You have to get this fat fuck back and collect your money. That’s all you should be thinking about. Fat fuck. A bit of alliteration. Poetry under gu...fire. Had to be a book in that…. Stop fucking around, Hansen. There were still no shots. No footsteps. Just the rain dripping off the dumpster, into the puddles in the bitumen. Just the heavy breathing of his alliterative companion. The Package. The fat fuck. Maybe I’ve lost them. Yeah, right. Or maybe they’re getting into better positions…. He. As Amber and Dexter approached his apartment’s parking lot, a guy on a motorcycle pulled up to a spot in front of them. Amber came to a complete stop on seeing the leather clad motorcyclist. Dexter walked over to examine the bike.The guy got off the bike, taking note in Dexter’s interest in his ride.“Nice bike,” Dexter said.“It gets me to work and back on nice days. It sucks when it rains,” the guy said while removing his helmet.“I imagine that it isn’t fun in the rain,” Dexter said.“You’re. More

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