Will Work for Drugs Read Online Free Page B

grin until I was fourteen, and then only used it as a rouse to lure lousy dirt boys into bed with me in the hopes of pilfering their wallets. But that came later.
    The aforementioned Fat Freddie Matolla, who sold little old ladies burial plots for their future grandchildren, was hijacking the ante up, trying to force the other monkeys to throw down their cards, slapping happy at his porky thighs, hoping to score a big wet one while chewing on my virgin tenderloin.
    Jersey Joe di Blasco, small-time hood and part-time security guard down at the local bingo hall, was sweating blood. Tongue wagging like a side of beef swinging. The ring around his collar leaving dirt stains on his greasy neck. Mighty Mike Junco was contemplating a winning streak. Defined by his cauliflower ears as ex—amateur wrestler with a federation so small it had only two initials, he was punching the air with a Brooklyn cheer, sitting not so pretty on a pair of tens, grinning like a lunatic. I feared he’d pop a hole in his shit-sluiced shorts, exposing his hard-on which was straining the worn brown corduroy of his high-waters.
    Deano la Martino, a sleazy sad-sack Italian door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman, with a pencil-thin salt-and-pepper mustache used as peanut shell crumb catcher, henpecked to near death by a high-maintenance beauty salon addict and her four intolerable bastard kids, was the only half-humanoid left who could still wager a bet. He looked so morose I thought he had burst his colostomy bag. He struggled with the winning hand knowing full well in order to save face, and in the meantime maybe my ass, at least from the other baby killers, that he’d have to go through with it. He’d have to claim his booty. Me . And off we went to my father’s bedroom.
    I have to hand it to the motherfucker: For a loopy old shit, my dad had it made. He spent most of his waking hours in bed, nursing his “disability,” a bum knee he was still collecting on from a construction accident a decade earlier. He’d be propped up against the natty, floral print—covered, four-poster king-sized bed, stoned on Vicodin, Darvon, and Percocet, jerking off to afternoon soaps, ringing a fucking dinner bell for service, ordering up a triple-decker grilled bologna-and-cheese sandwich smothered in ketchup and a six-pack. When feeling swank he’d demand two Swanson Hungry-Man turkey TV dinners with a back of Jack like he was king rhino at Blue Beard’s Brothel.
    Red-velvet Victorian wallpaper, floor to ceiling, framed a mastadonian-sized dresser with cracked mirror to match. The only women who ever stepped foot inside this loser’s lair left fifty dollars richer. He’d cut their pictures out of the trashy weekly trade papers, get them to autograph them with candy-colored lipstick kisses, and then brag about it later. It even smelled of porno. That cheap fucking pig. Bartering my cherry off for a lousy card game. I could have killed him. It was rumored that I eventually did.
    But back to Deano. He was as sloppy and sloshed as the other four shitbags who were part and parcel of this hideous charade, banging the table with their empty beer bottles, pounding out a weird tattoo. Chanting and caterwauling like a pack of sick circus clowns at a small-town weekend rodeo.
    Deano takes me by the hand, making a dainty little show of kissing me on top of my head, waltzing me around the table, yanking on my striped tank top, revealing my snow-white training bra. Whoops and hollers follow. Jersey Joe grabs a hank of hair and slobbers on my neck. Mighty Mike pinches my left cheek and twists. Fat Freddie grabs once again for my ass. My dad laughs like he’s showing off a prize-winning porker at a pig farm. I cringe, shrink, and forget where I am. I experience my first blackout.
    I come to flat on my back in my father’s bed. The smell of vinegar, whiskey, and shit gagging me back to life. The pricks must’ve carried me in.