Skittle Boy

Lyle walked into the restroom at the Garden of Eden Gentleman's Club and Bar.

Beaten. Disheveled. Morose. Failure.

Lyle's original plan for the evening was to snort two lines of cocaine, get three more lap dances from Kitty Kum, Polly Puss, and Clara Clitz. After this Lyle wanted to stop at The El Torte Taco Shop for a chicken burrito, go home and watch a VHS copy of Jade obfuscated by his tears, and contemplate suicide for eight minutes.

"To hell with it." Lyle growled, shaking his fist like a principal in the 1980s who just found out he was out of the running for the superintendent job. "I'm not going to keep on living like a punk. i'm going to go out with some style."

Lyle looked in the mirror. "Candyman," he said. "Candyman, candyman, candyman... CANDYMAN!"

Smoke and flashes of light briefly filled the restroom. When it cleared a three inch tall Candyman stood by the tiny mirror.

"Why do you want to live?," Tiny Candyman asked. "If you would learn just a little form me, you would not beg to live. I am rumor, It is a blessed condition, believe me. To be whispered about at street corners. To live in other people's dreams, but not to have to be. Do you understand?"

Lyle scrunched his eyebrows, "Uh.... yeah. I'm not begging to live. I knew what I was getting into when I said your name five times. I wanted you to kill me... but I don't know if you're physically able to."

"Physicality is a manifestation of the imagination," Tiny Candyman replied. "Everything you believe is real and creates the essence of 'being'."

"What the hell is this, Way of the Peaceful Warrior? Can you just sting me with a bunch of bees or something?"

'Unfortunately not, I only bring suffering on terms that are not acceptable to my prey. For what you desire you will need to summon Wishmaster."

Lyle squashed Tiny Candyman like a bug. His hand was cut in the process.

"

The Battery

Pinche puta! Fucking plug again, dios mios! I knew it wouldn't last. Pedro, that little bitch. My drinks are gonna be warm again, fuck it. It's so cold out I should be more worried about my balls man.

Maybe Hassan has ice, that fucker owes me.

What the hell is up with these bitches! Take that torch and shove it up your ass man. If they only knew that crazy Eleanor bitch was in there they would run. Or maybe they would still take photos, ha-ha, fuck.

I wonder how much she makes... Fuck that shit, I wouldn't do that. I would still feel like a puta with the mask on and how do you get out of there. Take the metro in a fucking statue dress, fuck that shit man. That bitch does a great job.

She can have it.

At least I get to see the nature and some cute honeys from time to time. I'd sell warm water over being that big bitch from Ghostbusters any day.

Brutal

"This isn't a fake ID," M. Guerro said to Corey.

"Yeah it is," Corey replied. Corey was the President of a company called Corey's Fake ID's. It was not registered with the Secretary of State in CA and only had customers at Palmdale High School.

"No It's not. It's an ID for a psychiatric ward."

"Right," Corey agreed. "It's an ID for a psychiatric ward. And it's fake. Ergo... a fake ID!"

"But..." M. looked at his fake identification card, "Why did you make me this instead of a drivers license?"

"Because you gave me three dollars, asshole."

M. Guerro went inside the Kirby Forensic Psychiatric Center. There were some Doctors there. One of the Doctors had a mustache and stood behind a counter.

Hi, "M. said, "I'm 21 years young. Do you guys have any beer?"

The doctor looked at M. Guerro as though he were crazy and said, "NO! Only Vicadin and Prozac."

M. Guerro thought for a few moments before deciding on a bottle of Prozac. The Doctor then grabbed M. and dragged him down a long white hallway.

"What the hell!" M. screamed. "Where are you taking me?"

"To your room. You're crazy!"

Inside the square padded room M. sat in the corner. He swallowed a Prozac pill.

"Well, at least I'm happy... and the Doctor did think I was 21... so I guess I got a pretty good deal for 3 bucks."