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'High Rollers', Chapter 1 (First part of a story my bf wrote)

Ashke

Bluelighter
Joined
Nov 3, 1999
Messages
4,806
Location
Gahanna, Ohio USA
High Rollers ... by Matthew Lynskey
Chapter One
~ P ~ u ~ C ~ k ~
My bejewelled fist had barely left the door before it flew open in response, revealing a young face, pale blue eyes aglow with anticipation and anxiety.
"Puck?" The voice matched the face; young, unsteady and shifting in tones.
"In the spirit," I chuckled, wry grin mirroring the smile in my mood-ring eyes. "How goes this fine even?"
"Quickly. Ton-Ton’s inside." The kid cracked a smile, mirthful if uncertain. "I don’t know how you guys can stand it. The waiting, I mean. It’s crazy." With that, he moved in a zig-zag fashion through the crowded living room of the little apartment, running a nervous hand through shoulder length hair, dirty and blonde. The other kids were laying sprawled out in various states of insobriety, the faint scent of green smoke wafting through their midst.
I let out a low chuckle, accompanied by a slow shake of my head. "Part of the game, kid. Why for worry, when all that’s left is to wait?"
"‘Bout damn time." The words were grumbled with a sour twist by none other than Ton-Ton himself, or Tito as I liked to call him. Every little jibe helps.
"Good to see you too, Tito... Patient as always, I see." The quick exchange with Ton-Ton ended as I unceremoniously whipped out my wallet, leopard-spotted and worn with care, and dumped a rolled up wad of twenties onto the table, completing the main circuit of cash. "Eight yards, mon ami, as requested."
Ton-Ton sat fidgeting at the table, sucking away at one of those damnable ‘Ports. "You still smoking that shit?" I queried, never understanding the brand. If you were gonna kill yourself slowly, you might as well get some flavor from the experience.
"Better than that fuckin’ incense you choke down," he shot back good-naturedly, referring to my cloves. "Put a fuckin’ hole in your lungs, they do..."
"Yeah, where as rolls are just so dammed healthy... And need we talk of all of the acid you eat? Jesus, kid, you’ve gotta be ‘bout as synthetic as a meal at McDonald’s by now." The back and forth cut the tension and took our minds away from the deal at hand, and even the kid managed an unsteady grin.
Okay, by now you’re probably wondering what the fu...? Perhaps some background is in order. I’ll start with 'the Kid.'
Though not the youngest of our merry troupe of partiers, Kid always gave off an
impression of youthful ignorance and impatience. Truth be known, everyone else in the area knew him as 'Triscuit' (the other white cracker), but to me 'Kid' had always seemed more appropriate in a Lost Boys, Peter Pan-esque kinda way.
‘Bout average height at Five ‘n a half feet (ie, taller than me), his innocent if slightly blemished face was topped by a mop of blonde hair which saw constant attention from his raking fingers and further disruption from a cheap, worn black visor. Baggy blue-jeans cinched with a simple length of rope, his seeming belt of preference, and a billowing Adidas sweatshirt completed
the raver uniform, sheltering his beanpole thin frame.
This’d be his first foray into our dark little world of dealing, though he was a long time user. Still living at home, his only apparent motivation seemed to be an angsty response to overprotective parents.
As for Ton-Ton, this was his living. Dealing had ceased to be a recreational sport and had become his way of paying the bills. He’d been in the game the longest, and had helped bring the rest of us to the table. Yet for all of that, he warranted watching. His eyes told me that much.
Dark grey storm clouds and ever-shifting, never fully coming to rest on an object, and at times sparkling with laughter at a joke only he knew the punch line too. For all of his joking, he always seemed apart from the others, a separate entity.
A bit above average height, just a smidgen under six feet, Tito was thin but wiry, always decked out in the same fashion, regardless of season. Worn blue jeans and skater shirt of some sort, day and night. His black hair was short and spiked up, eyes shifting and head marked by another’s anger, a scar that traced it’s path vertically down his forehead.
