A Guide for Murdered Children
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—again.
Detective Willow Millard Wylde.
Fifty-seven years old: shitty health and shaky spirits.
Kind of a fattie…
Which is usually what happens to him at the end of a run.
He was drinking around the clock. Burning his fingers, his mattress, his couch, and his car seat with those bullshit alkie Marlboro Blacks. Burning down his anxieties and dreams. Chugalugging pain pills with Diet Dr Pepper from the moment he awakened to the moment he passed out—and even in the middle of the night, after being startled to wakefulness by his own stertorous snores and otherworldly screams.
No diabetes—yet.
No prostate cancer—yet. (Though tests showed peskily chronic microscopic amounts of blood in the urine, etiology unknown.)
Just some scabby, top of the head, sun-induced cancer, but no melanoma.
Yet.
Still no tangible signs of early-onset dementia…
Cialis seemed to work most of the time for those few and far-between afternoon delights. Sometimes he had little romantic dates with himself when chemical enhancement wasn’t required and performance wasn’t the issue. But generally he’s lost the urge.