The short fiction of j hardy carroll
I went to the Jungle on the east side of the river. As I suspected, Roughhouse Red was there, all too eager to share my bottle in exchange for giving me the low-down. He took a long pull, the whiskey trickling into his grizzled whiskers. “Ooh, that’s good,” he said. “What was it you want…
It was like some giant had lifted off the roof and dumped in the entire contents of a thrift store. The huge room seemed cramped and choked by teetering piles of boxes, furniture and other clutter. Tall wardrobes bursting with clothes, cardboard cartons vomiting sheafs of paper onto the dirty floor, stacks of chairs missing…