The 'ringleader' of us merry fellows, he’d get a line on a deal, call the main money men and we’d gather our contacts, circling out till all was in order and money made. It always struck me as more ‘n a spot amusing that selling drugs was very akin to selling Am way -- the more people working under you, the more money you made.
Needless to say, in a town as dead as lovely Altoona, where the party scene was beyond non-existent and one had to bump over to Pitt or Philly for any remotely good time, a guy as solid as Ton-Ton was viewed as a godsend. Before him, we’d all spent many a night panhandling for single pills and being wary of undercovers. Now, ten and twenty-packs were the standard, the
prices set and the risk non-existent. A win for all, dontcha think?
Then, of course, there’s me, 'Puck' as they call me... Yeah, I know, sad and
melodramatic? A spot, but who doesn’t love that mischievous li’l sprite? ‘Sides, it’s not like I gave myself the tag. Towering above others at all of five-foot, three-inches tall (5' 5" with my beret on), I was usually decked out in all sorts of wacky shit, from sweaters to sparkly, shiny shirts, blue jeans to cargo pants, attire as varied and unanchored as my moods and fancies. Hair a deep brown and a billy goat’s gruff goatee of the same set a counterpoint, with eyes almost always alight with one joke or another, whether it be voiced or not, and shifting colour with my mood.
At the time, I was arrayed in baggy, tent-like blue jeans and black velvet shirt, whorls tearing one’s attention to and fro, and enshrouded in a full-length, grey trenchcoat. Various candy and jewelry adorning both wrists, fingers and neck, all rings and necklaces sterling silver, and most bracelets black-light reflective and sparkly. An odd combo, to be sure, and hard to
stereotype. Closest I’ve ever heard was 'glitter goth.'
And now that we know the characters a bit better, how's about the situation? As you may've gathered, we’re dealers. Ooh, spooky, no? Well, actually, no, not at all. We’re just everyday fellas like any other. Triscuit went to high school, attends most of his classes and pulls a lovely 2.0 GPA, despite having done enough drugs to kill an ox, and is also a very polite, shy fellow.
Myself, I work and go to school full-time, and excel at both. At school I have the measure of a Collegiate Scholar and at work am respected and have raised quickly in rank. I have a girlfriend of two-and-a-half years, whom I love and spend much of my time with. My parents are
loving and fun to be with, not at all the mean-spirited, cold dictators people always assume raise a law-breaker. A pretty normal, if inane fellow. So, you might ask, why am I here? Welp, it’s a labor of love. The scene, the people, the parties and, of course, the pills. All of it seems to draw
me as a Baby Boomer to Michael Bolton music.
The narcotic on the table this evening is pills , pressed powder. The contact has been straight, so Tito claims, and just got better. He was willing to part with a jar this even, and we three would be the main players. The rest of the kids, strewn throughout the room, would sit and
wait, having a far smaller share at stake.
Now, without further ado, back to the present...
Moving decisively, Tito pulled the room’s one plant out of it’s pot, an immortal spider plant that had somehow survived off of nothing but Killian’s Red and Mountain Dew for the past couple of months, and grabbed his own stake money before gesturing at the door. "We good?"
I shrugged unconcernedly, as ready as ever. Carefully, I replaced my wad in my wallet before lighting one of my cancer sticks. "Good to go, thug money. You, kid? You still rarin’ ta go, or would ya rather wait behind the lines? No skin either way, mon ami." Truth told, I’m not for thinking he should be making the trip with us. Don’t get me wrong, I love the kid to death, it's just that... Well, first sign of trouble I'm afeared he'll flip and go to pieces. And
something in Ton-Ton’s face tells me it's not going to go quite as smooth as he's letting on.
Grinning and bobbing his head to the music, Triscuit stops his hands from their fluid dance, though his lithe frame still flows with the hypnotic sway of jungle beats. "Hell yes, man... Feels like Christmas."
Ton-Ton chuckled at that. "Yeah, Ex-mas isn’t all that for off at that, boy-ose... Now let’s get there so we can get back." With that, the three of us headed off into the shadowy even and what would be a cataclysmic night.
--
That's the end of chapter one... You guys wanna here more, lemme know and I'll post the next chapter.
~*~ Ashke ~*~
 
