The Beginning Is The End

The cookie has crumbled. Now let's put the cookie back together again with sex and alcohol.

Busy city streets light up the wet pavement as a fairly innocuous looking gymnasium sits sheltered from all the bullshit and hypocrisy of the modern world, sitting snugly between two palm trees.

The illusion is broken almost immediately once we realise an AA meeting is in session, and demented and destroyed souls sit with idle hands as they lament their pathetic, putrid existence searching for truth and resolution inside brown bottles sold by Mexicans that have a right to be here.

Sporadic applause fills the room as a chubby woman exits the stage, tears welling in her eyes from the attention her ex husband could never give her. She accomplished something here tonight, and the exertion showed.

A balding man wearing denim overalls walks up to the mic and joins in the applause. The name on his tag says Steve, and by God he sure resembles one.

“Is there anyone else that would like to say a few words, or introduce themselves?”

Every pair of eyes start searching the floor for imaginary hundred dollar bills that would save them for the night, and quite possibly until noon the next day if they played their cards right.

A gentleman in the back clears his throat, and calmly walks up to the stage.

About six feet tall, taking into account the extra inch derived from his boots that have a pair of fashionable chinos tucked inside them, which brilliantly contrasts his chambray, oversized t-shirt. All this is draped by an army coloured Bomber jacket that Kanye had merchandized from the Yeezy tour, minus the Confederate flag.

Taking off his sunglasses, it reveals a handsome face lined with small canyons on the forehead and gentle blue eyes that would give you an encouraging glance should you require it. Hairline slightly receding, though it doesn’t deter middle aged women from spreading their legs for a hopeful exchange that, in hindsight, seemed only appropriate back in college.

The male scans the room.

“So, I’ve been coming here for a few weeks now, at the request of my daughter whom I haven’t spoken to in two years. Well, at least I would like to think she would have suggested I come here. No, s**t, I forgot the rules. I know you guys are big on that. My name is Deuces Kendrick, and I’m a functioning alcoholic. Casual partaker in narcotics, too. In case you recognise my voice, I’m also a professional voice over artist. I have sold tampons with my rich baritone, along with elasticised underwear for the gentlemen in the house. My name comes courtesy from my dearest mother, whom I had assumed was an avid poker player, as she had always referred to me as her pair of aces up her sleeve. It wasn’t until a bonding session with hard liquor where she confessed to me that one night, forty two years ago at a truck stop somewhere in Minnesota, that she entertained two hairy gentlemen in the bathroom whom had both of their c***s inside her at once, cumming simultaneously. Those were the aces up her sleeve, and my birthright, as she so eloquently put it. She had considered taking an abortion, but it was too costly a ‘Royal Flush’”.

Deuces takes a swig of coffee, and makes a face at Steve, looking on with either a look of morbid fascination, or he’s battling a severe case of haemorrhoids that only he and his Twitter™ followers know about.

“So, why do I drink and exfoliate my nose with God’s sawdust? My existence is malfunctioning, and the only crazy glue that holds it together, however temporarily, is hobo Vodka and narcotics that half of my thousand dollar a week salary funds. I can only watch my child, Caroline, grow up on Facebook, where she is my virtual friend, as if to punish me for pushing her to the periphery of my life”.

The crowd of onlookers gaze at Mr. Kendrick.

Some nod, whilst others nod off.

Sensing the casual vibes in the room, Deuces clears his throat and walks down the steps, back to his seat next to a fat, black lady with sweaty armpits and plenty of time.

Deuces kisses her forehead.

Steve makes his way back to the stage, and applauds, which is as contagious as Asthma.

The fat, obese, Black lady turns to Deuces and asks him what he’s doing tonight.

“I gotta bail out my lawyer downtown. I should’ve been there an hour ago, but I’m making him sweat”.

She calls him Sugar, Baby and Doll as he walks out into the brisk, Los Angeles air in the middle of winter. It wasn’t snowing, but it was cold enough that the attractive women were covered up on the promenade, and it had dampened Deuces’ stamina to stay functional.

