Big Sugar

Rose Marone, known vicariously as Fat Rose, reached for a beer bottle and took a quick gulp from it. She had one leg amputated at the knee and an eye-patch over her useless left orb. She looked around nervously. “My cigarettes—bastid took my cigarettes.”

Big Sugar watched as Fat Rose spied her crumpled package of cigarettes and reached for them addictively. She lit one and immediately smiled at Big Sugar and held out the pack, which he refused. He described the four men he was searching for to her but she was of no help, her interest being only in something if it benefited her personally. She exhaled a stream of smoke through her nostrils and smiled, showing a mouthful of rotten and decaying teeth. She coughed harshly and spat out a globule of sputum, then put out her arms towards Big Sugar. “C’mere Big Sue-gar,” she hissed, “Rosy gone give yous some free head. C’mon Sue-gar you’s my man.”

Big Sugar shook his head and turned and headed down the pathway but couldn’t help but smile obliquely, as Fat Rose’s voice croaked out, “Git dat niggah fo’ me Sue-gar—he rape me.”



We love force and we care very little how it is exhibited.

—Emerson, Journal, Vol. V, p. 262.

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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)