Note from Ashke ~ Actually I think rather than post in seperate topix I'll just add chapters with 'reply'... Keep from cluttering up the board. Enjoy!
Chapter 2
T--R--I--S--c--U--I--T
Ah, the music... That’s all that really matters, when ya think about it. Name’s Triscuit, kidos, just to get introductions outta the way. The soothing, rolling beats fill me in a way nothing else could ever touch. Helps, ‘specially now. You’ve gotta realize, I am a bit nervous at the moment. I mean, up till now I’d never bought any more’n a couple pills at a time. It felt like I was finally on a level with them, Puck ‘n Ton-Ton. We’re at Ton-Ton’s place, me ‘n my friendly candy kid buddies, ready for rolls. Puck ‘n Ton-Ton’re going over the final details, or something like that. Ton-Ton’s sitting and thinking, puffing away at his smokey treats, thinking of who knows what. That’s his style, though. Background, till all’s in order, or he needs us to get together the change. Then he’s all roses.
Now, I know he’s got a bad rep. Ton-Ton, that is. But he’s really a great guy. No one else’d been willing to take a kid like me on, help me on my way. If it hadn’t been for him, I’d never of gotten to this point. I know Puck says to watch him, to watch myself, but he’s just too protective. Same as the others, he sees a kid, and calls me such. But I know he means well. It’s just that Ton-Ton would never backstab us -- he needs us now, too. We’re his best buyers. Even get frequent buyer bonuses, I guess ya could say. Besides, how can you not love a guy who’ll give you a coupla free hits of Lucy (aka liquid trip) every once in a while, just ‘cause he can?
Puck’s standing there stretching, tossing off random comments and earning a grin or a chuckle from the various kids, as is his wont. A nutty guy, but steady as they come. It’s funny, to look at the two you’d think Puck would be the first to crack, should anything go awry, but Ton-Ton’s always been the one to get panicky and lash out. Puck just seems to roll with the situation, no pun intended. Grins and cracks a joke, and gets it done. Problem is, he seems to
think he’s my big brother or something. Truth is, I don’t have one and am quite happy with that fact. He should pay more attention to his own back, and get off of mine.
One of my kids keys up a line of special K for me, grinning with glassy eyes as he offers it up. Moving through the liquids as Keoki’s “Outer Space” fills my thoughts, arms flowing to the beats, legs swaying I wait for the stuff to hit my system, barely noticing as the two get up and move towards the door.
Puck always said the stuff was poison, and addictive, but what’d he know? He doesn’t even do much other than rolls. And besides, it’s got me nice ‘n relaxed, far away from the nervous state I’d been in for the past couple of hours waiting for Puck to get offa work.
Puck’s question is expected, but still grates. Of course I’m going. I’ve got money on the table now, kiddie. I’m no child, whatever you call me. Head bobbing to the music in my head, I follow the two out the door and to the car. A twinge of excitement fills me as I plop into the back of Puck’s car. “‘89 Chrysler New Yorka, wine red ‘n plush interiah...” as Puck says, twisting the words just so. “The car of a pimp or grampa, take your pick.”
I melt into the backseat and smile graciously as he pops in jungle beats, the flow of Richard Humptyvision filling my awareness. He and Ton-Ton are talking about whatever, but I can’t seem to focus on their words. No matter. They’ve done this before, and from now on there’ll be plenty of chances for me to hear the little details and even help with them. For now, I’ll enjoy the music and this lovely K-hole I’m bouncing around in.
[This message has been edited by Ashke (edited 13 December 1999).]
 
