The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller by Joe Augustyn Page B

rolled into town. She’d been bred to avoid an honest day’s work and feel no guilt about it.
    Living off others was as much a part of her genetic make-up as it was for any bedbug. She was the welfare queen of Greenville, collecting a big chunk of the county’s social services budget for her six illegitimate brats. She hadn’t a clue who their daddies were, and no motivation to find out. She could have filled a rolodex with the names of possible suspects. But as long as the taxpayers picked up the tab for their upkeep, she knew she had a better deal than any of her babies’ daddies would ever provide.
    Jenkins looked down his bulbous red drinker’s nose at Marcella, as did most everyone else in the community. But as much as he ranted to his cronies how much he hated her, he did a tidy bit of business off her government-subsidized lifestyle. So like all the other businesses in town who profited from her medicare and foodstamps, he secretly rejoiced in her presence. He even indulged her requests to swap food stamps for cigarettes and liquor, provided no one was around to witness the sleazy transactions.
    As the old man swept Marcella’s pills into a container, he stole a glance in the mirror he’d placed above the countertop to help nab shoplifters. The culprits had been stealing him blind. Cadging rubbers and smokes and other small luxury items when he wasn’t on the alert. But his brain was sluggish with age and the deleterious effects of his non-stop happy hour. With his attention split between Marky and Marcella, both viable suspects, he failed to notice Sparrow stuffing his pockets in the “cold and flu” aisle.
    Distracted for a moment by the green polyester thong sprouting from Marcella’s ample ass crack like a sprig of poison ivy, Marky turned and got an impatient nod from his pock-faced accomplice, who pocketed his score and quietly sauntered toward the door.
    Back at the pharmacist’s booth, Marky slapped a candy bar down on the counter, startling the half-soused proprietor. “How much, pops?” he barked loudly, covering the tinkle of the shop’s bell as Sparrow made his escape out the door. “Come on, old man, I ain’t got all day. And judging from those wrinkles and liver spots on your mug you ain’t got much time to waste either.”
    The old man shot him a frosty look. “You’ll wait your turn like everybody else.”
    “Fuck that,” snapped Marky. “You just lost a sale.”
    Leaving the candy bar on the counter he turned and headed for the door. Mission accomplished, as my man Dubya would say.
    Sparrow was waiting outside, eager to show off his booty. He held up several plastic containers and rattled the gel caps inside. “Check it out, bromeo. The old fart’s too fuckin’ stupid to keep the good shit behind the counter. We be robotrippin’ for weeks.”
    Marky took one of the containers and read the list of ingredients. “And you’re too fuckin’ stupid to read the fuckin’ ingredients on the goddamned fuckin’ label, dumb-ass. This shit is loaded with chlor… what-ever-the-fuck-that-is… and guafa… some other shit that will fuck you up and not in a good way.”
    “Gimme it then, you pussy.” Sparrow snatched the pills back. “If you don’t want to trip out, that’s more party for the rest of us.”
    “More for you stupid farts to get sick and freak out on. Just don’t puke your guts out on me.”
    “Fuck you.”
    “Take me home, brainiac,” said Marky, annoyed that he’d wasted half his evening with such a worthless dumb ass.
    “Get on,” said Sparrow as he mounted his ancient trail bike and kickstarted the engine. Marky threw a leg over the rusty rear rack and took hold of Sparrow’s waist. Sparrow twisted the throttle and they sputtered off into the night.
    Ten minutes later they turned down the desolate road leading to Marky’s family’s house in a backwoods clearing.
    The trail bike hummed along with an occasional backfire, swerving dizzily on the bumpy