Wild Card

by Elsie Silver

It’s been a crappy week, and this is just the bread that makes the whole thing a shit sandwich.

“Clyde, for fuck’s sake, I’m trying to give you an organ, and you’re sitting here shit-talking me to my face.” He smacks his lips. “Someone’s gotta do it. You’re more depressing than I am, even though I’m the one who’s dying. Surprised you’re not offering me both kidneys with how goddamn emo you’ve been lately.”

“Are you in pain?” “Me? No. I’m on more drugs than I’ve taken in my entire life. I can’t even feel my face.”

Maybe if things get awkward downstairs, I can try my hand at impersonating a fainting goat.