Things were bad and getting worse. I wasn't surprised too long; bad things happen. Took a while to believe that. Maybe sank in when I was walking with three other junkies. We were going to score - they cheated me, of course. A car ran over my foot, didn't stop. As I hopped along moaning, one junkie smiled like a clown.
"Hah. Nobody gives a fuck, man."
True. Nobody gives a fuck, until it's their turn to suffer. Then it's too late, so why give a fuck.
Tractor stood pale and naked, blinking from sweat. My turn next. First level of a deep mineshaft of indignity. I braced myself: whatever happens, deal with it. Humiliation, confrontation. Prison; gang rape. That's right. A helpless hate-puppet, a voodoo doll for other losers to stick.
But I won't bow. Got it? If they overpower my body, whatever, but that isn't me. They can cut and burn the meat, but they won't reach the emerald green bird, soaring above.
One problem, there: heroin. Pumping three grams of number 4 every day...the green bird is already caged. How tough would I be after 48 hours withdrawal?
I didn't want to think about it. Like I hadn't wanted to think about why two guys in shades had been standing near the taxi. One even looked at the number plate, then at my face. He nodded.
Driving away, we saw them up an alley...talking into a radio-phone. Tractor looked to me.
"What shall we do?"
"Nothing we can do."
I denied this was happening, wished things were still routine. My routine consisted of taking lots of smack.
Now we were having the conversation, the chief and I. They basically had us, but their intel was garbled. The chief claimed he witnessed the deal...I knew he didn't. And this fucking Mr. Ali person? Er, no. Also, Tractor's strip search had turned up nothing. I was surprised at that myself. But Tractor was a veteran, had already done five years somewhere else for crack-inspired armed robbery.
I didn't have reserves of convict cunning, but I had a good line of credit. In many ways, I was on top of this stupid game. At the hospital, they said I was 'resourceful'. Partly encouragement, mostly an excuse to deny medication. Like, since I was resourceful, I could go out and get my own supplies. So I fucking well did. Now I wanted to deploy my resources to escape, and go back to sleep.
They took Tractor out for a more thorough search. Apparently, they made him put his foot on a stool, a lame attempt to dislodge anything stashed in his crack. They forbore to manually search his rectum. Can't blame them! But if they'd been more professional, they'd have discovered where he reflexively stashed his grams.
Does any job pay enough to peer up a man's anus? Yes, Narcotics Bureau can, no doubt. Higher the rank, bigger the cake-slice, of course, but crumbs for all. That was the subject I wanted to broach with Chief. How much?
First I had to be guilty. And by sleight of hand and grace of Goddess, they didn't find my ounce. At one point, when the disappointed cops left me alone, I almost threw it behind a monitor. But then they pushed our taxi driver in. Staunch fellow played dumb, stayed loyal.
So they had to let us go, with no charge and no hard feelings. Grudgingly. We'd stayed cool, got lucky. Hugely.
Fuck The Police.
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BUSTED. Be Cool and Pray, Part 2.