15. THE SEEKER
“7 Ks for a trip to Flint,” Shitmouth said, “just correspondence. Any takers? Not that far.”
He ran a finger along the crease in his pants. Penny ante bullshit. He wouldn’t be caught dead saddling up for Flint for a next-of-kin run.
“Come on, now,” Shitmouth slammed the parcel down on his podium, “I know it ain’t walking around money, but some of you new kids haven’t exactly been pulling your weight. Dickie, I know for a fact you haven’t had a successful run in two days.”
“Eat my ass,” Dickie responded.
Enough said. Nobody wanted it. Disgusted, Shitmouth stuck the parcel back under his podium.
“You’ll all be begging for this job in a week,” he said, “mark my words. And it’ll be rescinded by then.”
“Get to the good stuff, Shitmouth!”
That was Cora the Corgi.
