*        *        *

        "Waste of good pussy," Tsang muttered to himself as he fingered Gyp’s picture. It was a shame he had to kill her—bitch sucked a mean dick and all—but business was business. All the pussy in the world—hell, even doin' the Queen o' England herself doggy-style in front of Parliament—wouldn't square Gyps debt. And no way was she gonna come up with the money on time. They both knew it. So why had he given her another 24 hours? ... To fuck her again, that's why. Tsang crumpled up the photo and threw it out the window. "Yep, damn waste."

        But before she dies, I need some smokes. Tsang cut the wheel hard. His black '69 Charger (just like the Dukes drove, except the color—orange is for pussies) sliced across traffic and skidded to a stop in front of his favorite 7-Eleven.

        Tsang flipped open his laminated booklet. Good, the clerk still owed him money. Until he settled up, Tsang smoked and drank for free. It’s good to be the dealer.

*        *        *

        "Ohhhh, shit," muttered the clerk as Tsang sauntered in.

        "Give me a carton o' Reds, bitch, and a bottle o' Jack. ... No, bitch! ... The BIG bottle.”

        "Here. Take it."

        Tsang opened the carton, pulled out a pack, and tapped it on the counter repeatedly to pack the tobacco as he stared at the clerk.

        "Anything else?"

        "Yeah, how 'bout my money?"

        "I ... I don’t got it yet."

        Tsang smacked the clerk in the head, hard.

        "Fuck! Why'd you do that? Take it easy, ok, you'll get it."

        Tsang used a closed fist this time, knocking the clerk off his feet.

        "When?"

        "N-n-n-next week, Tsang, I promise!"

        Tsang pealed the wrapper off the pack, flicked a cigarette to his lips, lit it, and took a long, deep drag.

        "You better... Now, get up and hand me that Sport, bitch; I gotta back one out."

*        *        *
        Ron Santo had dreamt of this moment for years—the Cubs in the World Series—with New York standing between them and glory no less. Fucking New York, what a useless pit, too bad it’s not the Mets. He could hardly wait for tonight’s opener, even though he had to go to some crazy fan’s party instead of watching it from the press box. Stupid raffle. It was all Caray’s fault. "How about a charity raffle? The winner gets to have his favorite former Cub show up at his World Series party," mocked Santo, mimicking Chip Caray’s cheerful cadence. Well, he’d show up for an inning or two, say something funny—people always loved his Brant-Brown-oh-no scream—and then zip back to Wrigley for the end game. He wasn’t going to miss a thing.

*        *        *

        Gyp skipped out her front door at the sound of Brant’s horn.

        Damn, she’s sexy. Brant really needed to get laid tonight, especially after yesterday. Getting caught whacking off in a Santa suit was bad enough, but that photographer had come out of nowhere. Christ, I hope the beard obscured enough of my features. . .

        "Hiya handsome," Gyp said as she hopped into the car and leaned across the seat for a kiss.

        "Hi, baby. You sure you want to do this?"

        "No, but I promised my friend Gary, and I need a favor. The sooner we get it over with, the sooner we can play, 'kay?"

        Mr. Erection had to loan her the money. Otherwise, she'd have to go back to the hospital to beg her grandfather again. She hated hospitals. Besides, he'd just lain in his bed last week when she'd asked for his help, drooling and mumbling nonsense like "big guy" and "holy cow."

        "Fine by me," replied Brant. "But if he or that fucking prick Santo says one thing about '98—'Ohhhh Noooo! He dropped the ball!'—I swear to God, I’ll kill 'em."

        "Sure, whatever you say. Oh, hey, can we make a quick stop? I’m outta smokes."

Go to Installment No. 6

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