The bond was paid later that night, as Deuces stood outside the copshop, smoking a cigarette. A short, pudgy man in an extremely smart suit emerged from the front door with a black eye that looked like mascara from a drag show. Full head of hair at age forty-six the only blessing in the genetic lottery. His full name is Myles Bernard, but that’s a ridiculous name to be calling anybody.

“I didn’t belong in there. An insult to my character” he coughs as he steals a drag from Deuces’ smoke.

“Don’t f*****g hit women then, a*****e”.

“Correction, it wasn’t physical violence, technically”

“The bail amount strongly indicated that it was”

“No, I was fisting her and then she grew a conscience. Told me she was going to claim rape to the authorities unless I paid her ten grand”

“How’d you get the black eye, Miley?”

Miley laughs hysterically and says that he offered her a grand to keep hush and for her to punch him and claim a domestic violence dispute.

“Went from seventeen years to possible probation in less than ten green backs. F****n’ Amercia, man,” he chokes through laughter.

“I’ll drive you home, Miley, but on the way you have to buy me hobo Vodka. Caroline updated her profile photo and she looks gorgeous,”

“Alright, tough guy, let’s get you cozy”.

They drive through Sunset in a Saab, possibly a ‘93 model. The streets are lined with hustlers and go-getters. Everyone has a destination in mind, though they prefer getting lost on the way there, because it’s a lot more fun to pretend. Blonde goddesses walk past along human trash that sticks to the pavement with a force no black hole could ever hope to dislodge.

A Mexican reading a comic book in Spanish runs the bottle shop. Captain Immigration was kicking a*s on the border until the Dark Spick grew the courage to challenge a beat down. The hobo vodka was on sale, which only sweetened the deal, as Deuces and Miley each stocked up for the night. Two of the most stylish men in a four-mile radius buying the cheapest, harshest s**t that has ever been bottled.

“How’s Cynthia?” asks Deuces, as he drives with one hand whilst unscrewing the cap to his bottle.

“The Alzheimer’s is stable. Stagnate. Sometimes she remembers me; sometimes she throws a plate at my head. Those nights I seek comfort inside escorts,”

“Well, you still look after her. Otherwise, I would condemn you,” replies Deuces with a smirk.

“I got a case at ten in the A.M tomorrow morning. Cop shot a father in the leg so the father stole half a pharmacy to treat the wound”.

“Why didn’t he just go to a hospital?”

“Had ten warrants for aggravated beating the s**t outta his estranged wife”.

Deuces shakes his head.

“Why can’t we just love women the old fashioned way? You buy them flowers, go on a date and make love under the eroding plaster in your s****y apartment?”

“Slow down chief, you’ll get three-to-five years probation if you hit a homeless person not looking as they cross this very dark street”.

“It’s too late for euphemisms”

“I was being literal, Mr. Kendrick, you f*****g racist,” Miley injects matter-of-factly.

After dropping his attorney home, Deuces parks his car outside a concrete apartment complex. Drains the small bottle and throws it in the backseat, where it collides with another ten or so.

Swaying up the court towards the entrance, he picks up some sunflowers from the garden and holds them like an invitation. Inside, he knocks on a door, and as it opens he holds out his outstretched hand.

“I want to take you out on a date, Miss Stevenson,” he says.

An attractive lady ten years ago, Sarah Stevenson smiles in her bathrobe, her facemask contorting like a child’s movie villain.

“You’re very sweet, however I just showered and used very expensive moisturiser that I have no intention of ruining,” she replies through a cute smile.

“Well, in that case, how about I tell you a bed time story as you fall sleep and I gently leave after I suck your toes?”

“That can work. You’re on”

Nude on the bed, she has her legs raised to Deuces’ chest as he massages them with tender hands. A very clean apartment, due to bad choices that has left her unable to create offspring due to her ovaries drying up, with all the framed photographs on the walls of nieces and nephews that she loves intensely for a few hours every Saturday.

“I read the other day that if you drink pomegranate fruit juice everyday for the rest of your life you reduce the risk of kidney disease by 24%”, she says in a very serious tone.

He starts working her thighs, as she shoots him a menacing stare, forcing him to relocate back to her feet. With a smirk, he asks her if she will get back with her husband.

