and I’m damn good at it, too.
It’s not something I intentionally do. It’s more or less part of the landscapes I wander seeking relief. They say the best dealers are where the symptoms are the highest. Brother, let me tell you, my pain is very, very high.
I need a pain killer. A big one. A live one. The kind you can’t get from the SFW prescriptions. So, here I go, again stumbling down the backstreets like a resident tourist.
It’s all here. Your ya-ya’s. Monkey hangovers. Whatever cures your ills, if it don’t kill you first. Just one thing. They only take cash and I’ve been out of gas since my forty-first birthday or somewheres near about.
Somethin’ tells me I ain’t makin’ it outta this block alive.