"Thank fuck not like thank fuck" he says tipping a fly mid air. 800 eyes apparently. Lazy.

"But thank fuck like a thank fuck y'know, a thanking fuck." Gratitude. That's how he begins the story. New and slouching.

"He'd been mayor for exactly 7 minutes when it happened." he felt the needle go in. Morphine more feel. A yellow curtain dripped last night's exhales.

"One of a twin, the campaign manager, Samantha Something or other." A dog coughs.

"She had him in the bathroom and a journalist no less walks in." Sometimes mayors need excitement too. With all the pressure and guilt. Spare time.

The needle drops to the ground. The dog pokes a nostril towards it.

"Get away." A floppy hand draws across the dog's head. Harmless.

"They knew it was up so they locked the door and went on, fair play to em." It was up. The jig of life.

"She went on to become C.E.O. of an arms dealer selling parts to a mannequin wholesaler." Good money. Safe money. Everybody wants to know what they might look like when viewed by a stranger through a pane of glass.

"But her twin got it from the neighbours, bitter wheelchair bastards." He's not normally like this. It's the morph.

"The neighbours are in wheelchairs, bitter, they think the two twins are incomplete existential halves of an entire being." Are you proud of yourself. A dog tuts.

"Badaboombadabang cut to the chase" he claps his hands

"She killed herself." Never saw it coming. That goes for themselves aswell. Then a little rain to make the light easier to believe.

"The mayor was last seen losing at the racetrack." Gamble. Makes sense. A little loss at the start and a lifetime of chase. Til the jig tips. Weren't expecting that were you? Return Of The Jig.

"I'll just have another little bit" he says stretching, raising his voice

"Just a little" even higher.

"A little." Almost cat pitch.

"A little." A literal squawk.

Then he makes his vein operational. Pikes the needle in and feels it immediately. Slow fuzz. Cool glow. A stream of spit hangs undecided from his mouth. The dog ushers a few feet to get out of it's way. A decent avoid. Gymnast almost. Nifty little prick. But something is wrong. Too much juice of the future, storm of the day. Gone cold now he is. Not a bad end though, all things disfigured.

And nobody there to finish the story but his dog. So allow me to continue.....

                                                                                         End.