OK, this isn’t my usual type of thing and I’m a bit
at a loss as to why I’m sharing it – in fact that’s complete bullshit; the
reason I’m sharing it is to find out whether or not I should continue with it.
This is the only thing I’ve wrote in recent memory that I’ve actually enjoyed
writing. It’s a [long] short story and like with all my previous short stories
[May Contain Nuts & Mr. Whiskers Must Die] it was written in one/two
sittings and churned out. It’s not really a funny story yet or maybe it’s so
terrible it is funny.
Any comments would be greatly welcomed.
Any comments would be greatly welcomed.
Chapter I; Salinui Chueok
If this has come to the
light of day, the likely chances are I’m either dead or in jail and if the
justice system knows what I know about me, it’s unlikely I’ll ever see the
light of day again. But I’m getting ahead of myself. There’ll be plenty of time
to overly describe the horrors I’ve inflicted on people over my near on thirty
years on this earth, but before all that I want to tell you how I became what
am I.
You know the strange kid at school that sat at the back of the class? The one that mainly wore black and was constantly moody? Always a bit of a loner? Yeah, I guess you’ve got the idea, well that wasn’t me. That kid at our school went on to develop some iPhone App that made him a small fortune. I was just a regular kid, I blended into the background. Sure I had my small clique, but we didn’t pose a threat to anyone. We were a pretty mundane group, only interested in playing PlayStation, smoking ganja and trying to convince older siblings to be us alcohol. You have 15% cool kids, 15% loser kids and I was in the other 70% just like the majority of students.
People would constantly say those are the best days of their lives. That’s not true at all. Those are the simplest days of your life. But you add a fake sense of nostalgia that makes you glamorise those years into something they weren’t. If you’re one of those people [that claims those days were the best], you only have yourself to blame for carving out a shit life for yourself without doing something about it, like I did.
I left school at the first chance I could. I understand the benefits of education and despite numerous requests of my teachers I opted against college and university. It just wasn’t for me; I had the intellect but not the attention span to stick with it. I was sixteen; all I wanted was to make money. So that’s what I set out to do. I had a string of shitty, low paid jobs, from cleaning, to humiliating factory work to pleb roles in offices to being surrounded by swarms of morons in retail. I never stuck around long enough to move up the runs of the ladders, but who’d want to in those environments? There’s no major pay off coming your way at any point. You’ve heard the phrase; ‘money makes the world go around’ and at that point of my life that was my mantra.
My C.V. was packed full, I had experience in plenty of fields, but turning up to job interviews with that only made perspective employers question how long I’d be sticking with them. To be fair, it’s not like I made an effort, my unkempt appearance at the time had decisions made before I even plastered on my perfectly detectable fake grin. So I was beginning to run shit out of luck. JSA was barely keeping me afloat so my next obvious move was to do something, anything to bring in money. This is how I got into dealing weed.
I knew a couple of people that could hook me up so it wasn’t long before I was in business. By this point I’d stopped smoking the stuff, simply to make more profit and keep my head clear. I wasn’t doing too badly, it was extra money coming in but not nearly what I was expecting. So after about six or seven months I came to the conclusion I had to evolve my current operation. There’s no real money in selling cannabis, is what I began to realise, I needed to upgrade to something else.
This began a chain of discussions with other dealers I knew in attempts to get in contact with a supplier, I knew of some people that would supply me with coke or pills, but the product they had was already cut or simply too low grade to be bothered with. A drug dealer doesn’t make money from selling drugs; he makes money from returning customers. That’s drug dealing basics.
After a few broken promises and countless let downs, finally a meeting had been set up; I was meeting a guy named Toby [the least drug dealer name I’ve ever heard]. I’d been told that Toby worked for Ricky Matthews, who in turn was a “big player”, I’d repeatedly been told, although I had no idea who he was. But then again, if you’re a “big player” in the drug scene, it’s probably best you have at least some privacy about yourself.
I met Toby at a flat that he sold from. It was a fucking shit-hole. Dank, drab, squatters had better places than this. Not really a fitting place for a man that’s apparently connected to a large drug dealing syndicate. He invited me and strangely enough was quite a nice host; he offered me tea/coffee and even some of his A-Class products to sample. I obviously declined both. This was business, not the Mad Hatters fucking Tea Party. In between numerous junkies ringing the doorbell, we tried to talk numbers, as to how much cocaine I could buy from him and how regular. We were finally making some headway until there was another knock at the door. Toby went to do his business, but this time something was different. There was a bit of a disturbance; raised voices, a struggle. I imminently assumed it was the police and ran through my options as what excuses I had for being there. But when Toby re-entered the room with a stocky masked man holding a sawn-off shotgun to his back, it all be abundantly clear.
