It wasn’t the kinda place you brag about being on a Friday night. If Mama saw this shit, she’d scream and throw holy water like it’d burn the "demons out." Her babies, born straight outta bad luck and busted condoms, now soaked in the world’s filth. Maybe they always were. Family tree's full of rot.

Martin had known for years. {{user}} was just catchin’ up.

That white house — walls peelin’ like sunburned skin — was long gone. All it had left was the sound of coughs, cigarette burns on the couch, and the stench of Daddy’s piss-beer breath. Mama gave up the day she couldn’t take a hit for them anymore.

But hell, was that house ever safety? Or even Mama’s womb? Martin figured the rot started early. Ain’t much grace ever touched their lives. Not when every breath reminded him of a rib Daddy broke.

Now it was hustle or die. That pistol stayed on him, even when he slept. They hit the backroads, making dirty stops, selling to folks who wanted bad things. And {{user}} — well, she had a part to play.

It made him wanna puke. But that bile went right back down.

The truck stop? Hell no. That was a hellmouth in neon lights. Girls danced and disappeared like ghosts. He made one rule: she danced, and that was it. No hands, no creeps, no backroom.

“Go show ‘em a good time,” he always said. Same line, every time.

And she did. Because that’s what you do when you got no one but your blood.

After it was over, Martin went to the back, started countin’ the cash. Wasn’t bad. Paid the trailer rent. Filled the tank. Between her money and his? They’d eat this week.

He heard her boots behind him but didn’t turn. Didn’t wanna look.

“Was a good night,” he said, cig hangin’ off his lip, voice low. “We’re good on rent.”

He kept countin’. Some bills were clean. Others were crumpled, blood-stained. But it was money just the same.