Barney Mancuso felt good—too good. This therefore meant, that according to God—or was his name Murphy—shit was bad.

He opened his eyes in a numbed state of bliss, not feeling any of the odd aches of his life of self abuse, and nothing at all in the way of the nagging pain in his gut. The worst part of his waking from the dead—he had been a God King afloat on the Celtic Nile, in his dreams, he thought, crazily—was not looking up into the eyes of a beautiful young nurse, but that Kersarge, the snarky writer twerp with the face like a 1970s porno vagina, was looking down at him sternly.

This is bad—a family that hated me would be preferable to this, “What’s up, Twerp?”

Kersarge, softened his face—Oh, this is real bad—and sat faɡɡot-like on the side of the bed, with ankles crossed, like he was afraid Barney was going to finger-fuck him.

“Congratulations are in order, I suppose. You survived thirty-eight years without a doctor’s visit, got drunk every fucking day, and are now checking out on the express plan. You have advanced pancreatic cancer that has metastasized. It’s even in your brain. You’re flying higher than any of those twenty-two-hundred stoners you busted while you were a narc, back in the day. The doctors can’t believe you're still alive—give you two weeks, tops, depending on how much that oversized heart of yours can take. They mentioned that that thing should have exploded like five years ago. They couldn’t believe you were still doing police work.”

“My wife?”

“She can’t bear to look at you. I think she wanted to reconcile—and now this, poor girl. As if it wasn’t bad enough to be in love with a drunken cop, now this.”

“Yeah, Twerp, I suppose it’s a raw deal for my Baby Doll. Why are you here?”

“I have been consulting with you in your delirium, believe it or not. While suffering the dreams of the agonized damned you’re fairly human, intelligent after a mechanical fashion and marginally congenial.”

“The baby hoodrat, Arbeese?”

“Yes, you and I have discovered the identity of his killer—but the pigs don’t care, won’t even talk to me and you…are here.”

“Have any of the homicide guys come, to see me?”

“Oh. You don’t remember the stripper sucking shots of Mount Gay Rum out of your cavernous navel while the other pigs pooled their money for a circle jerk?”

“The photographer did seem to care—sorry, can’t recall vapid names of the dreary nonfictional type. Yes, and the county SWAT cop—Jeff, I think—he’s been by. He cares.”

Barney began to speak and zoned, so Kersarge continued, “Mary has asked me to be her rep—your caregiver. The generous insurance policy you took out on yourself makes you a class act in my book—she’s set, and has asked me to give you whatever you want. As far as your medical care here, I have power of attorney—as far as their insane protocols go. You don’t have to worry about them cracking you open like a crab to keep you alive. This is your dope and go run.”

“Get me out of here.”

Kersarge had a look of disbelief on his face, “What?”

“You know who the killer is. Take me to him. Let me confront him—write it up in one of your bullshit books. Tell these other fagots you’re taking me for a walk.”

“Are you crazy?” gurgled Kersarge, as his pencil neck gave under Barney’s furious grip.

“You bet your ass, faɡɡot. Now get me out of here and maybe you’ll sell some books. Brief me on the way. I don’t want to risk falling asleep.”

“But,” whined Kersarge, not man enough to even break the one hand choke-hold on his throat, “How—”

“Fucking lie, faɡɡot!” snarled Barney, all of a sudden in a dreamy mania to get at whoever the killer of that innocent—well, he was a piece-of-shit, who deserved better than being sent to Hell as his killer’s messenger.

“I’ll get dressed,” he said, as he hauled his fat ass out of bed, while you lie your bearded clam of a mouth off. I haven’t felt this good since I was twenty-one.”

He was squashing Kersarge under him against the hard floor. The snarky writer whined and squirmed. Then Barney rose, ripped all of the bullshit tubes out of his ass, dragged the faɡɡot to his feet, and pushed him out the door as he said, “Get, faɡɡot. Tell the dyke in charge I’m going for my last walk.”

Barney Mancuso, God-King of the Celtic Nile, took off the gay bullshit open-backed robe he was wearing, ripped open the closet that still held his suit—he supposed to bury his fat ass in—and began getting dressed in a dream state he found so agreeable that he now finally understood why junkies put dirty needles in their veins, even when Barney, the Narco Cop from Hell, was knocking back his last swig of Jose Quervo and dropping the bottle in the gutter as he swooped in at the speed of a stoned sped to make his meaningless arrest.

As Barney buttoned his shirt crookedly with numb fingers while his pant’s actually stayed up since he had lost so much gut, and he listened to that faɡɡot Kersarge argue with the dyke nurse, noting with great disappointment that his service weapon, badge and backup were all gone, he mused to himself.