Goober let Steel into the police station proper and then led him into the backa it. That was where the jailhouse sat. A couple flickersome lights cast long shadows, it seemed like every light was aimed at Steel’s eyes. Brightness drilling like a roughneck. Nigga need a beer. His head hurt. He wasn’t hungover, this was just the way he was now, this is what it is to be sober. The drunk tank was up front, it was the big cell that smelled like vomit and got like thirty guys in it passed out. Steel wished he was one of ’em. Then there was a couple one-off cells, prolly empty but it was hard to see in the dark wanna drink wanna drink wanna drink good god Steel maintained though, he was keeping it real, keeping it tight, let sleeping tits lie, his feeling hits rye, the bottle’s a liar, steeples inspire, God’s turtles is dire, this nigga’s feet spits fire, and every week the shit’s higher, hows gettin’ whyer, buyers flipping whiter hips for hire. Steel do now sit in the wisdom of God’s pyre.
Not really cuz Steel apparently don’t know what pyre means, that was gonna sound wise as fuck, it don’t make sense now that he googled it. Don’t google it. But you know, you can figure it out. It’s in the bible, all the wisdoms in the universe is in the bible.