“Depends if he can stop cheating on me,”

“Well, I read a survey that said 78% percent of monogamous couples will cheat if there is no child left to rear,” Deuces mutters over the Soul music playing from next door.

“You’re an a*****e, but you’re probably right,” she quips between satisfied breaths.

“How’s Caroline? Have you made an effort?”

“She sent me a Facebook message a couple of weeks ago asking for money to go to a cosmetic college”, Deuces informs with a nonchalant grin.

“Did you send it to her?”

“Of course, though it made me broke. I didn’t drink for two weeks. It was motherfucking horrible,”

They continue in a pleasant silence, as Deuces works her toes and Sarah places her hand on his. She tells him he has to go soon, which he regards as his cue and gently starts to suck her toes.

The next morning finds Deuces inside his bed, the sheets on the floor and his body shivering. Gentle sunlight forces its way through the vertical blinds and wakes him up, wearily grabbing his head as if to console it from last night’s ignorance. Ripped jeans by Valentino and a Dsquared white t-shirt adorns the floor, and with a spirited effort he puts on the designer items and brushes his teeth.

Grabs a razor and starts to shave the whiskers and dead skin away from his still youthful complexion. Cuts himself above the lip and a few drops of blood fall onto his wrist, next to the vertical scars. He looks at them, and gently starts to rub the blood across the scar tissue, as if seemingly reminiscing of a past event.

Exiting the apartment block with a black Diesel jacket to keep the cold away, the Saab sits in the middle of someone else’s driveway, parking ticket stuck under the wiper.

“Fair is fair”

Work was conducted inside a brick building in Hollywood, somewhere between the undesirables and the more fortunate. Plastic pot plants line the wall, as Brenda works the phones behind a desk made from mahogany, the type of desk crafted from balsa, or pulpwood that over the years has left a small sawdust collection directly beneath it. Upon eyeing Deuces entering the foyer, she promptly hangs up on whomever she was entertaining on the line and adjusts her hair.

She’s fifty-six with change, and her fake breasts that still defy gravity with a cosmic force yet to be discovered. She asks him if he got drunk last night.

“Many things were done last night, Brenda, and drinking only constituted roughly one fifth of my hangover”

“Well, I slept with a nineteen year old last night. Met him on Camrose just standing around with his skateboard,” Branda quips, playing with her hair.

“You never lost it, B. Death is just a number to people like you,” Deuces mutters as he takes off his jacket and slides into the recording booth.

Adjusting dials on his iMac is Tom Krill, a vanilla bean of a man, tall and lanky with a style that suggests he used to be a fluffer for Mumford and Sons, though when he found God he put on a chambray Cardigan and realised that was enough to mask his sins.

“What’s good, chimney sweep?” asks Deuces, with forced sympathy.

“You’re twenty six minutes late,” Tom remarks without bothering to look up from his computer.

Deuces immediately stops when he notices Tom’s outfit, taking off his sunglasses and makes a show of his disdain at the choice of attire currently hugging the controller’s physique. This is important since Deuces’ apartment is filled with Look-books from the leading designers in the world, along with a wardrobe to match, hence the abject poverty once you take into account the glorious amount of coke and LSD taken on a weekly basis. In fact, the phrase “The only way out is through” is tattooed on his rib cage, and he once told an acquaintance “It’s not what goes in that counts, but what comes out”.

“Like a Bratwurst sausage”, remarked the heavyset German.

The point is that image matters to Mr. Kendrick, and that everything else is seemingly a quest to attain a perceived level of perfection of an image, and fashion plays a big part. Hence the current disdain.

Tom looks up and asks an innocuous “What?”

“I have more reason to give up on life than you do, Tom, yet I don’t aim to resemble a sex predator lurking in libraries across America,” Deuces kisses from his lips. Tom disregards the comment and informs Deuces they are working on a voice over for tampons and biscuits for Ralphs, since they are running a midweek sale, as Deuces asks for the manuscript.

Tom adjusts a few knobs on control panel, as Deuces enters a sound booth with a silver microphone just a few centimetres from his chapped lips.

