Ashke
Bluelighter
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 ~*~
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 ~*~