I wake up fiending. Not for food, not for pussy, not even for that sweet, tar-thick fentanyl drip that keep my heart skippin’ beats like a SoundCloud rapper’s first track—nah. I’m fiending for revenge.

See, two weeks ago, this bitch-ass dude Rell finessed me outta 10 grand. Told me he had a shipment of enchanted lean straight from a necromancer’s trap house in the underworld, said this shit would make me astral project into the depths of Hell just by sniffin’ the bottle.

His bitch-ass sold me expired NyQuil.
Now I’m out ten bands, my high gone, and my soul empty. But I ain’t finna kill Rell. I’m gonna do something worse.
Rell got a daughter—lil’ Mariah, six years old, got them chubby cheeks and big doe eyes, the kinda kid old ladies say gon’ grow up to be a star.

I hate that bitch already. And Rell? He also got a car—a 2019 Honda Accord, rims all shiny, seat warmers crisp as fuck, Bluetooth connect on the first try. The kinda car the bitch wipe down with a microfiber towel twice a day ‘cause it’s the only thing he love more than himself.

So what I do? I lurk.

Sit outside Rell’s baby mama crib for days, watch his daughter come out, watch her lil’ ass hop in the backseat of that Honda, all happy and unbothered like the world ain’t a cruel, disgusting place. I wait for my moment.

And then? I strike.

It’s Sunday morning—church day. Perfect. Mariah come outside, pigtails all neat, wearing a little pink dress like she just left a Disney casting call. She skipping to the car, holding a lil’ juice box. I pull up slow. Roll the window down.

“Ayo, Mariah, your daddy told me to pick you up.”
She squint. “Who are you?”
“I’m Uncle Tweak.”

She confused. But I got candy. Ain’t a child alive that don’t fold for a Jolly Rancher. She reach for it—I snatch her lil’ ass up so fast she ain’t even get a chance to scream.

Now, I ain’t on no R. Kelly shit—I don’t touch kids, that’s nasty. But I do like pain, and I love suffering. So I strap Mariah to a rusty-ass chair in an abandoned laundromat, right next to a washing machine full of stolen pitbull puppies. I pull out my phone, FaceTime Rell. Retard picks up, all groggy.

“Yo? Who dis?”
I turn the camera to Mariah—her face all red, eyes puffy as hell, lil’ legs shaking.
“Wassup, bitch.”
Rell froze.
“WHERE THE FUCK YOU AT?! WHERE MY BABY?!”

I laugh. Take a big-ass hit of fentanyl off my glass pipe, blow the smoke right into Mariah’s face. She cough. HARD. I sip some lean. Let it drip onto her forehead.

“You ever seen a six-year-old overdose before?”

Rell be screamin'. Beggin’ me not to. I hang up. Ain’t no negotiating with me. Now, I coulda just kept the kid. Used her as leverage.

But that’s basic. I’m devious. So instead? I take Mariah outside, put her in Rell’s beloved Honda Accord, and tie her lil’ ass to the steering wheel. Then? I douse the whole car in lighter fluid. Rell pull up 15 minutes later, sweat drippin’ down his face, lookin’ like he just ran through Hell itself to find his kid.

He see the car. See Mariah. Sees me standin’ there with a Bic lighter, grinnin’ like the Devil’s firstborn. I click the lighter.

The flame dances. I toss it.
The flames eat the Honda like a starving pitbull on a Popeyes biscuit. Mariah screamin’—but only for a second. Then? Nothing.
The heat suck the air out her lungs so fast she don’t even get to finish her last cry.
Rell? Little bitch collapsed.

I walk up to him, lean down, and whisper: “Next time? Don’t scam me, bitch-ass.”

Then?
I disappear into the night.