“I’ve been staring at your heart shaped box.. For.. Weeks.. Untie your umbilical noose..”, Deuces sings with a torn aggression usually reserved for malnourished heroin addicts.

Tom mutters he has someplace to be, another recording, another grooming session with a thirteen year old online, which is probably not the case, but with these oddball individuals dressed in brown cardigans, how can anyone be sure?

Besides, Deuces informs that was the first line from script, an ad for Tampons set to Kurt Cobain’s love poem about Courtney Love, whom Deuces remarks must have a vagina that resembles a hedgehog.

“However, her passion for life probably makes up for it”.

The recording session continues without a hitch, with Deuces’ baritone raising an octave every time the price is mentioned, as if to signify a ridiculous level of consumer satisfaction in terms of price. Professionalism is present in this very moment, with a man having perfected his craft to a point where autopilot still produces amazing barrel rolls and death defying stunts designed to stun and awe the commoner, however to Deuces it had all become rather blasé, hence the need for recreational LSD and the pick me up of Columbian Sugar™.

Though it’s often drenched in sarcasm and bittersweet irony, his daughter, Caroline, was last seen three years ago when she ran away from the family home after one of Deuces’ many alcoholic episodes, usually triggered by anger towards her mother for leaving and the odd flashback of a failed acting career that spits in his face every time he watches an awards show on CBS, which is quite often because Los Angeles folk need constant, positive encouragement since they actually don’t do anything.

Regardless, she had fled home and it took Deuces three whole days to notice that she was missing, and at fifteen years of age, LA is no place for a pretty girl to be meandering about.

All roads lead to Munich, which is an industry term for prostitution and pornography. Through Twitter she had messaged him that she never wanted to see his face again, which Deuces interpreted as an open invitation to consume as much narcotics his 50K salary would allow him.

They still communicate via 140 characters every month or so, informing each other that vital organs are still functioning, and that Caroline has discovered make up and wants to attend beauty school. When prompted for a potential meet up and reconciliation, the tweets stop.

“Scotch without ice is still better than no scotch at all”, Deuces told an attractive woman on a date once, concerning his relationship with his estranged daughter. The comment, and the situation was a giant red flag for her, but she still fucked him regardless because he was an attractive man, almost resembling an elderly Henry Cavill.

The recording session lasted an hour, as Deuces exited the building and lit a cigarette on the sidewalk, much to the disdain of new age Millennials strutting around in Yoga pants, showcasing the results of countless squats in effort to fit in with society.

“It’s poison, and you’re rotting your body from within by smoking”, said the extremely fertile nineteen-year-old girl waiting for the bus next to Deuces.

“It’s what comes out that matters, pretty little lady”.

She leaves like a hurricane, like someone trafficked her Chihuahua to a South Korean diner, revealing a man dressed impeccably in a Botega Veneta suit, with a pocket square that matches his crisp white shirt. Both hands are gloved, with his left holding a black duffel bag that, once again, matches the Oxfords on his feet.

“May I steal one of your cigarettes?” he mutters with a smirk on his aged face, perhaps somewhere in his early fifties.

“If you don’t mind me saying so, but you’re far too overdressed for East Hollywood”, Deuces remarks as he hands over a Pall Mall with a silver lighter.

“I’m perfectly fine, and I figure as long as I’m not wearing the latest rapper collaboration with Nike, I won’t get mugged”, he snorts with a nod of the head to say thanks.

“Besides, I have Betsy to protect me”, he reveals as he opens up his suit jacket revealing a slim Walther PPK pistol. Between puffs, the man also acknowledges Deuce’s sense of style, in what is seemingly becoming a future plotline for a homosexual pornographic film for young colligates with a hard on for handsome, older men. Turns out, Betsy was needed due to Mr. Veneta’s occupation; a money handler for a drug smuggling syndicate connected with a rather nasty cartel south of the border.

“You’re a bagman?", Deuces asks with a genuine sense of awe. Nodding, Mr. Veneta opens the bag and offers a glimpse of the many, many Benjamin’s held together by rubber bands. Turns out public transport offered a far safer option than travelling by car due to the many DUI stops and searches by local law enforcement. When asked whether the threat of getting mugged by unsavoury characters in the district was real, the Suit simply smirked.

