About a Guy Named Casey Five - Rough Yogurt
About a Guy Named Casey Five
He asked me if I had any yogurt, and so I shot him in the head.
He was hungry, I guess. And a Tred. As he turned I saw his pager and I saw it was that special little prissy-lookin' neon green POS they pass out to all their kids. Sigh. Wanted yogurt. Yogurt and dope. Dope he'd turn around and sell threefold back to some twelve year old down on Collier's. We don't need any kids dying.
I don't really like that word: yogurt. Sounds like a disease. And there sure as hell isn't any in my fridge. And if there ever was, it's gone now.
And so is Kell. He has a bullethole through his skull now, a hole that looks up at me and smiles. The gun is still smoking. I walk over to the phone and call Mickey, the McDonald's guy.
He picks up on the first ring. "Whatcha need, Casey?" he says. "When'd you get Caller ID," I ask. "While ago," says Mickey, "Gotta catch up on the times."
"Yeah, well ..." I say.
"Haven't talked to you in a few months. You still in with Del?" he asks.
"Yup, well sorta. I'm taking care of childcare distro now, making sure those dumb kids get shit rolling and making sure they don't get caught. Restricting 'em to limited quantities, shit like that. We don't need any little kids dying on our behalf. Bad fucking karma."