Heaven, INC: Chapter 10: BIG ED WALKER

Mental wounds not healing,
Life’s a bitter shame.
I’m going off the rails on a crazy train.
—Crazy Train,
OZZY OSBOURNE

TACO SHACK PARKING LOT,
NORCESTOR AND IMPERIAL
8:28 AM PDT

BIG ED WALKER sat in ChemSteem van #3 sipping whisky while watching arrogant fucks in FBI windbreaker stand around with FBI attitudes and FBI walkie-talkies acting like they owned the place and could do whatever the fuck they wanted . . .

The fucks.

. . . and even a hundred yards away— on account of Big Ed’s very powerful, ninja vision— even at that distance Ed could clearly see they thought they were better than other people, the insufferable arrogant fucks and, in Big Ed Walker’s opinion a lot like the niggers in Cell-Block 12 of the California Correctional Facility at San Quentin who had so enthusiastically terrorized Ed’s fragile rectum— and even more fragile sanity— so that he spent eight years with a tampon stuffed up his ass and the guards' nickname of 'Tampon-Ass'.

The arrogant fucking fucks.

Now, while thoughts of FBI agents, niggers and prison guards swirled in Big Ed’s Jack Daniels-and-meth sauteed fore-brain, in Ed’s hind-brain, that part inherited from our reptilian ancestors, little sparks started kicking off like a train going off the tracks, thoughts ricocheting around those sex-starved motherfuckers’ and their big fists and the laundry room, the darkness and the pain of a laundry room all wrapped in the scent of industrial laundry detergent, as Ed was raped over and over and over again—

“Fuck you!”

Big Ed downed a swig of Jack Daniels as rage rose within him like vomit rising in a drunk.
See, with a normal person— which Big Ed most certainly was not— it would be astonishing how quickly his emotional state could metastasize from idling in its normal mode of mild jealousy and paranoia to a RAGING FURY OF PURE HATRED in but a fraction of a second— but then that was just Ed being Ed; like electrons jumping their shells, there was no middle ground to shifts in emotional state; one minute he’d be swigging whiskey straight from the bottle or doing a fat ragged line of tweak while his mind idled in first-gear paranoia when—

zzzzzZZZZAPPP!

— some invariably minor thing would send him into what a psychiatrist might call a Disassociative Rage, something not at all pretty, as any of the seven people in the back of Ed’s van could heartily attest. If they weren’t dead of course.

The fucking dead fucks.

Through a slit in the curtain, Ed peered into the back of the van and, sure enough, the smart-alecky homo who’d bitched about Ed knocking over his faggotty-ass table lamp with the carpet-cleaning unit, that fuck was eyeballing him, the fish-eyed fuck.

Ed adjusted the curtain so the homo couldn’t look at him. Not because Ed was creeped out or anything, you understand, he just didn’t appreciate people staring at him, not even dead people.

Th dead fucking fucks.

Ed returned his gaze to the FBI pussies and it was at that precise moment when thousands of synapses in a crystal-meth-ravaged neo-cortex misfired and Ed’s woefully stunted SuperEgo submitted to a meth-fueled Id—.

zzzzzZZZZAPPP!

— at the moment two FBI fucks, one tall, the other fat, appeared, catching Ed’s gaze like something sparkly catches a cat’s. Unconsciously, Ed began rubbing the gun in his pants, a 9mm he found cleaning an El Cajon 4-Area—a good carpet cleaner always made it a point to case a house while working. He rubbed the gun like it was as an extension of his cock, like chromed Death in his pants, growing more aroused as he watched the tall fuck pointing and giving orders like he was so much better than everyone else, the arrogant goddamn fuck.