“Take out a gangbanger and the city practically applauds you. Kill a cop for getting in your way? The whole state comes running”.

The problem was the passion factor, in the sense of what gets him up in the morning; when middle age springs and you realise life’s affairs have dragged your corpse to a place you don’t recognise from your childhood dreams and aspirations.

“I had always wanted to be a designer. Fashion, that is. The sight of a stitched blazer with zero point zero imperfections always got me hornier than a naked nineteen year old”, the stranger mused.

“Yeah, right on, man, I dig fashion too, though I’m pretty sure if you look inside the vagina of a nineteen year old you see God staring back at you with a thumb’s up sign. From what I hear, that is”, Deuces replies as he stares at the reflection of the city on the Bagman’s shiny Oxford’s. As Deuces lights two cancer sticks at once, he passes one to his new friend who reveals that he got into his present day career by delivering drugs to repay a gambling debt, and that he has killed three people in his lifetime that crossed his path.

“You know, it’s true what they say. The first time you are sick in the stomach. The axis of the Earth has tilted and everything is uphill for a few weeks. The second time, it still shocks you, but you learn from it. The third time, I had to make sure his blood didn’t stain my shoes”.

The final remark steels his composure, the smirk disappearing into a sea of reflection from missed opportunities. Moments of brilliance that will make the transition into the next life that much easier. The gears inside his brain click, and a resolution is seemingly at hand. Do you believe in destiny, Deuces?

“At one stage in my life, I did. Then the puddle of warm s**t kept getting bigger and bigger, until I realised that following with my dreams would drown me. Like falling in a Port-a-Loo”, Deuces spits back.

Suit, all hot and bothered, begins to explain that this moment in time, at a bus stop in the s**t stain part of Los Angeles, was a moment he had been waiting for in over two decades. The misery and self-contempt at wasting your life living under false pretences had to stop, and re-connection with one’s soul was suddenly paramount. That the thought of not starting a family and handing over the reigns of a fashion empire to your Son was an itch akin to someone on LSD scratching at the bugs crawling on their skin and dancing ethnic dances from some obscure Russian village at the turn of the twentieth century.

“Which is why I need you to deliver this money to Melrose Avenue”,

Deuces, still nodding from the inertia of the previous monologue, suddenly stops.

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, if I deliver this bag, I re-enter the cycle, and my destiny vanishes like a sobered up paedophile”, the equally handsome stranger quips.

Deuces shifts uncomfortably, the California sun suddenly getting brighter and hotter, as a thin layer of sweat starts to decorate his brow. The sight of a six-year-old Caroline sitting in the passenger seat of his forgotten Saab waiting for him as she wears his oversized aviators.

Cliché s**t called cliché for a reason.

“What do I have to do? Knock on a door, say a password, hand over the bag and receive a tip for twenty five G’s?”

“More or less. Three knocks and the code is “Cantonese Menu”,

“I just don’t understand why you can’t deliver it yourself and start a clean slate?”, Deuces asks.

“Ever wondered why Rape victims just don’t go to the police? That paralysing moment where all you can do is just sit and not be moved. I can now relate to what that supposedly feels like”.

“Alright, hand me the designer bag filled with false promises. Perhaps it can revitalise a relationship that has floundered on a biblical scale”, Deuces remarks as he takes hold of the strapping.

“You know, it’s not money that connects and binds the broken fabric of tenuous and strained family fuckups. It’s presence. A physical body they can touch”, the stranger states correctly as he hands over the bag.

“And that, Pastor, would be most correct. This will buy free time. Get me away from the vices this city spits in my direction, like solar flares that scorch my insides which no one can see”, Deuces coughs through smoking another cigarette.

Details are exchanged as Deuces rises to board the incoming Bus, as the stylish stranger rises in parallel and places a hand on his shoulder. Seemingly a decade skipped between two siblings wishing each other a fond farewell.

