’t my impressive physique; I’m a scrawny son-of-a-bitch and daylight isn’t too kind on rat fur at the best of times.
It was the sort of thing that happened.
Not to him, oh no, it was most definitely not the sort of thing that happened to him. But to other people. It was the sort of thing that happened, now and again. No big deal. Not even the sort of thing one planned on — especially not the sort of thing he planned on, God forbid! — but just the sort of thing that happened. One thing leading to another, and, well… that sort of thing. Exactly that sort of thing. With other people, of course. Not him.