Soul Trade
It happens more than you’d think, especially in a shitty economy. One day you’re standing on a dingy street corner watching the gray snow melt and smoking a butt and dreaming of a hot meal or maybe a small bag of weed to get you through the day. But in reality, that vision is fractured by the 38 cents in your pocket and the realization that your last girlfriend kicked your sorry ass out a week ago and your best bud has cooled to the idea of crashing on the sticky hide-a-bed in his living room. Since you’ve burned two holes in the ratty thing. All of a sudden there’s a tall guy standing next to you, smoking a cigar and cloaked in this massive black duster, its sheen mute, like it’s been soaked in oil, and he’s stomping these bulky black combat coots like he’s cold. He’s not cold. He’s looking for attention. And he wants it from you. He speaks and it makes your skin crawl just a bit, since it sounds like background noise from a beat-up speaker, or an echo, but gravelly a...
