Space grass and space cakes by Ryder Collins

Casualty had three moods – stoned, more stoned, and comatose. When you heard Clutch blasting from his house at ten a.m., you knew he was well on his way to the third.

& yes, Homegirl heard Clutch as she approached his front door. Fuck, she was hoping for a more lucid Casualty. She’d just been followed by a creeper the entire walk over.

Casualty opened the door. Homegirl said, Hi. She walked past him and sat down on his orange nubby couch. Casualty plopped down next to her and asked, Ole Faithful?

Ole Faithful was his three foot bong and a reference to punctual gangas eruptions, of course.

Homegirl shook her head and almost started crying. She kinda didn’t know why, so she punched Casualty in the arm.

Casualty said, What?

Then, Not cool.

Then, Space cake?

Homegirl punched his arm again; this time not as hard.

She said, I was almost raped on the way here.

Then, Hafta work tonight.

Then, Yeah, fuck, give me one.

Think I’m preggers and don’t know who the baby daddy is, is what she walked over to say but couldn’t.

She had no one to talk to about it except Casualty; she could trust him not to tell anyone cos he wouldn’t remember. She couldn’t trust anything he said, though, if he was already on his way to comatose.

He came back with the cake.

Homegirl took a bite. Fuck, she said; fuck, he said. A cheers to nothing.

Return to This Week’s Flash