There's skinwalkers in my prose.

Snippets

It was a pleasure to make meth.

The subtle off white coloring. The tasteful thickness of it. Oh my god it even has chili powder. That's how they know who the meth is coming from. My calling card if you will. My partner Emilio seems to love it; the chili p adds that extra kick.

"I'm not saying all your closest friends are skinwalkers I sent to spy on you after having the originals murdered, but I'm certainly implying it very heavily." – Dread Emperor Traitorous, making small talk

1.01 - Jesse

"Where am I?" Jesse asked himself. The last thing he remembered, he had just injected heroin. As the confusion from the high waned, Jesse realized he wasn't in his home anymore – let alone Albuquerque. As he brushed the mud off his pants, Jesse looked around at his surroundings. Had he somehow wandered off while he was high? No, he couldn't have … heroin basically incapacitates. Which begged the question, where was he?

"Rare items here, get your rare items," said a rare-item-selling man who was selling rare items.

Jesse loved rare items ever since he was a boy and his father brought back a rare item on Christmas day. Jesse approached the man looking to buy some of his wares.

"Yo bitch! Let me buy some of your wares."

"Sure," said the rare-item-selling man.

The rare-item-selling man pulled out his wares. Among them was a fidget spinner, a used toaster, two burnt nickels, and a vaguely phallic bent pipe. The rarest types of items that could be found north of the Mexican border. The kind motherfuckers were stabbed over.

"I'll take the fidget spinner," Jesse said with enthusiasm.

"That'll be two silver coins," the rare-item-selling man said.

"Two silver coins? What do I look like, a fucking bank? What kind of Game of Thrones bullshit is this?"

"I assure you there are no game of thrones afoot, sire," the rare-item-selling man said.

Jesse pulled out his wallet. All he had was a couple of bucks, a stick of gum, and some of the new meth he and Mr White had been testing.

"Tell you what, rare-item-selling man," Jesse said. "I ain't got any silver coins. But I've got a fat stack of rock here, if you're keen on what I'm saying."

"Rock?" the rare-item-selling man said. "Like those found in the goblin mines?"

"Nah man," Jesse said. "Like, ice, man. Chalk." At the man's blank look, "Dunk. Pookie. Speed."

"I'm afraid I'm not sure what you're talking about, sir," the rare-item-selling man said dubiously. "Is that some kind of foreigner's currency?"

"Foreigner's – ?" Jesse exclaimed. He shook his head in exasperation, then glanced over both his shoulders. Nobody was in earshot; he turned back. "Meth, man."

Somehow, the man still didn't recognize what Jesse was saying.

"Drugs," he hissed. "Ever heard of those?"

The rare-item-selling man opened his eyes in realization. "Ah," he said with a firm nod. "I understand now."

"So what, you trying to make a trade?" Jesse asked.

"I could be persuaded," the man said mildly. "How much are we talking?"

Jesse pulled out a fat stack of rock. "Seeing as how what I'm asking to buy ain't worth that much, I'll trade you this small one for the spinner." Jesse paused, scanning the other wares laid across the table. "And throw in the dick pipe."

The man's eyebrows shot up. "A dick pipe and a fidget spinner for a small piece of rock? These are among the finest wares in Mercantis, sir. Your proposal sounds … one-sided."

"I don't how you do things in Mercantis, but in Albuquerque, this's a fucking steal."

The rare-item-selling man appraised whether Jesse was being genuine; he seemed satisfied that he was. "I suppose I could accept these terms. Assuming, of course, this is quality product."

"Quality product?" Jesse asked. "This shit's the best it gets. You've never had anything like it." Jesse scooped out a bit with the corner of his credit card and offered it to rare-item-selling man. "Here," he said. "First bit's free." Jesse tapped his nose.

Rare-item-selling man snorted the tiny crystals. A second passed, and his body kicked back. He recoiled with a sharp intake of air.

"That is indeed, my good sir, quality product." He eyed the baggy in Jesse's hand. "How much of that, perchance, is for sale?"

Jesse tucked the bag away. "That's it. Rest has places to be. We good for our deal?"

"We are," said the rare-item-selling man as he swapped goods with Jesse.

"It's a shame, though, you don't have more to offer," rare-item-selling man said. "Maybe in the future we could work something out?"

"Sure," Jesse said. "What's your number?"

"Number?" rare-item-selling man asked inquisitively.

