lack Bhairab, though Spyder knew that these qualities were also present in most of your dedicated crackheads, Spyder. This particular crackhead grabbed Spyder by the front of his shirt and lifted him off him feet, tossing him into the trash cans and empty liquor boxes at the back of the alley.
Stunned, Spyder reached for his cash, hoping this would get the guy to back off. The mugger came up and slammed his boot into Spyders midsection, then kept kicking, even after hed snatched the money from Spyders hand. Spyder didnt even get a decent look at the guy and that really bothered him. He wanted to see the face of the man who was about to kill him.
As if the mugger had heard Spyders thoughts, he felt himself being pulled up by his collar until he was standing upright. Then Spyders feet lifted from the dirty alley floor and he hung limp in the air at the end of the muggers arm. "You know how to whistle dont you? Just put your lips together and blow," Spyder croaked as he hung there. He punched the crackhead as hard as he could. The guys face gave as if there were no bones in there, just a lot of flesh-colored pudding.
The muggers face began to change. His skin crawled in the jittery sodium light from a street lamp. The muggers eyes swelled and burst from their sockets, black and glittering with facets. His lips seemed to melt, drawing down into a long, twitching tube. Cracked, curved horns burst from the sides of his head. The mugger exhaled a fetid cloud of steaming breath. Spyders brain was on overload. The adrenaline rush and oxygen-deprivation had him flashing on a frantic stream of schizophrenic data. Snakes. Insects. Wolves. Angels. The mugger had a smell. Overwhelmingly sweet. Vanilla roses. Rotting fish. The perfume of dead school girls.
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