Man Named Pockets
Green and purple fire scales the walls like water up a paper towel and briefly engulfs the entire kitchen in the mildewed trailer. A man named Pockets stands, waiting for shock, but the nanoseconds veer around him. Glass shards dripping with boiling ephedrine sail nonchalantly towards the man named Pockets’ face, then glide gently through layers of his acne-scarred skin. In the deafening silence, the bitterly scented flames envelope the man like a soft blanket wraps a baby, and while the grime on his clothing turns to carbon dust, his flesh drips like wax onto the carpet.