"Yeah like a … cell phone, ever heard of it?"

"I can't say I have. Is it some kind of magical object?"

"No like I call you, you call me, you guys really don't have cell phones here?"

"Ah, a means of communicating." He nodded. "Here, take this." Rare-item-selling man handed Jesse a card with an address inscribed on it. "I look forward to doing business with you."

1.02 - Walt

As it turned out, Orcs were big fans of meth.

1.03 - Gustavo Fring

When in doubt, smoke meth. Lots and lots of meth.

-Dread Emperor Addictus, sixth of his name.

"Bring me the goblin's feet."

Hitman strode to the drum barrel in the middle of the underground meth lab. He procured a wicked blade from his sleeve. With a deft cut, the goblin that hung from the ceiling by rope dropped into hydrofluoric acid.

Someone gasped, and Gustavo Fring's eyes shot to the source.

Chemist. He was looking away from the drum barrel. Fear scoured his bald and bearded face. The former science teacher needed to be brought even lower.

Gus spoke with his Name power. Or something. "Kneel, bitch."

Chemist dropped to his knees. Nobody else moved. He fell onto his side, a petulant look like that one meme of him on ifunny.

Gus idly accepted the feet Hitman brought, still eying Chemist. He brought them to his nose. Breathed deeply; his eyes rolled back. Exquisite. It smelled of long hours of brutal toil, an unmatchable fetid rankness.

"The smell," he moaned. "Imagine the smell, Hitman."

Gus sighed. "Business resumes," he said, then turned away.

Gus climbed the steps to the second floor that looked over the meth lab. Silent as the Scribe herself, he heard Hitman trail behind. Only because he had a Name.

Kingpin.

At the top, Gus entered an elevator close by, and a second later Hitman stepped in. The Named killer pressed the button to the surface.

"Tell me," Gus said, staring ahead as the door closed. "Was the Chemist involved?"

"He was,"

"And the men he's been training?"

"None have taken Apprentice."

Gus breathed deeply. "Notify Malicia that I'm leaving for Praes."

The elevator door opened with a ding and Gus stepped into the Laure House for Tragically Orphaned Girls.

An aspect of his name that allowed him to cross between realities via elevators. Allowed him to entrap Jesse here in a Practical Guide to Evil Fanfic.

Gus threw the goblin's feet to the side and exited the secret room into the Squire's dorm bedroom. There was no risk of Jesse showing up to catch a ride back. He had no Name. Not yet. By then, the heroin addict will have joined the Evil side through the trope of face—heel turn.

Because Chemist had betrayed him, willingly or not.

Gus stepped up to the Gatekeeper of Praes. It was a shame his aspect didn't allow for travel in the Practical reality. But he supposed waiting made pleasure all the sweeter.

"I come for the Tyrant," Gus called out into the silence.

A face emerged from ripples on the obsidian door of the Tower, a rictus forming a heartbeat later.

"The Kingpin," the demon said. "I tire of your insolence."

The demon's mouth opened.

Gus had expected as much. From his limited time here in Practical, he had learned demons were supercilious.

He brought his hands up and an AK-47 appeared in them. He immediately opened fire. He roared like that one death scene of him in breaking bad.

The demon howled in response, its face grimacing as bullets disappeared into the door-skin.

After ejaculating his load, Gus executed a reload using his Call of Duty aspect, which allowed him access to the game's mechanics—the AK and then the sleight of hand perk.

He fired another thirty rounds at the door, but by half the clip he had noticed the demon disappearing back whence it came. The door creaked open as he let the mag fall.

He dropped the AK and entered.

The Empress awaited here on the first floor, of course. She had correctly assumed for this conversation to don armor. A thick, black, (throbbing) bullet-proof vest.

"I'm here to smoke meth and chew bubblegum," Gus said, "and I'm all out of bubblegum."

Abruptly, Woods from Call of Duty spoke. "Mason! The numbers, what do they mean?"

Then, suicide grunts appeared. Sticky hot ropes of plasma jetted from their hands. They moaned gibberish. Some spoke English. In curses. "I will sacrifice my life!?"

Then Mason appeared. "I'm tossing a grenada." And then he jumped onto the Empress. (her breasts jiggled in response to Mason?)

Gus was offended.

Abruptly, Skinwalkers emerged from the Empress's breasts (nobody knew they were Skinwalkers until now).