Read Out Through the Attic for Free Online Page B

bad. Hell, I’m practically the poster child. Or at least I was .
    I think about Smiley’s question. And how to answer. I suppose most would say I’d done a lot in my life. Movie star. Big house. Beautiful wife. Great kids. Hell, I’ve seen most of world … and done shit not a soul in this whole, damn kingdom would believe. But when you’re sitting in a strange bar waiting for a couple of hit-trolls to bash your brains in … let’s just say my life doesn’t seem to add up to as much as it should.
    A clap of thunder encourages me to raise red-rimmed eyes from the ‘W’ I’d traced in a splash of whisky on the bar. The effort is more than I bargain for. A wave of dizziness crashes into my skull like storm-tossed breakers on a levy. There’s an up side though. The stars swirling in the air between Smiley and me are every color of the rainbow. Another side effect of PD. What can I say?
    PD side effects is a long list.
    There’s a clock behind the bar, and I try to focus my eyes on the damn thing, but stars keep getting in the way. I spend a minute bobbing my head around and fluttering my eyes, trying to see past the stars. It dawns on me that I must look like some whacked-out lizard doing a mating dance. I don’t give a shit, though, because I finally get a bead on the numbers.
    Ten o’clock.
    I realize I’m just about due for another hit. I can feel the others still staring at me. Waiting. Wondering if I’m even lucid. They look worried … and a little scared … all except the grouchy one. He seems to be disgusted. I run a hand over the sniffer in my pocket—another habit you’ll find with PD users—and take some comfort that I have just enough shit to get me through the rest of my life.
    I trace a finger around and around the lump in my pocket, trying to forestall the inevitable. But who am I kidding? I know I can’t wait anymore. Besides, another snort is the only way I’ll be able to tell them the whole story.
    With only a small bit of fumbling, I work the sniffer out. The glint of shining metal and sparkling facets dazzles my eyes, adding another colorful layer to the dancing stars. It’s one hell of a show, and I get lost in it for a few seconds. The dwarves’ eyes shift from me to it. I bet most have never seen such a small bauble worth so much money.
    I smile.
    The thing had been a gift from my dealer. Sterling silver, clockwork cap, inlaid rubies, gold-filigree fairies etched into the sides … it’s beautiful … really. She’d given it to me a few years back at a big party full of the movie moguls and underworld muckity-mucks that I used to call friends. She’d sent it as an apology for not making a party.
    That night she had bigger fish to fry, but she never would have made it where she did if it weren’t for me. I’m ashamed to admit it, but the Queen’s reign of terror started the moment I took my first snort.
    A blurry shadow crosses in front of the clock. It’s a hand.
    I guess I got lost in the shiny.
    “You look like shit.” It’s a gruff, grumble of a voice that presses down through the haze and draws me up enough to almost think clearly.
    I pull my eyes away from the sniffer and trace back along the hand, up the sleeve, over the shoulder and into the eyes of the grouchy one. He’s frowning.
    I laugh. The laugh turns into a cough, the cough into a bleary-eyed fit that almost makes good on a promise to toss my lungs up onto the bar.
    “Thanksh, pal,” I mumble through a weak smile. I raise my glass for a refill of the rotgut I’ve been pouring down my neck for two days. I’m down to my last fifty in coin, but I plan on living it up as best I can in the time I have left. I give the grouch another smile, the very same smile that melted the hearts of movie-going dwarves for nearly a decade.
    His frown doesn’t waver, doesn’t move a millimeter. Like it’s etched in stone.
    Must not be a moviegoer , I muse.
    “Maybe you ought to call it quits,” one of the other