The bus ride across town was quick and seamless, as if Destiny took control behind the wheel and decided the scenic route wouldn’t quite fit the bill today. Hustlers and malnourished brothers lined the streets in clothing that radiated the detergent used to give birth to such vibrant tones. A few days previously, Complex magazine had run an interview that quoted Kanye stating that being ‘fresh’ was far more important than material wealth. The dope slingers marching down Main Street would have something of substance in response. With a rusty pick up decorating the front lawn amidst the daisy’s and weeds, the house that fit the description issued by the stylish stranger sits rather precociously amidst the surrounding company. Disembarking from the bus, Deuces takes in his unwelcome presence amidst the scowling locals, seemingly objecting to his open display of Caucasian in this very black environment.

“You lost, m**********r?” a random, bass heavy voice turns Deuces around to stare at a heavyset African American on a BMX like it’s 1999.

“I was this morning, though it’s still definitely too early to tell. Hey, that house on the corner, you know who lives there?” Deuces’ asks with a controlled voice.

“What’s in the bag? You a cop?”

“No, I’m still holding a grudge from that lovely summer of ’92. As for the bag, various toiletries, underwear along with my hopes and dreams”, Deuces relays in a conversational tone.

Snorting, the potential antagonist brushes past him, leaving Deuces alone with his thoughts as he slowly walks towards the seemingly vacant building. Abject poverty lines the streets while young, dark skinned, puberty enriched adolescent males converse, with a slight pause to accommodate Deuces strolling peacefully in their neighbourhood. Slowly walking up the steps, Deuces quickly turns around and attempts to view anything out of the ordinary, which was futile since the very environment was a page torn from his playbook for the day.

Three quick raps onto the decaying timber with crusty white paint immediately follows a shrug of the shoulders. Somewhere from inside, like a slow march to a beat unseen, heavy footsteps slowly approach the door, as it opens ajar.

A silhouette asks what the password is, like a fable from some forgotten bedtime story. As Deuces repeats the password given to him, the silhouette snarls and opens the door, motioning for Deuces to hurry the f**k up inside.

Floorboards creak as Deuces walks past empty walls with moths taking on the role of decorations, which eventually leads to a kitchen with a litter of McDonald’s bags resting on the dining table.

“You want a Big Mac?” asks the now visible Latino male dressed in Pigalle.

“No, my taste buds would get angry with me. It’s a troublesome relationship with men my age”, Deuces smiles with Caucasian smug.

“Whatever. Put the bag on the table and back the f**k up”, the authority male instructs.

As soon as Deuces does as instructed, a smorgasbord of police officers enters the room from the backyard, and leading the pack is Mr. Bagota himself, with a bemused expression on his face.

The reality of the situation hits Deuces like a bukake scene from your favourite adult actress in your favourite Bazzer’s production.

“You fucked me” Deuces painfully exclaims to the former stranger.

“I'm with the police, and you’re under arrest for theft of public money”, the Narc replies with a sardonic smile.

“I thought you were my friend? I told you secrets I haven’t told my therapist for years”

He nods like a woodpecker on meth.

“Some would say what just occurred was entrapment. The men around me would disagree with that statement”, says the newly established Narc.

“Some would say I feel violated” Deuces spits, annoyance forming on his face.

The short drive to the police station was filled with numerous glances from the Narc at Deuces in the rear-view, like a parent watching over their child in a crib as he plays with his sanity.

Deuces asked whether or not the Narc still enjoyed his sense of style, and whether that was a ploy to butter his bread before biting his head off and chewing his life out.

“Of course I did. From Botega to Karl, a man’s wardrobe is a view into his soul. Why do you think all these n*****s wear only sport brands? Nike is the only company that promotes basketball stars and Jerome from South Central that jumps over a fence holding a television. Only a small, thin red line separates the two” the Narc matter-of-factly states.

“What do you want from me?”

“I’m going to use you to climb the drug ladder, to find who supplies coke to the rich and famous”

“I’m only rich and famous to my landlady, so you might need to find a bigger fish”

“You’re repped by WMA?

“So?”

“You have an in. Starting with your agent”

Deuces spits at the closed window.

“S**t, I thought it was open. You got a name, Detective Dick?”

“Detective Standard”

“No s**t, they find you pre-packaged, I’m sure of it”

“Jeremiah Standard, the third”.

