Punks

"Fuck!" Tony screamed. He had never been stabbed so deep in his life. It was a simple task he had to do – sell crack. The promising costumer insisted they went out into the alley way, claiming he had cash in his pockets he didn't want to show to the public. He had nothing but a military grade shank.

Tony questioned if he would survive this one as his limited knowledge on the vital organs failed him. The man looked like a fucking dunce! Nothing about him threatened Tony at all until the moment he was stabbed correctly. Fuckin' undercover rival gang members. Stupid punks with no respect for the men who built the streets from the beginning.

He walked himself to the hospital down the street, keeping his fingers inside his gash in hopes he wouldn't die of septic shock. He didn't care that he had lost three thousand dollars worth of rock in a single mugging. He wasn't going to kick the bucket at nineteen years old to some fancy negro initiate trying to impress a group of degenerates they called a gang.

Tony made it to the front desk of the emergency room, demanding he needed to see a doctor and had the funds. The nurse took one look at his blood-covered hand and resisted the urge to hurl; he smelled like a corpse.

She called for a trauma team immediately. When their eyes met, Tony's heart fell out of his chest. Daphne's lips parted, completely shocked at the penetrating almond shaped hazel eyes that were glued to her's. A slight sound escaped from her mouth before she said, "You don't have an emergency contact set."

"Don't need one." He didn't even know his brothers and sisters, and both his parents were deceased.

There was only one family for him left on Earth.

—

Hospital junk felt like a cure to all things wrong. He wound up calling Sam, a boss of his, claiming he wasn't going to be able to make the money back for at least two weeks. He did not believe in beating around the bush when it came to fucking up immensely.

"You'd better be glad it wasn't ten grand you lost." He responded. "What fucking good are you to anyone if you trust a nigger from the speakeasy? You think everyone owes you respect? Get smarter or get the fuck out of here."

The line cut off. Tony stared hard at the phone for moments afterward. The next few weeks were going to be him performing new work. He was sure he was no longer responsible to carry an ounce of expensive drugs again. No matter how sorry he was, apologies didn't make thousands fall from the sky.

—

Conrad sat in the park watching the birds eat off the ground. He thought of Kathleen as he tripped on the psychedelics; what kind of drugs she did, her relationship with her father, how she was her own rock, it seemed. He admired that as he was similar.

His addiction to snorting cocaine lead him to have to start and quit the drug behind closed doors. The hell it was to resist cravings for the short, intense high. It all started at Mason's stupid house party. He paid roughly fifty dollars to get high, and high he got. So high he wanted more for months. Daphne never found out.

No one needed to know a thing.

When he arrived home, it was 8P.M. The lights were off in the house and only the TV could be heard. Daphne must have drank herself to sleep. Perhaps if she were left alone more often she wouldn't pose a risk of breaking household items.

Conrad stared at himself in the mirror. He knew something needed to change in his life. A new prerogative towards taking on everyday. He decided, that night, he was going to become a drug dealer. Anything less was aiming low.