Marty pulled out four crumpled up five-dollar bills from his overalls and handed it to the man in the hooded sweatshirt. The two men disappeared into the kitchen, as Marty stared at a stained wall with holes in it. The two men came back out of the kitchen, both blowing smoke out of their chapped lips.

They handed the crack pipe to Marty, telling him to suck on it, as the emaciated man lit it for Marty.

Marty got a lung-full of baking soda sweet aroma perfume tasting smoke, coughing it out after a second or two. The two men hit the pipe again; giving Marty more hits as well. Marty smiled, and began babbling a mile a minute about birds and Grandma. The two men laughed at him, putting some rap music in the stereo. "Shame on a nigga, who tried to run game on a nigga…"the lyrics went, with a funky drumbeat, and turntables scratching.

Marty felt good, as the music played, and the cocaine did loops around his brain. The two men asked Marty for more money. Marty pulled out the last of his money, a ten-dollar bill, some nickel's and pennies. The men grabbed his money and disappeared in to the kitchen again.

Marty started dancing his fat around, swinging his arms in the air to the music.

The two men came out of the kitchen again; both laughing their ass's off, watching Marty dance to the rap music.

Marty stopped dancing.

"You said I was gonna fly, now make me fly, or give money back!"

"Here, take another hit off this pipe, and you should be flying," the slender man coughed.

Marty Knocked the pipe out of the mans hand with a demented look in his green eyes.

"You give money back, Marty wanted to fly." Marty said, grabbing the hooded man by the neck, picking him up off the ground with one hand.

The slender man grabbed his gun off a table, pointing it at Marty's face.

"You wanna play games fucker, I'll blow your brains out!"

Marty tossed the hooded man into a wall, knocking him out. The mans head made a loud cracking noise.

"Guns bad, bad guns," Marty mumbled, walking towards the gun-holding crack head.

The man fired off a round into Marty's belly. Marty looked down at the blood oozing out of his gut, and became more enraged. He grabbed the mans wrist and turned it, snapping it like a twig. He punched the man in the face, knocking him out, grabbing the gun. He began beating the mans face in with the gun, till it looked like a squashed tomato.

Marty clutched his bleeding tummy, stumbled to the door, and headed up the stairs to the top floor. He found a door that led to the roof, and kicked it in, chain and lock ripping off it. He dragged himself along the hot black roof, till he was at the edge of the eight-story building. He took all his clothes off, throwing them down to the ground. A crowd of people from the ground gathered, pointing up at him, in amazement.

"Just around da corner in da willow trees, gonna be a birdie, flying in da breeze," he sang, over and over. He stuck his arms out; looking like he was on an invisible cross, crucified. He winged his arms to the sky, sun glistening down, he launched his overblown body into flight.