Crack Stained Teeth

Jeremy. Jeremy was a hodgepodge of both right and wrong. His parents were Asian-American,
so he was also a hodgepodge of white and Wong. His pastimes were coke and speed. Not in a race
but he's in the lead.

You give him one good punch and he drops like a burlap sack of donkey shit. Minimum wage employee
at Burger King, yet fully intent on getting his fix. You want fries with that? His side order is usually a little white rock
with the aroma of ether and baby powder. Can't blame the poor fuck, his family pressures him, in the lower east side of Brooklyn,
somewhere near Bed-Stuy. Not that he knew chris or anything, but he was always asking younger folk if he could hold a dollar. One
dollar more to feed his addiction. Down the street, and into the den, he picks up his purchase. LaMond was his 'homie', always hooked
him up fat. He never got shorted, because his asian-american blood allowed him to perform mathematical equations at the speed of
a thousand calculators. Back at the apartment, he grabs his glass, pops a pebble, then lights the bottom. In homage to requiem for a dream,
you see his pupils inflate like a beach ball, and his teeth chattering like squirrels who have had copious amounts of caffeine. One more time, one more day ahead, and his binge is now just a hobby. Now it's time for him to grab the nearest vaseline, and turn to the centerfold of the 1971 September issue of Hustler Magazine.