I can feel the shakes coming on. I know what is about to happen as my forehead begins to sweat profusely. I grip the steering wheel tighter and look for my man while trying to pay attention to the road so I don’t hit anything or anyone. I slow down for an alley that I’ve hooked up with him before and see him wandering down towards a dumpster.
I pull over to the curb, not concerning myself with the fire hydrant right by the front tire. I call out down the alley, “Hey, I need a fix, man.”
He turns his head; I can see his huge grin, but his eyes are hidden by the hood on the sweatshirt he is wearing. His dirty, grimy olive-green jacket with the dark spots lets you know he either got this jacket from an Army/Navy surplus store or he is a vet himself.
He begins to walk towards me, keeping his head down. He always does this because he told me that the gateway to the soul is the eyes, and he doesn’t want anyone to see his. He reaches in his pocket, but before he hands the package to me, he asks if I have the money. I reach in my pocket and pull out a one-hundred-dollar bill.
He shakes his head and says, “The price went up. Things are getting risky; it’s now two hundred dollars.”
I reluctantly reach into my pocket and say, “This better be worth it; I need the fix fast.”
He says with a low grunt, “It is; it’s the best.” He hands over the bag and says, “Nice doing business with you.”
He walks away down the street, and I walk back to my car. I want to savor this, so I go back to my car and head off down the street a little to my favorite little café because I need to set the mood. They know me and my drink, and I don’t even have to order when I sit down.
I look around me and look at the people sitting and enjoying their coffee and pastries. I think to myself, “Lucky saps, not having to be addicted.” I remember the first time I got my fix and the rush. I never wanted it to end, but all things have to.
I open up the bag and stare at the goods. I look around to see if anyone is paying attention, pull out the piece of paper, and slide the gun into my pocket. I open the piece of paper and see the name of my next victim. My murder dealer definitely came through, and it was going to be worth all two hundred dollars.
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