#3

It's the sort of tragedy that's reserved for sources of news. It's a problem which festers like herpes after a rave. I speak, of course, about elderly heroine addicts. Call it the anti-christ? You'd agree with the public's opinion. In a fashion befitting our journalistic integrity here at STDKP, we interviewed an old people.

The interview was the rambeling of race views older than the notion of justice, a battle with dementia, and a "happy birthday wish" orgy. 

We've summarized the interview:

I get up at 5 a.m to meet my dealer. They sell the nectar of gods: heroine. Sometimes, I heat it up before I shoot up, just to feel the consecrated magma corce through my arms. You know, it's the only thing I ever feel anymore: high as a muthatrucka'. 

We couldn't ask more questions. Her skins was a sort of hardened leather; not unlike her soul, we suspected. As tough as nails, that's what she is. Hell, she practically injects herself with nails. Just hypodermic nails. Filled the brim with illicit opiate. Oh! Addicts pray that your needles be clean and your stuff strong like a bull. 

How strong should one hope for? Note the opiate warped face of the subject. Stare in to the eyes, dimmed by over dose. Note the teeth - not even microbes can survive the chemistry lab her body has become. Upon knowing -- with clairvoyance -- what that old person feels, you will becomed introduced to the heroine of quality befitting the Kingpin's personal stash.