A second skinnier masked man entered with a machete and rope in hand. Toby was flung into a chair and quickly tied down and before I knew it I was staring down a barrel of a shotgun. At this point I’d never been in a situation in which my life had been threatened. My eyes just fixated on the dark barrel and a euphoric feeling descended over my body. My mind was a million miles away while my physical self was amidst a robbery about to take a violent turn. I was in a suspended reality, I don’t know if it was shock or an excitement I’d have never experienced before, but I was rushing.
“Who the fuck are you? Who the fuck are you?” is all I could hear as I re-entered reality. By now the cold shotgun barrel was pressed up against my cheek, it was like having an ice cream pushed into your face, but with the threat of death. Who was I? I had to think, I certainly wasn’t feeling myself at that minute.
“I’m no-one.” I gently muttered. I kept my composure. I was calm, not panicking, even though the whole situation was completely foreign to me, I knew I should’ve been crying, screaming and begging for my life, but I just didn’t feel the need. Was I suicidal? No, but it’s not like I had anything to live for at that moment of time. I quickly ran through a list of people I knew; family, friends, acquaintances and asked how long it’d be until someone realised I hadn’t been seen in a while, due to my brains being splattered all over Toby’s damp living room walls and haggard old sofa.
“Who the fuck are you?” The masked man screamed once more, derailing my train of thought again. Clearly, he wasn’t happy with my original answer, but this guy was starting to get a little shaken. I’m assuming when he usually thrusts a shotgun in a strangers face they act a little more cooperatively than I was.
“I’m just a customer, stopping by.” I said, finally.
You know the strange kid at school that sat at the back of the class? The one that mainly wore black and was constantly moody? Always a bit of a loner? Yeah, I guess you’ve got the idea, well that wasn’t me. That kid at our school went on to develop some iPhone App that made him a small fortune. I was just a regular kid, I blended into the background. Sure I had my small clique, but we didn’t pose a threat to anyone. We were a pretty mundane group, only interested in playing PlayStation, smoking ganja and trying to convince older siblings to be us alcohol. You have 15% cool kids, 15% loser kids and I was in the other 70% just like the majority of students.
People would constantly say those are the best days of their lives. That’s not true at all. Those are the simplest days of your life. But you add a fake sense of nostalgia that makes you glamorise those years into something they weren’t. If you’re one of those people [that claims those days were the best], you only have yourself to blame for carving out a shit life for yourself without doing something about it, like I did.
I left school at the first chance I could. I understand the benefits of education and despite numerous requests of my teachers I opted against college and university. It just wasn’t for me; I had the intellect but not the attention span to stick with it. I was sixteen; all I wanted was to make money. So that’s what I set out to do. I had a string of shitty, low paid jobs, from cleaning, to humiliating factory work to pleb roles in offices to being surrounded by swarms of morons in retail. I never stuck around long enough to move up the runs of the ladders, but who’d want to in those environments? There’s no major pay off coming your way at any point. You’ve heard the phrase; ‘money makes the world go around’ and at that point of my life that was my mantra.
My C.V. was packed full, I had experience in plenty of fields, but turning up to job interviews with that only made perspective employers question how long I’d be sticking with them. To be fair, it’s not like I made an effort, my unkempt appearance at the time had decisions made before I even plastered on my perfectly detectable fake grin. So I was beginning to run shit out of luck. JSA was barely keeping me afloat so my next obvious move was to do something, anything to bring in money. This is how I got into dealing weed.
I knew a couple of people that could hook me up so it wasn’t long before I was in business. By this point I’d stopped smoking the stuff, simply to make more profit and keep my head clear. I wasn’t doing too badly, it was extra money coming in but not nearly what I was expecting. So after about six or seven months I came to the conclusion I had to evolve my current operation. There’s no real money in selling cannabis, is what I began to realise, I needed to upgrade to something else.
This began a chain of discussions with other dealers I knew in attempts to get in contact with a supplier, I knew of some people that would supply me with coke or pills, but the product they had was already cut or simply too low grade to be bothered with. A drug dealer doesn’t make money from selling drugs; he makes money from returning customers. That’s drug dealing basics.