“You’d think they would’ve perfected you by now, I guess the drawing board is nowhere to be found these days”

“You have a daughter, if I’m not mistaken?”

“And you stay away from her, you hear me you Standard cocksucker”

“I’ll follow your method of parenting, and not drop by for any major occasion. Reason I ask, is that should you go to prison, your already fragile relationship will be soured, to the level of what the f**k”.

“This wasn’t a buffet lunch for you, was it, you Standard piece of s**t? I was booked in advance?”

Standard’s eyes don’t leave the rear-view mirror.

“Your name was mentioned. We did some background. You have priors, but nothing major. You’re just an in. Help us, and we leave the stone you call life unturned. Don’t help us, and we skim that stone over a still pond, straight into San Quentin”

Deuces’ one phone call was straight to Miley, whom between lines of Columbia strongly suggested that entrapment was being undertaken, however he was fucked due to state’s new DA being a fluffer to the Governor’s new stance on narcotics.

‘What the f**k does that even mean? Will I not see my precious recording studio next week if I tell Detective Standard to go and downgrade himself?”

“As your attorney, I strongly suggest you play ball and just give them a name so you can return to your life of self malnourishment, after I extract my 25% fee”

“Are you snorting coke? Have you become a hypocrite?”

“Makes divorce easier, and far more tenable. Call me if you have any snags, I’m entertaining a Filipina from Dallas in my hotel room”

The prison cell was cold, and shared with another go-getter from the Hills.

“She had pulled out her wallet from her back pocket, and a condom with a sailor on it just dropped onto the floor, man, like right f*****g there. Might as well been a packet of chewing gum the way she opened it and started chewing it.

Deuces grimaces.

“That’s f*****g disgusting”

“No morals. After I fucked her brains out behind a parked truck, she turns to me and says that’ll be $200”

“Is that the daily rate? It’s been a while since I last imbibed into pleasures of the flesh from nineteen year olds”

“I didn’t know she was a crack w***e. Easy piece of a*s is written on the welcome sign to West Hollywood. Anyway, the pimp came and the situation became rather regrettable”.

“I’d say”

“Hey, that’s a smart jacket you have on, dude”

“I’m not a prison b***h, my fellow criminal. Just passing through”

“What you in for?”

“Entrapment, though I hear the DA would like to f**k me in the a*s instead, though that’s just all rumour and conjunction up until this point”

“……Narcotics?”

“What else?”

Miley posted bail, and the two started to cruise down Santa Monica Blvd. through Silver Lake, when the bottle rolling around the floor hit Deuce’s’ foot.

“Johnnie Walker? Have you developed some form of taste as of late?”

“Don’t insult me. I’m still bargain basement, guarding my precious bodily fluids”

“Take me home, Miley. I need to shower away the filth that is my life”

“The meter on my UBER has begun. I got a f*****g rash last night, did I tell you that?”

Slipping the key into his lock, Deuces opens the door, and stares at his daughter sitting on the couch, looking comfortable and relaxed.

Slapping his face, Deuces has to make sure he isn’t dreaming.

Caroline Kendrick in the flesh.

Black hair with bangs down to her eyebrows, with a piercing on her left eyebrow standing out on top of her thick, black glasses. A headshot of her would instil a raging boner for the demographic of The Big Bang Theory, and no one else.

However, that innocuous face sits atop a body built from Playboy magazines from the seventies, all gigantic torpedo tits and curvy features that would give a brother from Inglewood fifteen years to life if he didn’t have consent.

“Hey Dad, your land lady let me in”

“You’ve… grown”

“Puberty. It’s been both a blessing and disguise”

Deuces sits down next to her, and gives her a very warm and tender hug.

She pulls away.

“I need three thousand dollars, and I need you to take an active role in my life for the next month”

“I guess I can do that, though I have been recently arrested, therefore I’m not to sure of the situation in regards to my cash flow will be… tenable”

“What the f**k are you talking about?”

“I guess, what I’m trying to say, is that I’ve missed you so much”

“Yeah, it wasn’t easy coming here. I didn’t have anywhere else to turn to after what happened”

“What happened to you?”

“I’d rather not say at this point in time. I just owe people money”