BLOG ENTRY: by DG Wilson Jan. 9, 2009 8:24 pm
End Chapt. 1 Start of Chapter 2
A drug dealer smiled his golden capped teeth glinted with ferocity. He whispered through the thick steel plate door that this stuff was the very best, it was special. The addict just nodded and smiled back, many teeth shy.
The dealer was very happy to get rid of this shit, not the drugs, the addict. He was a snitch for the cops. He was a bitch just waiting to get bitched out. A cap was too good for his ass, let him shoot this shit, then... no mo' problems. God how Rasta loved this life!
The addict took the dope, and shuffled down the hall. Towards the end was a private corner. Only a dirty cardboard box, a mattress whose springs hung out, and a woman with her springs out as well were the only furniture... besides the water bugs. He stopped in the corner, sank to the floor and pulled out his treasure chest.
He had nothing no more, but he had this. Carefully he slid a torn, soiled, slightly moldy book of matches out the other good pocket. Reverently he slid oped the box. There inside was his treasure: a syringe, beaten, bloody, dirty, burnt to a rich coppery brown, a spoon, nearly burnt through the middle lay inside among the last few matches. The addict bent the needle back to a straighter position and then fished out one of the matches. He adjusted the spoon and took a tiny piece of filthy shirt to syphon the drug into the needle. Addicted lips were licked over and over when he started to cook up the H in the bent spoon. The match and the spoon burned into his hands even this discomfort was part of his ritual, he loved it. Loved it all more than life. He would do anything, has done everything for his fix. He wasn't proud, he had nothing, wanted nothing, just the next fix. That's all he needed. Christ could take his Heaven, with all Its' rules and shove them. THIS was Heaven right here! And if the Devil gave him Heaven, who was he to complain?
As it cooked, the smell made him jumpy, he was excited. This shit burned a little blue, even more excited his lips were licked rapidly. The addict had heard about this kind of crank before. To him it was mythical, he had heard about it, but had never enjoyed it. This shit, this shit right HERE, he wasn't going to share, not for nothing. He needed nothing, no more. In a moment, he won't even care about his soul...
Needle poised over his ankle, the addict frantically slapped his skin in an attempt to get the tired artery to stand. Do your job! Time for work. Finally, impatient with need for the fix the addict just jammed the needle into an area that looked like it might hit something. Sharp and intrusive, the needle was still hot, but he didn't care. The addict injected the drug into his body. A feeling of peace overcame his brain.
He didn't care about his troubles...
...no more he didn't care...
He floated...
And then a panic hit him like lightening.
Almost immediately his intuition began to warn that this was not good stuff. After a split second, the cells in his leg around the artery that he shot in his ankle began to implode, grow black and melt. Hot fire felt like it ran up his leg. Then the pain burst into his groin, burnt through his guts and reached up with flamed talons. Slowly they closed their searing claws around his heart, which scrambled, scuttled and tried to flee. The caged animal tried to get free, but finally cramped. With a shudder the incessant, seized.
The syringe slipped from the addicts' hand and fell to the floor. His shit slid to the ground and landed on top of a large Water bug. It scrambled out from under the little plastic bag and died ten seconds later.
The woman on the mattress closed her legs and sat up suddenly as if jolted. She saw the addict passed out to her left in the corner. The woman, a zombie herself, stole over and took his fix. She thanked God for her good fortune and started to cook it up for herself.
She died too. As did one more that followed her suit.
Rastas' shift was done for the day. It was time to hand the operation over to his brother. He left the apartment from which they worked with a wave to his bro that looked through the hole in the door. From down the hall Rasta started to laugh out loud. He grabbed his belly and threw his dreads back and howled in pure glee.
His brother opened the door, stuck his head out and asked, "What up yo?"
Rasta laughed and shouted back, "De add‘ict was het! ‘N ‘nother two! Dey jus' like de Bum-da-clot rats chewen on de ‘oisoned bait!"
He shook his head and laughed again. The younger brother in the apartment didn't understand the joke. Rasta the older Jamican grabbed two right ankles and dragged their dead bodies to the open elevator shaft in the middle of the hall which was almost directly opposite of their apartment work house.
