Zalissa: Junk

Every cunt jerked their heads, and wiggled their shoulders in unison to the shitty grainy music we had flooding into the den, through some cheap gnomish device that had seen better days. I have to admit though, a little bit of electronic-esque thumping livens this place up a bit; years of smoking and just years of existing has ensured this place looks like an absolute dive. The place is fucking boggin’. Despite a few coloured threadbare pillows we’ve swooped from the bedroom above where Feydor’s shaggin’ two Tanarisi birds the now, all colour is devoid in this shootin’ gallery, even the cunts that fuckin’ litter it look grey as mice, in their drug haze. Quinian’s beside me, droolin’ on my shoulder in a half-conscious, half-awake state of ecstasy, quite romantic if ye think about it. The walls look like a junkies arm, cracked veins of what was probably once pale lemon coloured wall paper, snake up to meet at the ceiling and cluster particularly around a wooden candle holder that’s as manky as the floor it faces down onto. Regardless though, we were all sat there, on these skanky dirty floorboards. Azshara azune puts ye in a state where yer no actually bothered about getting gunk and shite on the arse of yer britches, but I wouldn’t place the blame entirely on old Azshara, it was a cocktail to be a honest. A horrific cocktail of further substances of shite that we forced into our bodies to attempt to get some kind of fucking feeling out of it. And the reason I’m sat here with this fart of a boyfriend is because we’re waiting on Feydor to get his hole and then just give us more fucking drugs, and he’s takin’ his sweet time.
My knee starts to bounce in a mix of impatience and shaky the come-down I’m experiencing from the emberweed, blue-heavens, and azshara that’s come on incredibly sudden. I wet my lips to discover how cracked and dry they felt with my tongue between them.
“’BAG! Bag, I’m gonna whitey.” My voice is a croak, and seems to have roused Quinian some from his drug-induced slumber, he makes a boke-noise, like he’s about to whitey over my shoulder, I make an instinctive jerk to the side to avoid the vomit that he’s threatnin’ to drop on my shirt – false alarm. The movement I was forced to make, however has ensured that my bones feel like they’re grinding together, and my head is pounding. I lean on an elbow to stop myself from dropping and pain drives up where the floorboard met the bone.
“Oh fuck me… I need some more emberweed. Bag. BAG? EZLBAG!” I can’t see shite, but a resonated groan from across the room assures me Ezlbag heard my plight, I try to look for him, but everything I look at has a ghostly trail behind it, like everything’s made of dust in the fucking wind.
“Alright Sally, hold your fuckin’ horses.” I took that as acceptance to aiding me, I hope. I lie down now, the sickness forcing me into the fuckin’ minging floor on my back, like some sadistic rapist. Nothing is staying still and when I look at the shaking candleholder above us, it throws moving shadows back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, they start to turn into silhouettes of forsaken, branding humans bones as weapons, they’re goin’ ‘Saaaaaaaaaaall-eeeeeeeee!’ naw this is just fuckin mental. I can hear the lass upstairs moaning in a foreign tongue, in time with the dead dancin’ up the walls, hiding in the cracks and jumping out the other side. I try to kick Quinian because I’m gonna die, I end up booting him square in the mouth and hear a squeal as his lip bursts over his tooth.
“YE FUCKIN’BITCH, WHAT THE FUCK?!”
“What’s all the fuckin’ screamin’ about?!” I hear Sullee, I didn’t even know that fat wee prick was in the fuckin’ room.
“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHH!” did I just make that sound, or was it the foreign cats upstairs?
“What in the name of fuck’s wrong with her – Sally?”
My eyes are rolling back in ma head, I think I have food in my mouth, because I’m chewing on something – tastes like metal and has the consistency of raw steak, I think, and a warm wet sensation pours out over my chin, and down, down further. It’s between my tits, I’m being molested by a wet ghost. Someone call the guards.
Hooooow does it feee-yul, to treat me like yooou doo-hooo?
I hold my ears, I no longer like this music, but my sight’s coming back now, and I can see Quin’ in front of me, bristled with anger with his face covered in blood – I remember someone was touching my tits, and I look down to see I’m covered in blood as well, my first instinct is that Quin’s smacked me, so as my sickness seems to be momentarily dissipated I stick the fucking nut in the prick.
“Hit me, ya doss cunt?!” I screech, as Quin catches himself on the table, looking like a rabbit seein’ certain death before a carriage, and with that I take a moment to survey my surroundings. Ezlbag’s somewhat nonchalantly rolling me another joint, which is just the ticket to calm ma nerves, as for every other cunt in the room, they’re starin’ at me with a less extreme version of Quinian’s expression, some have even bothered to stand up when the conflict started, like a gnome standing up would make a fucking difference. I take note of Sullee, Coppersocket and Ray, who’s just walked in by the sights of it, as he’s lookin’ as confused as a bag of dicks.
A curious feelin’ comes over me which I can only describe as uncharacteristically crippling anxiety; with all eyes on me, ma arse felt fat, an my tits felt small an’ I was shrinking under everyones’ shock.
This is the beauty of mixing substances, just when you think yer fine, and yer over it, it comes right back.
Just on queue, Feydor comes lumbering down the stairs, with his two strumpets, I note one of them is actually just quite tanned, not a tanarisi lass like the other one, who’s as black as three in the morning. There’s a strained silence as Feydor takes in the scene before him, and I become aware of the music again.
But if it wasn’t for yoooour misfortunes, I’d be a heavenly person today.
“Lets get cookin’ then, eh?” Feydor displayed a row of yellowing teeth, some actually pure gold. We called him Emily more than Feydor, because of his surname. Emelianenko, which naturally, most of us couldn’t pronounce.
My heart soared as he planted a big bag of white powder on the table where Quinian was still collecting his druggie wits, but he wasn’t on planet Janet that much to realise more drugs were in order, as his forest green eyes lit up happily. Was it me that hit him? No, I’d never hit my beloved, I promptly punch one of the whores in the face, it must’ve been her. She squealed, but nobody seemed to notice, see that’s the thing about being a junkie like we were, nothing matters other than scoring, and everythin’ in between is moot. So we crowded the table, with eyes wide like brats at a sweet shop as we watched Emily cut up the shite that we were oh-so-eager to force into our systems.

Wow... Just... Wow... !
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