7

"Shut the fuck up and get this stuff inside!" Drax hisses. He looks around, as if the cops are gonna scream up your dirt road at any moment, then hauls the broken tub up over the threshold and into your kitchen, pushing it across the cracked linoleum until it bangs against the splintered door.

"Drax, what are you—?"

"I told you to shut the fuck up," Drax snaps, peering out the kitchen window. "Where's that fucking twink you keep upstairs?"

You feel your Rage threatening to spike, but then the tub breaks open completely, spilling tacky fake Rolexes across your socks like you just won the jackpot at a carnival. It's a little funny.

"Okay, look, this'll have to stay here," Drax says, wrestling the door back up and into position. "Someone'll pick it up in a few days. Might be a while, especially now that Terry ain't no good." He fumbles in his pocket, pulls out a vape pen, takes a long shuddering drag.

"Who's Terry?"

"I don't want stolen goods in my house."

"Okay, enough. Get out—take your shit—or I'm throwing you out."

"This doesn't look like a professional operation." But maybe I could turn it into one.

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