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This Nightmare ch. 8
I woke up in the hotel we had spent the night in. I rolled over across the bed and grabbed the watch on the end table I usually keep in my pocket. 7:21 AM. I rolled out of bed and stepped over Fall who was sleeping on the floor and walked into the bathroom. "Hey Larry, how you feeling dead head?" I said quietly to the dead zombie soldier who was leaning against the doorway of the bathroom with his helmet covering his eyes. His name tag said Larry and was a private. I didn't believe he was a seasoned veteran. He looked like a young shangian wolf but his face was horribly mangled to the point where you could barely even tell his was Shangian if it wasn't for the fur covering the rest of his body.
I brushed my teeth and picked at the dried zombie blood still in my coat from my marvelous adventures. I took a shot of my favorite brand of whiskey and took the pipe out of my duffel bag with a dime bag worth of marijuana and packed it into the end of the pipe and
This Nightmare ch.7This Nightmare
The song's bass bounced the heavily armored SUV like a hacky sack on 4/20. I was barely conscious in the back while Fall and Krystal were rapping along with the song by run D.M.C. I love the song but my morphine had me seeing colors and tripping balls. No wonder it was illegal without a prescription. I loved the smell of my shirt that had 'ICP' written across the front. I hadn't taken it off since all this dead head business began a little over three weeks ago. I had one more can of tomato soup in the back seat in between the driver's seat and my head. I reached for the can and opened it with my sharpened claw. I knocked back the can with a loud gulp and throw the empty can into the far back of the SUV. I heard someone say 'He's awake.'. I turned around to come face to face with my best friend of twenty-three years, Fall, "Hello friend." He said plainly as we passed by a sign saying 'welcome to California! Home of medical weed and Germans with deep voices
LatreuophobiaI wash off sick-sweet orange lipstick in front of a mirror as dusty as gothic romances. It tastes like oblivion, that is to say, like nothing my tongue can detect.
The door opens with a creak no private restroom could emulate. Some chick with blue bobbed hair and smeared eyeliner. I looked like that once. Ten years ago.
Getting the beer out of my hair is harder. Some men just can't take it when I'd rather they not kiss my feet or call me an angel or-
“Dayum girl, you look like a goddess.”
I gulp, taste of acid.
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