After a few broken promises and countless let downs, finally a meeting had been set up; I was meeting a guy named Toby [the least drug dealer name I’ve ever heard]. I’d been told that Toby worked for Ricky Matthews, who in turn was a “big player”, I’d repeatedly been told, although I had no idea who he was. But then again, if you’re a “big player” in the drug scene, it’s probably best you have at least some privacy about yourself.
I met Toby at a flat that he sold from. It was a fucking shit-hole. Dank, drab, squatters had better places than this. Not really a fitting place for a man that’s apparently connected to a large drug dealing syndicate. He invited me and strangely enough was quite a nice host; he offered me tea/coffee and even some of his A-Class products to sample. I obviously declined both. This was business, not the Mad Hatters fucking Tea Party. In between numerous junkies ringing the doorbell, we tried to talk numbers, as to how much cocaine I could buy from him and how regular. We were finally making some headway until there was another knock at the door. Toby went to do his business, but this time something was different. There was a bit of a disturbance; raised voices, a struggle. I imminently assumed it was the police and ran through my options as what excuses I had for being there. But when Toby re-entered the room with a stocky masked man holding a sawn-off shotgun to his back, it all be abundantly clear.
A second skinnier masked man entered with a machete and rope in hand. Toby was flung into a chair and quickly tied down and before I knew it I was staring down a barrel of a shotgun. At this point I’d never been in a situation in which my life had been threatened. My eyes just fixated on the dark barrel and a euphoric feeling descended over my body. My mind was a million miles away while my physical self was amidst a robbery about to take a violent turn. I was in a suspended reality, I don’t know if it was shock or an excitement I’d have never experienced before, but I was rushing.
“Who the fuck are you? Who the fuck are you?” is all I could hear as I re-entered reality. By now the cold shotgun barrel was pressed up against my cheek, it was like having an ice cream pushed into your face, but with the threat of death. Who was I? I had to think, I certainly wasn’t feeling myself at that minute.
“I’m no-one.” I gently muttered. I kept my composure. I was calm, not panicking, even though the whole situation was completely foreign to me, I knew I should’ve been crying, screaming and begging for my life, but I just didn’t feel the need. Was I suicidal? No, but it’s not like I had anything to live for at that moment of time. I quickly ran through a list of people I knew; family, friends, acquaintances and asked how long it’d be until someone realised I hadn’t been seen in a while, due to my brains being splattered all over Toby’s damp living room walls and haggard old sofa.
“Who the fuck are you?” The masked man screamed once more, derailing my train of thought again. Clearly, he wasn’t happy with my original answer, but this guy was starting to get a little shaken. I’m assuming when he usually thrusts a shotgun in a strangers face they act a little more cooperatively than I was.
“I’m just a customer, stopping by.” I said, finally.
“Well, you’re gonna have to
stick around for a little longer,” he barked, as if it was twice as witty as he
thought it was, “tie up this cunt too.” He instructed his smaller
counterpart.
“There’s not enough rope.” His
henchman responded.
I was no expert in robbing drug dealers but even I could see this plan was starting to unravel. I began to detect the nervousness creeping into their voices as they discussed what to do. [RULE #1: Have a meticulous plan; everything should be taken into account.] They weren’t going to let me walk out the front door while they had Toby tied up so they could ransack the house, so instead the skinnier guy left his machete with the big guy while he rummaged around to find the stash of drugs and money.
Toby was starting to get unruly tied to his seat, who could blame him? These two fucking shitbags were in the process of undoing all his hard work – fuck he could end up with the coroner picking parts of shotgun shell out of what used to be his forehead at this rate. Apparently the big man’s suggestions for him to “Shut the fuck up!” fell on deaf ears. As Toby struggled to loosen his ropes the shotgun wielding buffoon headed over to him and waving the machete in his face and instructing him to say still. At this moment he had is back to me and his mate was out of the room, so I scanned my surroundings as to what I could find. I locked eyes with Toby, he glanced underneath the sofa. I slyly reached under, hoping the thief wouldn’t catch any movements in his peripheral view; then again he was wearing a fucking mask so he had limited vision anyway. I grasped the baseball bat tightly with both hands, and slowly rose to my feet. In the process my knees cracked – I’ve always had the problem, not sure if it’s bad joints or shitty cartilage, either way it’s never happened at a worse time. The big man turned, I lunged forward and just swung with all the power I could muster. He hit the floor with a deafening thud. Maybe I’d missed my calling in life as a homerun-hitting baseball star.
I stood over him, my arms trembling from the adrenaline rush. I’d never felt so powerful before. A small pool of blood was trickling from his mask and beginning to gather at my feet. With all this happening around me all I could think about was how long it’d take me later to wash away the crimson residue that had gathered on my trainers.