This is just too good....Please Sir, can I have some mo?
smile.gif

------------------
Have fun and be careful!
Meg
 
Note from Ashke: Whoops! I nearly forgot about this thing. Yes, certainly.
smile.gif

T--o--N ~ T--o--N
“‘Bout damn time,” I mutter, scowling slightly as Puck finally waltzes on in the door. He
always does take his bloody time getting here. We toss off a few comments, get our shit together and get through the door. Money’s together, at least.
I can’t help but chuckle softly to myself as we drive along, looking at my two “cohorts.” If they only knew. Yeah, they’re both getting a deal as they see it, but they don’t know how good a deal it is. ‘Course, that’s because I’ll be the one winning the extra proceeds tonight. It’s the economics of it. My connection, my money. And it was time to go.
So, there was a little more risk’n usual tonight. Risk was nothing new in this business, and no need to worry ‘em with the details. Candy kids, that’s one thing they can’t stand, risk. Only care for parties and pills, and glitter and lights. But their money’s green, so the hell with it. And they were pretty easy to push along, prod till they’re in the same game as me, with few other options.
That’s what pissed me off the most ‘bout Puck, I guess. Bastard had his cake and icing, and kept on munchin’ along. Work ‘n school, drugs ‘n parties all on the same plate. That, and he seemed to know things he was supposed to be too blind to see. He knew I made money off of these deals, but didn’t care. And the bastard knew the same people, had the same connections now. Just don’t make sense. Why didn’t he split off? What was he after? Loyalty and trust aren’t for this game, so there had to be somethin’. Still, he was reliable like nobody’s business. Money up front and ready, and trusting as a sheep to slaughter. And the others followed him, bleating the same naive tune.
The kid’s different, though. He’s got no job, and won’t any time soon. Money just isn’t the same, and you have ta do that whole 9 to 5 shit to get it. Sure, he’s still in school, but that won’t last much longer. Early risin’ never really fit for me, and I can see how it chafes at him. The nightlife was too profitable, and the people too easy. Suckers all over, just waitin’ to be bled dry. It’s just so dammed funny to see when the suckers realize whose getting played, and it sure ain’t me.
The story I’d spilt to Puck was good if I do say so myself. One of my good ol’ boys’d fucked up somethin’ fierce. Bloody fool’d had a buncha shit fronted to him, and didn’t have the money, and his people were ready to collect. We’d be up for a whole ficin’ jar, 100 rolls, and all this at fifteen yards. Damn, but the money’d be good for a while. And I was chargin’ these two pups right ‘round two bills per ten-pack. They saved a little, I made a lot. Game, set, match. Just wasn’t the whole truth, but they didn’t need to know that just yet.
The thought spawns a grim smile, head hanging slightly outside the window. I always did love the feel of wind tearing through my head. Grinning like an idiot, I stick my head out the window, swiveling it like a turtle poking it’s head out of it’s shell. Eyes goggling slightly, I look at the older lady cruising alongside of us and yell at the top of my lungs. “Li-on!” Nonsensical and pointless, the display brings a mirroring grin from Puck. Dumb fucker.
My grin fades as we pull up to the place, and I become all business. Show time, my brothers. Collecting their money, I open the door and pop out, shadowed by the two. Puck has the walk down pretty good, halfway ‘tween a strut and prowling, but that combined with his disarming grin always managed to set people off kilt, and every bit helped. The Kid seemed to be lolling forward, swaying slightly. Damn, shoulda known. Fucker’s in a K-hole. Well, buckle down and we’ll come out clean.
[This message has been edited by Ashke (edited 23 December 1999).]
 