It was great that he was there in the city doing his thing. He had it all locked down. Rasta thought about his brother, he was not cut out for the real shit. His brother would have let the snitch go, maybe try to relocate the operation. But not him! Rasta was a warrior, he lived to kill. Either they die slow with the H or they go quick because they fucked up. Either way, THAT was why he was in the biz. The cash, trunk loads of cash...was just a bonus.
The open elevator shaft yawned like an evil whore ready to suck his bling or a black diseased mouth that ate the dead. What you saw depended on what you thought at the time. A steady stench of rot blew up the hole from a constant, mysterious wind. Rasta took the first, his intended, and threw the addicts' corpse into the darkness. Ten seconds later the sick sound of a thud, even a squelch of wetness floated up from the basement, five stories below. The woman went next. She was a little lighter Rasta thought. She took eleven seconds. The dealer turned to get the third victim of his trap when he whelped out of fright and stumbled back. Rasta lost his footing, screamed and fell into the darkness.
Eight seconds later his body crunched into the others far below.
CHAPTER 2
A drilling phone woke Adam Dunn from the restless sleep he barely grasped. One crusty eye open, he reached for the phone. His empty bourbon glass fell to the carpet and bounced, very loudly on the carpet. The phone wouldn't stop. Finally he grasped it right and Dunn put it to his ear. He slurred two words.
"You too, Prick. Rise and shine asshole! You gonna get this right this time?"
"Yeah, go."
"Broadway and Spring. Body in the alley, and you got,"
"What? Another one?"
"Yeah asshole, compliments of the Captain. Go to Brooklyn, to 5th and 6th St. and..."
"Jesus."
"Last body is at West 24th St. and 5th Ave. Have a good day...Asshole!"
The line buzzed emptily in the Detective's hand. He rose, hung the phone and stretched his lower back. A creature of habit, neurotically so, he turned and looked at the bed. Each morning he was amazed that he had not traversed to her side yet. It had been nearly twenty years, why can't he just sleep in the middle? Apparently that was something his unconscious mind could not accomplish.
Adam reached up and took the swimmers' nose plugs off and hung the strap on the bed post. His sense of smell was so acute that he could not sleep without them. They limited the scents, (stenches to him), of the night: the bugs, the street, of Lower Manhattan's East Side and everything else that assaulted him daily. Dunn would wear the plugs on the job and really be able to focus then pull it off when he needed it, but he didn't need to give everyone any more ammunition. His nose had come in handy a few times, but that, sadly the Detective thought, that was very long ago. Before his loss.
At the end of the bed he thought about doing their stretching ritual. At one time he was neurotic about doing them. He and his wife used to do them together, no matter the horrid time of predawn the phone roused them. Saddened with a heavy weight, his heart slowly died, again. Each and every morning was another crushing blow as he realized anew that he was alone. Instead of exercise, (a decision that he had been making for the last twenty years,) he slipped on his slippers and tugged at each heal three times, just to make sure that they were on.
He walked around the piles of clothes on the floor, the newspapers and the empty Jim Beam bottles which neatly stood at attention in the corner. Adam didn't know why they were out and why he didn't throw them away. Perhaps he was trying to tell himself something. "A bakers' dozen huh?" Adam thought to himself, "That's a personal monthly record!" He was not very pleased. They were half gallon bottles.
Adam looked over his shoulder and wondered for the billionth time why he hadn't touched her side of the bed. She always said he was like a thrashing bear when the dreams came, but her side was always smooth.
Adam stumbled and fell to the door jam of the bathroom. The Detective cursed and held his toe. Every other morning he seemed to stub one, apparently a delicate portion of his ritual as well. Dunn continued to curse and he emptied himself, didn't wash his hands, ran his fingers through his hair. Showering was out, again, the Captain was really busting his balls. Another year of this shit and he just might drive me into retirement.
Dunn thought about the last two decades as he squeezed tooth paste into his mouth and swished it around with some watered down mouth wash. What in the hell made him go back, day after day? Stubbornness? Self abuse? No, he knew that he had a job to do. One side was to serve the public, do his part. The other was to drive his Captain fucking insane! Dunn would not leave, could not, until the Captain answered for his crime. Dunn mused, that was why I haven't eaten my gun yet and joined you honey. You know me, I can't let the bad guys get away with anything...
Adam spit, and caught his tie, having no more time he left it and hobbled down to the car horn blaring on the street below.
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