His mate barged back into the room, clutching a duffle bag.
”Get that fucker!” Toby yelled at me.
I was no expert in robbing drug dealers but even I could see this plan was starting to unravel. I began to detect the nervousness creeping into their voices as they discussed what to do. [RULE #1: Have a meticulous plan; everything should be taken into account.] They weren’t going to let me walk out the front door while they had Toby tied up so they could ransack the house, so instead the skinnier guy left his machete with the big guy while he rummaged around to find the stash of drugs and money.
Toby was starting to get unruly tied to his seat, who could blame him? These two fucking shitbags were in the process of undoing all his hard work – fuck he could end up with the coroner picking parts of shotgun shell out of what used to be his forehead at this rate. Apparently the big man’s suggestions for him to “Shut the fuck up!” fell on deaf ears. As Toby struggled to loosen his ropes the shotgun wielding buffoon headed over to him and waving the machete in his face and instructing him to say still. At this moment he had is back to me and his mate was out of the room, so I scanned my surroundings as to what I could find. I locked eyes with Toby, he glanced underneath the sofa. I slyly reached under, hoping the thief wouldn’t catch any movements in his peripheral view; then again he was wearing a fucking mask so he had limited vision anyway. I grasped the baseball bat tightly with both hands, and slowly rose to my feet. In the process my knees cracked – I’ve always had the problem, not sure if it’s bad joints or shitty cartilage, either way it’s never happened at a worse time. The big man turned, I lunged forward and just swung with all the power I could muster. He hit the floor with a deafening thud. Maybe I’d missed my calling in life as a homerun-hitting baseball star.
I stood over him, my arms trembling from the adrenaline rush. I’d never felt so powerful before. A small pool of blood was trickling from his mask and beginning to gather at my feet. With all this happening around me all I could think about was how long it’d take me later to wash away the crimson residue that had gathered on my trainers.
His mate barged back into the room, clutching a duffle bag.
”Get that fucker!” Toby yelled at me.
As the skinny bastard stood
there trying to figure out what had happened, I nonchalantly approached and
starting swinging. Sadly, I was a bit of a one hit wonder with the baseball bat
and I missed this guy, in my defence it was a lot smaller than my original
target. A scuffle ensued, he dropped the bag and I dropped the bat and fell
into the kitchen. We tumbled around on the kitchen floor like two
uncontrollable toddlers, until he gained the upper hand and pummelled me in the
face. It probably would have been enough to keep me down if it wasn’t for the
fact I was hyped up. He got to his feet and began flinging open kitchen drawers
in the hope of discovering a knife or anything to give him the advantage.
I dragged myself to my feet, only to find him gripping a hammer. My initial reaction was; ‘who the fuck keeps a hammer in the kitchen, doesn’t Toby own a fucking toolbox?’ I grabbed what ever was in my reach and began to bombard him with it; plates, mugs, glasses… I reached for the kettle, it was cold [kind of wished I’d took up Toby’s offer of a cup of tea at that point], I threw it at him and it connected, but this guy was clearly amped up too.
He ran at me, swinging the hammer, luckily he was about as skilful with that as I was with the bat against him. After about a minute of dancing and prancing around like two faggoty ballerinas, I’d had enough. I dived and rugby tackled him, he hit me a few times in the back as we dropped to the floor. Then I just let ripped, I swung a windmill of punches to his head as I sat atop of him. It was a fury of fists, some missed and hit the floor as he attempted to squirm out, but I didn’t care, I just carried on.
Eventually his ski-mask was wet from his blood, yet this didn’t deter me, I just continued to throw punch after punch, my hands red raw from the blows I was delivering. By this time he’d stopped squirming, hell, he hadn’t been squirming for at least two minutes. He laid their lifeless, a massive contrast to myself; I’d never felt so alive.
I left the kitchen feeling new levels of ecstasy, blood dripped from my knuckles. Toby gave me a look, for a split second I swear he look terrified of the meek man in front of him. I think twenty-three minutes before he’d have never expected that from the guy he’d welcomed into his flat. But to be fair, I’ve known myself twenty-three years I didn’t think I was capable of it either.
I took the machete and started to cut Toby free. It was strange; we didn’t speak a word to each other. But yet, what do you say in those situations? By the time he was free the silence had become too much.
“The one in the kitchen; is he dead?” He asked.
