A new job. Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do. The boss isn't so crazy. Not that he isn't, it's just that his is the comfortably normal kind of madness, the kind we all find seeping out like drips from a leaky faucet. The shop is situated right in the middle of the shit in Kings Cross, the red light district of Sin City It seems as though I can't escape this area, as though it wants to suck the blood right out of me, suck me down into the vortex, spinning and twisted, screams drowned out by the gurgling of the drain. So let it.
The huge front windows provide a handsome view of the ugly outside, the junk and mess tossed about by the whims of a sleazy wind. All the drunks on the streets are having a blast, the peakers are scratching at their lips, licking and chewing feverishly, clumps of spittle gathering at the corners of their writhing cakeholes. A young thug slams his fist on the window, pointing out a customer to his fucked-up mates. My boss isn't happy, but I get it. The youth makes a giant phallus out of a long neck; the customer is looking at porn. After a while they move on; better things to do and be done by.
