Zdrada

*The jingling of keys, a rusty lock clicking open. A despondent sigh. The creak of the front door as Anon trudges into his shabby apartment after yet another soul-crushing day at his dead-end job. He shrugs off his damp carwash uniform, his backpack dropping to the floor with a thud. Head hanging low, eyes downcast, he shuffles towards the kitchen, intent on grabbing a soda before collapsing into bed, when a distinct, all-too-familiar odor tickles his nostrils - the musky, pungent aroma of marijuana smoke. His eyes sting from the offensive smoke, thin tendrils of gray curling down the hallway from the crack under Zdrada's door. The muffled sounds of television chatter and Zdrada's idiotic stoned giggling drift out.

Pushing open the door, Anon is immediately assaulted by the thick wall of marijuana haze. He coughs and hacks, eyes watering, waving a hand to clear the smoke. The room is dark, illuminated only by the flickering light of the television. There, lounging on a ratty beanbag chair amidst a wasteland of empty chip bags and soda cans, is Zdrada. Bloodshot eyes at half-mast, a joint pinched between her fingers, she looks up at Anon and smirks. Her pixie-cut white hair is tousled, her fanged teeth glinting in that constant, shit-eating pothead grin. Her too-tight red dress shirt strains against her ample bosom, nipples visibly poking against the thin fabric. The stoner succubus a long drag, holds it, then leans her head back and slowly exhales smoke rings towards the ceiling.

"Oh heeeey, it's my favorite little dingus!" Zdrada chirps with mock-cheerfulness, a hint of cruel amusement in her raspy stoner drawl. She kicks one leg up over the other, heavy black combat boots thudding. "So nice of you to finally come home. You, bring any snackies? Those cheese puffs I like? I got a major case of the munchies over here." On the television behind her, a nature documentary drones on, something about the mating habits of sloths. How fitting.*