70: The Athlete's Foot Disaster Alarm
A snippet from the unnamed fiction WIP.
It was Patrolman Ernie McAllister who’d lit a blunt the size of his thumb. That’s smaller than you might think. McAllister had the muscle definition of a cat tree, and what skin he had was stretched too tight over his bones. The man had showered that morning, and before going to bed alone last night, and he’d laundered the uniform, but not even the prime weed’s burning-rope stink could cover up the mushroomy funk that continually seeped from his hide. He claimed it was hormones, but if Ernie ever got within half a mile of a dermatology clinic the…
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