Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
Warm up for the Six. The prompt word: ‘FIX’ (not the old-time cowboy movie star… no, not the granola running guy, the 1980s band…. wait a minute, let me check…nope, definitely not them. Cereal? the one for kids? nah. Last chance now, waking up on a morning in a future where you should be dead? …. yahtzee!)
“I need my fix.”
Four words heard at an inner city traffic light, the post-industrial watering hole for those left behind, cast out or demon-dragged to the fringes of society, the spray-painted building behind him a blackboard of despair and crippled hope.
“C’mon pal, help a brother out.”
The driver of the European luxury car stared upwards through his windshield at the red-lit traffic light, suppressing his increasing impatience before the electromechanical roadway shrine, “Come on. Turn!” his simple prayer.
The man shambled towards the car, his own prayer less demanding, “Hey, buddy can ya spare a dime”, the pull of decayed memory combined with the push of desperate need lending him strength; one more debt he was unable to repay.
The driver suddenly angry at himself, glanced to the right and, through the passenger window recognized the aggressively subtle cut of an Armani suit, white-mottled vomit residue like alteration marks of a new tailor, ‘Carruthers, is that you?!”