Betamod

I was walking down the street, minding my own business, when I saw the dreadful thing.  It was an advertisement for another one of those Shit Bird music recitals. I had heard the warnings about Shit Bird on the radio, I should have known better than to go to that bloody recital. I made my way there, just a few block away. The man at the door was a grizzled old fellow. He was clothed in tattered rags each one encrusted with the filth of a lifetime of boozing and god knows what else.

He held out is hand, a deformed claw.
“Five smakeroos, chump.” He demanded gruffly.
His breath was foul, like a can of cat food infested with squirming, sickeningly translucent maggots.
“You want your mind blown or what, bud?” The man said, growing inpatient.
I put the bill in his crusty, old paw. When I did I looked him in his one cloudy eye. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and my body began to shake in fear. This guy was crazy, a killer. He had to be!
He cleared his throat and then coughed spitting a thick greenish black tar out of the side of his mouth.
“Thanks, bud.” He said, putting the money in his pocket. Then he simply walked away.
I made my way in the bar to see the recital. I stopped and told the bartender his doorman had walked off the job.
“What doorman?” the bartender asked, puzzled. “We don’t have a doorman.”

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