P--u--C--k
“Now remember, let me do the talking. This is my connection, my guy, so don’t confuse him. He’s a little skittish.” This from Tito. Gods, but the boy could be silly at times. Of course I’d let him do the talking, and I’d be shocked if Kid could even muster a sentence of any meaning in his current state. I can’t help but scowl slightly at the poor boy, his eyes glazed and lips parted in what might be construed as a smile.
The ride was an odd one, to be sure. Tito usually had a good deal to say, airing his nervousness in light banter. Tonight, he was tight-lipped and kinda grim. Just grand. It’d seem my feelings’d been at least close to the mark; this’d be an interesting even.
Then there’s Trisc, head-bobbing to the music and nothing else seeming to get through his haze. A coupla tries to rouse him had been unsuccessful, earning a shell of a smile or some words murmured and completely lacking any tangible theme.
The area was a spot more’n rugged, to be sure, exactly the type of house for business of our sort. There was more paint to be found chipped off and clinging to the safari-style jungle of a yard than on the house itself, one window boarded up and the screen door loose.
Without hesitation, Ton-Ton sauntered up to the door and rapped on it, tapping out the classic ‘shave and a haircut.’ A moment later, the shade drawn in front of the window edging open slightly and revealing a pair of darting eyes. With an audible click the lock was thrown and we three kings allowed passage. Ton-Ton walked through first, with myself bringing up the rear.
It’s kind of difficult to ignore a 9mm being pointed in one’s direction, but I felt that Ton-Ton and myself were doing a decent job of remaining unruffled. This kid was beyond on edge. In his early twenties, his blonde hair was done in dreads, and greyish eyes shifting from one to the other of us. Clothing and skin were obviously uncleaned, and his chin showed splotches of growth from a lack of shaving. And in his right hand, held gangsta style, what I can only assume to be a loaded piece.
With great control, I kept my hand from my own piece. Yeah, I know, violence begets violence and all that bunk, but tell that to yourself while staring down a barrel. Tends to change your perspective a spot. Ton-Ton’s hand strayed a spot, and gave me the tell. So, I wasn’t the only fellow with insurance it’d seem. Then there was Kid... Leaning against the wall and staring out the window.
“The money, T? You got it, right?” Ton-Ton responded to the none-too-gentle prodding with a smile and a nod of his head.
“You know I do, boyose. You look like hell, Skittles. Any news?” Odd, that. Ton-Ton showing compassion wasn’t exactly something you got to see a lot. There’s gotta be somethin’ else here.
Licking his lips, Skittles hesitantly lowered his piece before returning it to it’s impromptu holster in his jeans. “Nah, they’ve not been answering the phone... And no call here, either.” His voice went no higher than a whisper, wringing his hands before shoving them into his pockets. “But, uhm, the price’s up a little, T...”
Ah, now that’s the Tito I know, eyes flashing and half-a-step forward before thinking. “One more time there, chief? I coulda sworn you just said you were gonna change the price on me...” No doubting the challenge there.
“You know I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to, T... But I need the green. They’re... They’re not playin’ games, here.” Damn, he was spooked. This guy was a spot above all of us on the chain, and spazzing like hell. We needed to get the fuck outta here, stat. This was not a scene to dabble in. Try tellin’ that to mister dealer, though.
“Look, Skit, do you want the money or not. ‘Cause it’s either that price or you’re even farther away than you would be.” As if to twist the blade with his words, Tito took out the loot, fluttering it expertly. “As agreed, or not at all, chief. Your call.”
If I hadn’t known him as long as I had, I’d be dammed impressed. He was either gonna keep this straight or get us shot, though, so I’m afraid respect is out the window. I don’t appreciate people gambling with my life. That, and the bead of sweat on his forehead showed the bluff to me.
Several tense heartbeats later Skit gave a terse nod of his head. “Agreed.” Tight-lipped through the rest of the deal, he forked over five small pill containers. “Twenty rolls in each, kids. We’ve got X-Files, tweeties, stars, batmen and double-stack Mitsubishis. Divide them as you will.” He was all business now, counting out the cash twice before handing over the containers.
Tito gave me the nod, and I moved to it. Taking each vial, I emptied one onto a free sheet of paper, first counting them and then turning each symbol upwards. X-files, it’d seem, pressed in the shape of a pentagon and imprinted with an “X” on one side. The faint scent of licorice brought a wolfish grin to my face. Better than good, these bad boys had a good amount of mdma in ‘em. To those of you unexperienced with ecstasy, a quick lesson. Pure x, also known as Molly, Sassafras and a wide array of other names, smells like licorice. It’s made up of the chemical compound known as mdma, a methamphetamine. And this shit was good. True, not pure, but dammed close. And I was the taste tester. Oh, the agony...
Some call me old-fashioned, but I always preferred to eat a pill to any of the other various methods. Injection was out, I was never a fan of suppositories and snorting powder just brings me back too much to when I was a cokehead. This was something I could control, and I’d be dammed if I’d screw that up. So I popped it, and chewed it up. By the by, if you have the chance, do not chew a pill. Besides the simply horrendous taste, it burns out far quicker. But I wasn’t after long-term affects right now, just proof that this shit was as good as I knew it to be.
A good fifteen minutes of awkward banter later found my jaw chattering somethin’ fierce and pupils the size of saucers. Smiling vapidly at nothing and in love with everything, I nodded my head to the music and words of my fellows, flowing back and forth. Trisc was smiling too, just starting to come outta his K-hole. Moving languidly, I sparked a menthol, a Marlboro Menthol Light 100 to be precise. Another l’il side note to you non-rollers out there, whether ye be a smoker or non-, there is nothin’ like a good, cool menthol while rolling. In a world of heightened sensation, the crisp, minty feel of smoke curling within your mouth and lungs was a wonder.
It’s kinda hard to cling to such ruminations, however, when said world full of love is turned quite rudely on its head, which is just what happened when I suddenly found myself for the second time that evening staring down the barrel of a gun. This time, however, it was Ton-Ton on the other side of the 9.
[This message has been edited by Ashke (edited 27 December 1999).]
 
