1. The Imbecile

Hierarchy, Order, Commandments, and only those that wish to Obey are allowed. 

The system is fucking rigged, against you old boy. Don't you know that? Deep inside where your soul lies? No. Not religion, and God and all that bullshit. That raging heat in the pit of your belly that drives you outside of the shell like protection of a building. Turtle like, only popping your head out only to feel trouble and woe, and with trepidation suck it back in with cowardice, you take the easy road out.

The Imbecile snubs out a Pall Mall against the heel of his patented leather shoes.

Like these fucking things. These slow burning sticks of suicide. All men die. You and I will take out last breaths on this Earth one fine morning.

In reality you're just hoping you wont catch a bullet 

In reality you're hoping your hand wont turn against you. 

But the Kings and Queens play their chess. Claims of worldly peace, and justice for all, in my soul, and in the pit of my stomach Anarchy rages. Loyal to only two, my gun and my past. 

2. The Imbecile wakes

The Imbecile shifts as the sun beats through his cheaply made curtains that are meant to block out the sun, but are too thin. The sun beats on persistently, finally winning, and cracking the Imbecile's eyes into open slits.

The first thing he feels is a hot coal like burning in his esophagus, and then the stale tobacco flavor in his mouth. 

Again, is the first thought that came to the Imbecile's waking mind. He had done it again. Thinking back to the previous night most of it was  blank, and fuzzy only picking up pieces intermittently. Too many Stout pints, too many songs at the jukebox. He began that waking stretch, the one that arches your back and forces a mutter from your mouth in pleasure. The moment the Imbecile's hands began the upward movement of the stretch, a rippling shot of pain raced down and around his torso shaking his mind to a screaming state of awareness. 

My fucking ribs, he lets out in a groan. 

I've gotta get my fucking phone and call Aimes, I can't just lay up like this, he thought. The reason for lasts night drunken celebration was that he just set up a mushroom deal with one of his buds from school. 5lbs every two months, 25,000 in cash. Seemed simple enough, to grow fungus, but what he had learned in his time growing them is that is a lot of work, and patience. Anthony his friend had the more risky part, but the much more fun one. Anthony would follow a certain band or show up at music-fests to push the mushies to bright eyed naive youngsters. He banged hippie chicks, and got wasted, while turning a profit. 

The Imbeciles fingertips of his right hand could just brush up against his cell on the nightstand. He played with the rounded corner of his Samsung, pushing it this way and that way until he scooted it close enough to grab it without moving his body. 

He called Aimes.

Hey baby, he got out, trying to conceal and weakness, or pain. She knows, she fucking knows he thinks as he prepares for her reaction. 

Again? she scoffs. 

I'm on the way.