Third and Spring Garden Jack spat blood on the sidewalk and wondered why he wasn’t already dead. Not that he hadn’t tried like hell to avoid it. He’d screamed and begged and held on to the molding in the stairway, for Christ’s sakes, but the Aryan Man was stronger, and the begging had only seemed to piss him off. He’d been unceremoniously tossed out in the street, with the warning that he never even think about this place again, let alone come back or write about it. Or they’d come for his wife and daughter. Out on the street, which was utterly fucking completely deserted. Which was why he wondered, Why no throbbing? Did the Mary Kates malfunction? “Better move it, asshole.” “Assclown.” “Ass bag.” Throaty laughter. Something rattling around a pair of lungs. Jack turned around. There were at least two of them, lurking in the shadows, about six feet behind him. Crack whores. You know you’ve sunk to a new low when you’re being mocked by crack whores. But as long as they stayed put, he’d be okay.
