Fuck, this suit Mosely thought. The jet black layers made Mosely suspect something about the name “wise guys” was misleading. Mosely opened the trunk. He was happy to smash Elt’s greaseball of a head against the hood if it hadn’t popped by the time he got back there. Elt knew better. He had it open seconds after the coin landed. 

The smell didn’t register to him anymore. The bulk pissed him off every time. Mosely was strong, but slush tossed around in its clear plastic, filling dead space wherever it could find. Mosely chuckled at his own pun.

Just get it done, his bastard old man rasped through his head – strung out on two straight nights of coke and dead, whispering cold from the cigarettes he smoked for dessert. He threw the first half of the heaping slush over his shoulder, bending and leaning in to follow with the second. The shocks of the car sighed when he lifted away the amorphous bag of goo. It weighed exactly as much as it looked and kept the grotesque warmth from roasting in the trunk on the drive. It sagged on Mosely’s frame, siding with gravity in each heavy step. 

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