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"Well now, you have my interest." I walk back to the living room, wiping my hand on my thigh.

"He's out front -- in the green car. I brought him with me, to pick up some shit." She keeps sipping her dainty tea, eyes watching me all during. Testing me, maybe.

"Daisies? He keeps them here?" I wish I had a mug to bring more tea with me, on my adventure. I've decided that the tea was black current. Tasty.

"Something like that." She puts her cup down on the coffee table, at last. She looks at the kitchen, no doubt thinking about making more tea. "Now, fuck off. I've got shit around here to clean."

Taking her words at face value, I bound out of the apartment. I spot Tony duck out ahead of me, in one hell of a hurry. I ignore the people hanging out their doors, in the hallway. A hand reaches out to stop me; brushing it aside, I hear a little old woman ask, "Is the party over?" Another guy stands in my way, and announces, "You are NOT welcome back in this apartment building.. you, OR your asshole party friends." I shake my head, and push him aside. I'm not the menace to their quiet evening, so I feel no personal guilt.

This building is the sort of scummy cesspool that always makes me wish for fire. Old people aside, they're always trapped between single moms with giant litters, drug dealers & their friends; there's always some asshole with the latest music cranked to 11. I can hear that particular asshole, and his shitty rap music. Previous to the latest host of assholes and losers here, you can tell that this was a nice place once, maybe back when it was built. 1963, say. Sheila's apartment, I'm betting, is the classiest-looking inside, judging from the abandoned liquor bottles, tissues, and drug paraphernalia. Sheila's likely had new carpet, before the party; nice leather couches, and a once-working fancy TV. With Jimmy's earnings, he likely furnished her place as a token of his love. Either that, or Sheila's just a classy bitch with bad taste in men.

The doors to the outside creak, in great need of oiling & repair. The lock has been kicked out. The handles hang limply, hanging on their last screws. It's a fight to push the door open; I start to worry about being trapped inside forever.

Something seems iffy -- hinky, even -- when I step out on to the asphalt. The wind whistles threatening tunes, the windchimes chink insanely -- I chalk up this uneasy weather as either a bad omen, or seriously shitty weather. There's no green car, not on this side. I speedwalk to the other side of the building, following a hand-painted pedestrian path around the lot.

Waiting for me are two men. The bigger of the two forks a thumb at his partner. "This is Bill; I'm Travis. If you run, I'll personally take a blunt object to your right knee. If you cooperate, we'll see what happens."

Feeling the air of more ill-will, I stand, dumbfounded. "Where the fuck's slim-Jim?" At this point, I feel the Daisies working their magic again. I decide to sit down, hard. It's for my own good: I don't think I should stand, while I'm shitfaced.

"Forget Jim, chump. You were set up -- start with that."

"Jimmy set me up?" This is puzzling. First being surprise-drugged, now he's got goons to take me out?

"He had a hand in it, sure."

"That motherfu--"

Travis tut-tuts me. "Now, now. Is that any way to talk of the overlord of your future health?"

I don't like this guy, I decide. Him, his crew cut, his fancy jacket, or his smooth way of being in the lead of things. "Fuck off; I just need to find Jimmy, and ream him a new asshole.. especially for sending two two-bit henchmen to take me on."

"You think you can win, friend? Bring it on." He leans on one foot, wringing a wrist loose. He smiles,  a sideways, knowing grin. He's tanned, but not too tanned. Beside him, Bill looks a lot less fancy. Bill's a hick, I can tell. He's dolled up in the same lazy tank top and jacket suit, but for some reason, it's loose on him, and not as spectacularly crisp.

I weigh my options: they all look bad. Bill is a wiry sumbitch, and Travis looks like he'd just have Bill chase me down, so he could stride up and bonk my knee with a crowbar. Maybe Bill's on PCP,  and he's flying on the kind of energy PCP gives little fuckers like him. Maybe Bill's heftier in a fight than I suspect. He's got a small scar in his chin that makes me wonder about that. I bet they both make a good living, fucking with fine folk like me. I don't actually care to find out for certain. Getting up, I teeter back toward the building. Maybe the inside will save me.

"This guy thinks he's a comedian," Travis muses, following slowly.

"Let's fuck him up, right out here." Bill traces Travis' steps. They both trail me across the parking lot, patient.

"Eloquent as always; that's what I love about you, Bill."

I steer my unsure legs toward the road. Maybe I can flag someone down. I'm planning to make a break for it, and get to that main road.