T--R--I--S--c--U--I--T
Smiling lazily, my world a pinpoint focus, a tunnel of relaxation, I force myself to follow Puck ‘n Ton-Ton outta the car and up the front door. Eyes heavy and legs leaden, I trail the others through the door and notice vaguely a spooky guy pointing at us unsteadily with a gun. Thoughts of someone else, nothing to concern me. Holding to the hole, I let my gaze stray to the window and the shadowy darkness outside.
The others were talking about, well, something. Again, nothing to do with me, though an inkling of consciousness and what I can only think of as awareness, of myself and the situation, was starting to ferret its way into my cultivated apathetic relaxation.
Puck was looking intently at a plain sheet of paper, pills spread atop of it. Grinning to himself, he picks one up, kisses it lightly as a lover and pops it all with a warm glow in his now-green eyes.
So it seems I’m getting back to “the moment,” as it lays. I sigh to myself, lighting a Camel to help pass the wait as Puck goes and retrieves a Mountain Dew from the fridge in the other room. Still, a light hazy cloud slows both thought and movement as I drag from my slow-burning smokey treat.
Puck’s got that look in his eyes now, eyes a thin sliver of Chartreuse green orbiting immense black pupils. Rolling balls, as the kiddies call it. His jaw’s starting to get ahead of him, too, another tell. Lucky cat, he shoots a happy smile at me, speaking almost too softly for my clouded mind to pick out. “Heya,” or something equally unimportant while puffing contentedly on a menthol.
And then there stood Ton-Ton, and unthinkingly both Puck ‘n me get to our feet before we see the piece held in his hand and pointed at Puck, grey eyes alight and mouth set in a sneer.
“I’m sorry, boyos’, but it’s time for me to jump this boat. And I’m afraid you kids’re payin’ my passage.” Ton-Ton, always the joker. Still dazed, I bat playfully at the piece. And the world erupted, torn apart by fire and pain.
 
