Bummer may poetry
Nack digs the barrel of his loaded gun in his ass. He isn't worried - he's already dead. He's not smart enough to understand the implications of waving his gun around in public though. His brain hasn't worked as well as it used to, ever since he blew a hole in it.
"So, as I was saying, sweet cheeks, I was thinking we'd go back to your place and have some sex."
You. He's talking to you, the reader. You politely try to reject him.
"Don't be like that, baby. Look, I may have a hole in my head but I'm stiff where it counts. I never go soft, you understand?"
He takes a sniff off the barrel and retches. He offers it to you. You can smell it from some feet away.
"You want a whiff of this?"
You shake your head no.
"You sure?"
You put your hand over your nose and mouth and you nod furiously.
"Aight, well. What you got on my 40, then?"
Excuse me? you ask.
"My 40. What do you have on it?"
You tell him you're not sure what that means. Whether or not you just lied to him is on you.
"Don't fuck with me. Don't you dare fuck with me. I came here for two things, buddy. To yiff and get yiffed up. If you're not supplying the yiff, you're funding the party favors to get us yiffed the fuck up, y'dig?"
You tell him you have maybe two or three dollars in your pocket. Whether or not you lied is on you. You tell him he can have it if he'll just leave you alone.
"Oh, I can have it, sweet cheeks. I can have a lot of things."
He may not understand the implication of waving his pistol around in public while talking to people, but you do. You're scared. You tell him you just came here to read poetry. You're beginning to cry. You don't want any trouble.
"Trouble?" Nack laughs, thumbing the hammer back and cocking his pistol. "Poetry's nothing BUT trouble! It's a shame to allow poetry, it really is. Now hold still while I dig around in your pants."