Pick-up At The Picnic.

By Cash.Nexus · Jun 4, 2013 · ·
  1. Cash.Nexus
    C'mon up he'd said, but the main door of the apartment building resisted my push. I shoved harder and it grated open enough to squeeze through. A large bin was wheeled-up inside. The scraping sound signalled someone entering and a whistle summoned me upstairs. That cat Jagga is more than just a pretty face, I thought wryly while ascending warily.

    Jagga and his lieutenant Nerble slouched on the second-floor steps, surrounded by paraphernalia and trash. They were smoking heroin off metal foil; I watched Nerble's pipe avidly chasing a brown blob resembling a frantic cockroach. Looked like insect training for Beetle Olympics. Fumes filled the air and I wondered idly if residents wouldn't maybe fuss. Presume they'd be advised to fuck themselves. Irrelevant conjecture. Down to biz.

    "Having a picnic? Haha, nice day for it. Got three scores?"

    Jagga's woman must've kicked him out. Nerble presented a Blackberry for my perusal.

    "Sixty quid, ya nutcase. Bargain."

    I pulled 3 twenties from the sleeve of my bomber but handed them to Jagga.

    "I'd rather buy drugs...maybe I got a problem."

    Jagga's fingers were astoundingly filthy but I immediately gummed the little knotted bags he served. Standard Operating Procedure. Jagga regarded me slantwise through half-drooped glassy eyes. His flared foil flute hung steep from split lips, casual expression of the man and his minute. Arrogance, insouciance, power. The gear was preme in town, probably from prison connects.

    Enjoy your brief reign stoopid, I thought skipping to the exit. The cops kept busting Jagga but he wasn't fazed. Likely fatalistic, career criminal living in the moment. Make hay while the sun shines. Cheerful thought. Soon I'd smoke the sun, ingest uncanny luminance, chemical dance round brain-stem maypole.

    Passing by the bin and out the door, my arm was half-nelsoned and throat choke-locked. In one smooth move I was tripped and flung down, police jujitsu. Men were shouting in my ear to spit it out, spit it out. From the ground I could see the dainty feet of a WPC who gazed down smiling, fondling spray cannisters on her utility belt. Yeah...the little dog laughed to see such fun.

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  1. Zanadu
    Hopefully look forward to seeing a recovery one sometime. Probably wont be so Burroughs-esque in vein (no pun intended) but no doubt enlightened nevertheless... Peace.
  2. beentheredonethatagain
    I like the style ... the writing
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