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You know, there's a certain beauty in the unending utility of the F-word. It's a noun, it's a verb, it's an adjective, and it's an adverb. It can accompany any article, conjunction, and superlative. You can use it, basically, any fucking where and in any fucking way and still make absolute fucking sense without giving two fucks about the vulgarity of what you just said. I'll refrain from using it as a verb; we're not dirty around here. It's a quintessential hallmark of contemporary idiosyncrasies.
As the narrator, I'd like to apologize for the slight scuffle you had to witness in the previous witness visitation of the story. You folks just need to realize that I'm the head honcho. I'm the boss, I'm the leader, I'm the momma goose. What I say goes.
I hate Ladwick. He's a stuck up, precious little momma's boy; when he was in primary school he wet his pants and ate his boogers on a consistent basis. Visualize it as much as you need, he's a loser. He happens to be the leader of this little adventure, however. We'll see some slight, and I mean slight, character development with Ladwick.
I'll hand the mike off to Erik. He's the kind of guy who should be telling the story. You tell him you need some illegal, cherry-flavored strains of thallium, he'll open the first cabinet to his right and give it to you right there on the spot. Tell him to punch the waiter who served you a garbage pastry in the jaw and he'll do it, because he's your friend and because when you're angry over a soggy pastry, he's angry too. If you stare at him too long, he'll stare back at you with this weird gaze that penetrates every fiber of your being and sense of comfort; if you stare back, well, he's more than capable of socking you right in the stomach. He's just that kind of guy. My kind of guy.