Okay Now I'm hooked too.
More Please!
------------------
...Few are those who see with their own eyes and feel with their own hearts...Albert Einstein
 
T--o--N ~ T--o--N
Perfect, and too easy by far. Things were goin’ smooth as silk. Skits is playin’ his part to the tee, acting his part and leading the tension along... And all of the while givin’ these kids something else to occupy their worries. Well, Puck at least. Trisc prob’ly wouldn’t’ve noticed if I took the money ‘n rolls and left right then.
Puck’s already popped his pill and is starting to feel it, eyes rollin’ around and grinnin’ like an idiot. Ever the fool, he sparks a smoke, never suspecting. It’s time.
Moving to my feet, I discreetly draw my 9 and wait till the other two’re on their feet before laying my cards for all to see, smiling as I stare down Puck. Game. Set. Match.
I can see the shock in Puck’s eyes as they widen, his hand scritching at his damn fool goatee. He doesn’t get it. That’s right, fool, you forgot rule one -- no trust. The story I’d told them was to a great degree true, but with one very important difference. It wasn’t Skits who had to skip town in a hurry, but yours truly. Always a hassle, but it happens to the best of us.
Sneering in disgust, I snarl disdainfully at the pair, focusing on Puck, who’d unwittingly become a rival in my own mind. Beaten, by me, as it should be. Sorry, kids, but don’t play the game if you don’t know the rules.
Now all that’s left is to tie these half-wit fucks up and leave, money and pills in hand, leaving Skits a coupla bucks for his trouble.
A hand brushes my own, and I jerk in surprise and fear and shatter the silence with a frantic shot. Disbelieving, I watch as Trisc seems to fall backwards, crumbling like a marionette to the ground. A splash of crimson paint dimples on my arm, and I seem to feel each is they land. Unreal, unfucking real. It’s all happened too fast, everything in slow motion. Blink, trigger pulled. An eternity later Triscuit falls like a broken doll to the floor.
“Jesus Christ! Jesus, fucking Christ!” This from Skits, staring in shock at Trisc and the growing puddle of lifeblood. “That’s it, Ton-Ton, that is it. I’m out.” I barely notice as he bolts for the door.
I should feel like shit. I mean, I never planned for this. It shoulda been so easy, quick in and out of town. Not pain and death. Except for Puck, the rest of these kids were just money to me, like any others. I should be crushed, feel guilt. Why the rush, then?
I try to fight the smile that threatens at the corner of my lips, to stifle the rush of adrenalin in my system and regain cold detachment. But it’s rather hard to tell yourself to follow one set of social morals when you’ve spent your whole life ignoring another. And besides, I still had Puck to deal with.
 
P--u--C--k
Gunfire tore the world in two, shattering the silence and my feelings of love for everything, for everyone and killing a good deal of the roll. Mouth agape in horror, I fall stumble back a coupla steps and flinch my eyes close. But the expected pain doesn’t come, and my eyes awaken to the cruel sight of my kid Trisc falling to the ground, hands clutching at his torn throat.
Ignoring the burning in my eyes and tightness in my chest, I pull my own piece forth smoothly. Sloughing off a roll isn’t easy, but if you focus hard enough you can sober yourself, and I do so now.
“You low, miserable fuck! Scum, filth!” I snarl, circling him and wondering frantically how in the hell I was gonna get out of this scene. Boiling rage and leaden fear war with one another as I stare at the two-timing, two-faced bastard himself. “Take out the kiddie, huh, Tito? Real man, Tito. Real man.” Keep talking, keep stalling. We continue to circle one another, each trained on the other with our pieces.
“He didn’t die because of me, Punk. He followed you, not me. It’d seem the jester’s lost one of his court admirers.” Trying to rile me, like a fool. Almost works is the funny thing. Feelings of love have been burned away by loss and rage.
We couldn’t keep this shit up forever; pretty soon, one or the other of us was going to fire, and a shaving of a second later the other. Two more chalk lines on this bloodied floor, two more dead dealers. Nothing to mourn, no reason for tears.
The faint sound of a police siren shattered the silence, and Ton-Ton’s eyes dart to the window. Stealing the moment, I reverse midstep and shoulder swipe his arms, forcing the aim of his gun to the wall. Shouting in rage I lash out with my 9, knocking him to the ground and found myself pulled along to the hardwood floor atop him.
Quicker than thought, my finger convulses on the trigger and am rewarded as Tito convulses against me and blood splashes upwards. I fire, fire in anger and rage, in pain and disillusion. Breath coming raggedly, I lay for minutes, hours, seconds atop the still twitching body before thought returned, bringing me back to the moment and a fiery pain in my left arm.
I’d killed him, I’d fucking killed both of them. As good as. What a fuckin’ friend, what a pillar of humanity. ‘Yeah, Puck, great fuckin’ guy... Bloody junky, dealer, murderin’ bastard...’ With more difficulty than anything I’d ever done, I pushed myself to my feet and stumbled to the door, refusing to look. Mechanically, I open the door and head out into the uncaring night.
 