I dragged myself to my feet, only to find him gripping a hammer. My initial reaction was; ‘who the fuck keeps a hammer in the kitchen, doesn’t Toby own a fucking toolbox?’ I grabbed what ever was in my reach and began to bombard him with it; plates, mugs, glasses… I reached for the kettle, it was cold [kind of wished I’d took up Toby’s offer of a cup of tea at that point], I threw it at him and it connected, but this guy was clearly amped up too.
He ran at me, swinging the hammer, luckily he was about as skilful with that as I was with the bat against him. After about a minute of dancing and prancing around like two faggoty ballerinas, I’d had enough. I dived and rugby tackled him, he hit me a few times in the back as we dropped to the floor. Then I just let ripped, I swung a windmill of punches to his head as I sat atop of him. It was a fury of fists, some missed and hit the floor as he attempted to squirm out, but I didn’t care, I just carried on.
Eventually his ski-mask was wet from his blood, yet this didn’t deter me, I just continued to throw punch after punch, my hands red raw from the blows I was delivering. By this time he’d stopped squirming, hell, he hadn’t been squirming for at least two minutes. He laid their lifeless, a massive contrast to myself; I’d never felt so alive.
I left the kitchen feeling new levels of ecstasy, blood dripped from my knuckles. Toby gave me a look, for a split second I swear he look terrified of the meek man in front of him. I think twenty-three minutes before he’d have never expected that from the guy he’d welcomed into his flat. But to be fair, I’ve known myself twenty-three years I didn’t think I was capable of it either.
I took the machete and started to cut Toby free. It was strange; we didn’t speak a word to each other. But yet, what do you say in those situations? By the time he was free the silence had become too much.
“The one in the kitchen; is he dead?” He asked.
“I don’t know,” and honestly
I didn’t, to be fair I didn’t care, “he’s not moving.” I told him.
”Well let’s tie up this big son of a bitch first before he comes to.”
So we did. Toby made a phone call. Then he went to examine my handy work in the kitchen. He stayed in there for a long time. I don’t know what he was doing, I never bothered to ask. I just sat on the sofa in an exhilarated state, still trembling from the adrenaline. I still can’t pinpoint what exactly was running through my mind at that stage but I felt totally different. I felt I was a new man; I’d evolved, I’d be reincarnated, I’d achieved a higher level of self. I was Zen. I’d reached nirvana.
Toby didn’t re-emerge until there was a knock on the door. Three guys entered and instantly began surveying the damage. They didn’t acknowledge my existence, which was fine; I was in a world of my own.
That’s when Toby sat beside me and handed me a rucksack.
”This is yours and it’s on the house, as a thank you. But you have to understand you won’t speak a word of what happened here today, to anyone.” “I totally understand.” I told him.
”OK, I’ll be in touch, but it could be a while.”
I took the rucksack and left, kind of felt I’d overstayed my welcome anyway. I got about two streets away before I was in a secluded enough area to investigate the contents of the bag. I opened it up; £1000, a bag of 200-300 pills and fuck knows how much coke. I removed the money and stuffed it into my pocket, zipped up the bag and made my way home. At the first chance I got I threw the rucksack into a bin.
I was officially out of the drug dealing business after that experience.
Now I’d found something else to pursue.
”Well let’s tie up this big son of a bitch first before he comes to.”
So we did. Toby made a phone call. Then he went to examine my handy work in the kitchen. He stayed in there for a long time. I don’t know what he was doing, I never bothered to ask. I just sat on the sofa in an exhilarated state, still trembling from the adrenaline. I still can’t pinpoint what exactly was running through my mind at that stage but I felt totally different. I felt I was a new man; I’d evolved, I’d be reincarnated, I’d achieved a higher level of self. I was Zen. I’d reached nirvana.
Toby didn’t re-emerge until there was a knock on the door. Three guys entered and instantly began surveying the damage. They didn’t acknowledge my existence, which was fine; I was in a world of my own.
That’s when Toby sat beside me and handed me a rucksack.
”This is yours and it’s on the house, as a thank you. But you have to understand you won’t speak a word of what happened here today, to anyone.” “I totally understand.” I told him.
”OK, I’ll be in touch, but it could be a while.”
I took the rucksack and left, kind of felt I’d overstayed my welcome anyway. I got about two streets away before I was in a secluded enough area to investigate the contents of the bag. I opened it up; £1000, a bag of 200-300 pills and fuck knows how much coke. I removed the money and stuffed it into my pocket, zipped up the bag and made my way home. At the first chance I got I threw the rucksack into a bin.
I was officially out of the drug dealing business after that experience.
Now I’d found something else to pursue.
