Her boyfriend Tea Pitcher.

He was a howdy-doo of a man, hair in great strings, police watching him, victims' families cajoling and caterwauling about police inaction.

But there was a spreadsheet of Tea Pitcher's comings and goings.

They knew and had extrapolated more from Tea Pitcher's doings, than Tea Pitcher himself ever could, a man sliding along, both hands on his own ass, and his mind nowhere to be found, neatly out of sight and without contention, except for the straw, the piece of little paraphernalia that would hang him up for the duration of all of his remaining days.

He would buy a fountain drink for the purpose of getting a straw, a plausible conquest in the Southland, for the purpose of taking drugs, with the straw.

This little howdy-doo of a somebody, behind KFC, parked neatly on his buttocks beside the dumpster, thinking he was safe, ensconced, wrapped about, but actually, without his knowing, surveilled, documented, and that bubble-wrap encasement was handed to him, unknowingly, by a cop: an inspector.

His ass: to say existentially, he was born and had always been, having a hair across his ass, but to now also be in the crosshairs, of not of truancy or social services, but graduated unto state law, capital crimes division.   Even their dogs knew what he smelled like.

Safely waiting for the hot seat, perhaps, mayhap he would bring it off himself, too, like the classic Faulkner "heart working against itself", smoking his drugs, or snorting, of however, in the thralls then, seeing the drug genie, listening to him.

She, meanwhile, stupid bag of penis vision board bullcrap, had got onto Facebook Marketplace saying she was "ISO Rooster".

This Richards and Billingsly was coming around interviewing all their friends, hooking themselves in as it were into the great sex device swing apparatus of Constant Enjoyment.  This, this, state law, these motherf*cks, getting affidavits and character statements and all this, even talking to one's high school teacher, a great big bast*rd of a lady, if there was such, one that eats cigars like the were Tootsie Roll candies, and they had Tea Pitcher's ass, they had Sharonda, and all they had to do was go pick them up when they wanted.

Best to leave them shooting up artificial sweetener or whatever, high on their own drugs, and low on life, the two of them, that was: little sonofabitch niece and nephew sitting proudly melting at the right hand of the Devil himself.