Pseudopod 95: No Tomorrows


By Steve Cooper

Read by Alasdair Stuart

Six months ago, it was all sugar and no shit. Six months ago, in a
private Istanbul club called *Imshi*, I’d snorted coke out of the
shallow belly button of an ex-Soviet farmer’s girl, reared on Georgian
corn, marinated in Belorussian vodka, garnished in best Turkish
blow. Say what you want about the Eastern Orthodox Church, the college
of bishops really knows how to throw a party.

The fat commission on that job, though, was running low, and now I was
in Leeds, in a filthy hole of a club called *Tiggers*, leaning back
against the bar with a little plastic bottle of water and watching the
crowd. The boys were thin hungry jackals and the girls were
glittering, animated sausage-meat. The place was
slaughterhouse-romantic.

I’d come to meet a man on borrowed time. Horton had been borrowing
time since 1673, and I had come to loan him a little more.