T--R--I--S--c--U--I--T
All about the music, kiddies. The music. It hits me in waves, lapping at my body. The music, and the pain. The pain was ebbing, though, bowing it’s stubborn neck to a cold, encompassing numbness. Straining to open my eyes, fear surges in me again as I realize the same blackness fills my vision, eyes opened or closed.
The flow of blood seems to be stopping, taking with it the pain but thankfully leaving the music, soothing and comforting as ever. As the music reaches it’s peak, I manage a sigh and let the dark waves engulf me for one final dance...
T--h--e----E--n--D
Note from Ashke: Well, that's it! Tell me what you guys think; my boyfriend has no self confidence in his writing, but I think he's fab so maybe you can help me convince him.
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Props to the author. I enjoyed every moment of it. Kept me wanting to read more. Triscuit's goodbye, especially good. Sad... but the words were great.
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"Shine on you crazy diamond....."
 
Hey Ashke,
Just wanted to let you know I really enjoyed this story, and to say to your boyfriend - KEEP WRITING! Trust me, no matter what you do - somone will love it and someone will hate it, so just speak your truth and you will find your audience. I've been acting professionaly for about 15 years now and depending on the critic and the show I'm either the greatest American actor since Brando, or I commit a crime against humanity every time I walk on stage. So about 3 years ago I decided everything I do is good - and so it is. Ta da! I've geen having a GREAT time acting ever since. I've also written a few plays and I can tell you, you've already solved one of my major problems as a writer - your characters all have their own voices. Thats great! Mine all sound suspiciously like me talking to myself. Man, I could go on and on about this,(and believe me I do) ALL art is good! If everybody in the world had a creative outlet I truly believe we'd have a whole lot less problems. If you're interested, you should check out "The Artist's Way". It's a great workbook for artists, but particularly for writers. Anyway, I think your writing is really compelling and alive, please keep it up and keep sharing with us! Congratulations: you're a writer!
Love and Peace,
Guru Daddy
 
i think the writing was very good, kep it up.
i was just wondering if you have read anything latly by H.S.T??? (Hunter S. Thompson)?? your styles are very similar, and if you havent i would suggest picking up somthing by him. (fear and loathing in las vegas, the rum diary, the great shark hunt, or hells angels) all are very, very great books, read a few and i think you will seethe comparison. thank you for your writing, it was great!!!! keep it up
wigg
 
LOVED THE STORY ICOULDN'T BRING MYSELF TO STOP READING! NEAR GOT ME IN BIG SHIT AT WORK lol!!!
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Be all you can be! Take some E!
 
Very good writting. The characters were very 3 dimensional for being in such a short story. This is the reason I have always refused to make the jump from small-time junkie to big-time dealer. keep up the writting mr boyfriend guy!
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"The spirit-world doth open lie,
thy sense is shut; thy heart is dead.
Up, scholar, lave with courage-high
thine earthly breast in the morning red!" -Goethe
 
Please more!!!!
That was gripping. Dealing looks a little less like a good option.
Post some more....
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Don't judge me
 
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