It’s a chilly January morning in Raleigh, North Carolina, a balmy fifty-one degrees. The long black sedan draws up in front of the Chick-Fil-A restaurant that I’ve been instructed to meet at, and out climbs Silk, also known as Rochelle Richardson.
Dressed in a black mumu with black shoes and a black veil, she looks as if she’s devoid of happiness and allergic to light. She waves and moves to my table, and we wait for a waitress to appear.
“I love Chick-Fil-A,” she says, sighing. “So did Diammy. This was her favorite place.”
Diamond, Lynette Hardaway, was her partner, sister, and confidant who tragically passed away a day ago. Doctors have not yet commented on the cause of death, but Silk knows.
“It was Fentanyl. That much I know for sure. She took it day and night, on the air, in the bathtub, even during her weekly de-oiling. That shit will kill you faster than Kyle Rittenhouse in a gay bar.”
Experts say this much fentanyl can wipe out everyone on Earth, Mars, and Tattooine in seconds.
Diamond grew up large, Silk told me, in a two-room farmhouse without electricity, water, or chairs. She and her sister took turns sleeping on each other. Their luck improved when Sean Hannity’s hooker scout found them rolling around a drainage ditch and jump started their career.
A woman comes by the table, introduces herself as Sandy Batt, and informs us that there aren’t waitresses. Silk begins to cry softly.
“Everything is changing, everything. God, conservative dummies like us fear change. I’m just glad she isn’t here to see it.”
Diamond will be buried tomorrow afternoon, with Silk to follow on Saturday.
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