A snippet from the unnamed fiction WIP.
It was Patrolman Ernie McAllister who’d lit a blunt the size of his thumb. That’s smaller than you might think. McAllister had the muscle definition of a cat tree, and what skin he had was stretched too tight over his bones. The man had showered that morning, and before going to bed alone last night, and he’d laundered the uniform, but not even the prime weed’s burning-rope stink could cover up the mushroomy funk that continually seeped from his hide. He claimed it was hormones, but if Ernie ever got within half a mile of a dermatology clinic the Athlete’s Foot Disaster Alarm would have gone off and he would have been netted, drenched from scalp to sole in Desenex anti-fungal goop, and confined in isolation until Earth’s only yeast-based civilization collapsed, reducing our world to seven native intelligent species. As it was, the Sun hammered down through the open window and scorched his driver’s tan into cancer, coincidentally providing solar energy for thirty billion microscopic homes.
For the record, Desenex was useless.