Puck
Bluelighter
just a warning, Ashke posted this some time back afore I was a BL junkie mahself... Read some of the shtuff said, and did some tweeking (take that as you will)... Enjoy at your leisure. A spot long, though. And the main source of my name here.
High Rollers
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 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 ringed by a rainbow swirl of plastic stars and hearts. 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, 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 in the form of 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, hree-inches tall (5' 6" with my madhatter-style tophat, lovingly named "Jimmy"), 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, blue 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. I guess I'm somewhere ‘tween a kandy kid and a lemur. Or somethin' like that.
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, attended most of his classes and pulls a lovely 2.0 GPA, despite having done enough drugs to kill an ox, and was 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, Ecs-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.
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'm 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 Sidney (aka acidic refreshment) 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 DJ Sasha 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 him 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 house beats, the flow of Richard "Humpty" Vission 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.
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 glostix. 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 fuckin' 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 lways did love the feel of wind tearing through my hair. 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 an 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 all come out clean.
cont...
High Rollers
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 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 ringed by a rainbow swirl of plastic stars and hearts. 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, 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 in the form of 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, hree-inches tall (5' 6" with my madhatter-style tophat, lovingly named "Jimmy"), 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, blue 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. I guess I'm somewhere ‘tween a kandy kid and a lemur. Or somethin' like that.
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, attended most of his classes and pulls a lovely 2.0 GPA, despite having done enough drugs to kill an ox, and was 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, Ecs-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.
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'm 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 Sidney (aka acidic refreshment) 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 DJ Sasha 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 him 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 house beats, the flow of Richard "Humpty" Vission 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.
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 glostix. 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 fuckin' 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 lways did love the feel of wind tearing through my hair. 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 an 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 all come out clean.
cont...
