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| A message to Huch | Started by: StaggerLee on Apr 14, '08 19:30 |
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Now, I tell you this as a pass-on, okay papa? Right. Figure this; I remember my door-chain rattling as I open the door a little. Damn, I thought. Hucicz. Huch is my human alarm clock on Fridays and Tuesdays. Eight o'clock sharp. Two taps and a third one. His smile is stupid, but pretty fancy - he sure does manage to keep them things clean. Pretty-boy from Cincinnati originally, stupid as I said but I'd rather have him that way. He comes in and we talk for a minute or two about his parents or his dog or whatever it was. These talks are priceless for anyone who deals with junkies, like myself. Now, a junkie who's snitched on you will be looking anywhere but at the stash, right? Or where he knows it's hidden if he's a regular. Your typical non-snitch, souped-up, second generation American farm boy from Cincinnati, won't even blink 'til he gets his hands on the stuff, even if it would mean his mother being raped and burned alive by Nazis on Time Square. However we had our usual chit-chat, in this way being your local grocer is very much like being a receptionist for a dull company executive - no glamour whatsoever, you know, then BAM BAM BAM, I find myself hitting the trashcans running. Now I suppose I should've gotten suspicious when he agreed to have a beer with me. Your typical user never drinks, not even a light kid like Huch. I can hear the agents trashing the place, screaming at him, who's probably having a hard time on his hands, which by the way probably were shaking more than Frisco by spring. Now, voluntary rehab's tough, but rehab forced upon you by ungrateful coppers is like being molested by elephants, which is the sole fact that gives me any solace whatsoever, at least right now. You see; I ain't got the cash for a thug, but I can promise you, that when I can open up store again, he's the first one to meet the cashier. He's stupid enough to walk right in. Right, gotta go, got a horseless carriage comin' in from Jackson. Thanks for the beer, papa, cheers. |
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