fabricatings | I saved up all my pennies and I gave them to this special guy

I saved up all my pennies and I gave them to this special guy

He's not feeling himself. Not right. Something's scratching, clawing, and it's not because of the pain he imagines. It's not because of his life. It's because he needs something--anything. No oxy? Vicodin. No vicodin? Tramadol. Hydromorphone. Pethidine. All that mattered was that they were opioids and they were strong.

He tricks himself into thinking he can last at least a day with one pill. Briggs is convinced someone stole his tranquilizers, and even rounds on Mike. That's what sets it off--junkies aren't exactly ones for a stable environment. Briggs and Mike are both paranoid, powerful individuals who know how the other operates. It starts off as a fist-fight, Briggs claiming Mike took his drugs for drug money. Mike isn't exactly calm when he uproots the small table and begins yelling right back. The fact that he was thinking about it never comes up, but he goes for a walk.

He's still feeling it, the scratching inside his head. Like an insect, wanting to crawl out of his ear. And on top of that, he swears his gut feels like it's being stabbed. Like that knife is being sliced into him, over and over again. His lip is bleeding but he doesn't care--that pain is nothing compared to the flare in his abs, or the way even his teeth seem to be on fire instead of their usual numb state.

It's late by the time he tracks down his dealer after the other doesn't answer his texts. Slams him against the wall, demanding what he wants. Of course his dealer is out. Turns out, by the time Mike has actually beaten the shit out of the guy, the dealer is right. He's out.

"I know a guy, though," He says. "Hangs out at so-and-so a bar."

Mike's going to have to work for his meal, it seems, and he gives one last kick in the ribs to his dealer, tells him pleasantly he'll see him tomorrow and he'd better have some oxy squared away just for him.

To the bar he goes. He looks like shit--hasn't shaved, long hair--but he also doesn't care. All he cares about is the scratching, the pain--he needs that to go away. He just needs to track down who the fuck his dealer was talking about.

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It was probably the sweetest deal Billy had ever set up. For six years, he'd been slowly making his way across the United States. New York, Florida, Texas, California, and everything in between. Set up an identity, set up some means of income, and he was set. He could do what he wished. Prey on who he wished. Whether that meant conning junkies out of their cash, or some of his more questionable tastes. His charm, wit, and quick thinking kept him going. And any time a place got too hot, or he worried someone might actually find him, he'd relocate. Find a new name.

Now he was Colin. And the sweet deal was that he'd set himself to be the man to turn to when the dealers ran out. It started with one dealer as he was getting settled in the city. In getting a feel for what was out there, an idle comment let someone believe he was connected. He just happened to have a decent stash from his last gig. And a few days later, he had a junkie hunting him down, willing to pay more than street value. And thus he grew a small but lucrative trade. His specialty was anything that one could get with a superscription. It was far easier to acquire on his charm alone.

He was already at the bar, slowly nursing a drink. He had a faded red trucker's hat pulled low over his scruffy face, and an old beaten leather jacket that was slightly too large. He's found a corner away from most people, secluded and not very well lit. Somewhere he can see the rest of the bar from.

He sees Mike out of the corner of his eye. He makes no move to make himself known. He knew a junkie when he saw one. But this wasn't the usual sort. He was used to the ones who looked like a stiff enough breeze would break them in half. Like they were one missed hit away from falling to dust. This one looked stronger than most. He couldn't help the vague smile that touched his lips. It had been months since the urge had hit him this hard. Junkies had their vices, he had his. And Mike looked exactly like the sort to fit the bill. A challenge. A conquest.

Mike's not a junkie.

He tells himself that--Mike can't be a junkie. He's skinnier than he used to be but his body mass was still fairly normal. He's got his brains about him, still. He doesn't need the pills for recreational use. It's pain.

He tells himself that, anyway. Mike is very, very good at lying to himself. He enters, and it takes only a split second. Doesn't bother ordering anything. Of course it's going to be the one with the view of the door, the one not going to be seen. Corner seat, not by a window. Just off the bar. It doesn't take an idiot to figure it out, but idly, Mike wonders how long it takes drug addicts to put two and two together. He's well aware that Briggs and him are the exception.

He's got the signs, though. Mike knows he does--it's too late to hide them and even if he really really wanted to he's not sure he could. Shaking hands, fidgeting, looking absolutely exhausted. He makes his way over to the other, sniffing slightly. Doesn't bother to order a drink.

"You drinking a sidecar?" He asks casually. "That's what's good?"

Billy had a moment of doubt as Mike approached. A little too direct. Most junkies took their time. Nervously flitting about the place before making their move. Frequently going out and coming back in. Sometimes to assure themselves there were no cops. Sometimes worried they were followed by something else. Sometimes just uncertain about dealing with someone new.

From the seat beside him, he pulled up an empty backpack that he dropped on the table.

"Empty your pockets," he said, flat. He still hadn't lifted his head to let his face be properly seen. "Wallet, keys, watch, any jewelry." He'd very nearly been caught in his first few months when he was in New York. A sting set up for someone else, the supposed buyer had a wire hidden in a necklace. He wasn't going to get caught like that again.

Off-put wouldn't begin to describe it. But the guy was smart, he had to give him that. Very smart.

Hell, Mike would probably do the same thing. "I get it back?" He asks first, even though he's undoing his watch. It's not like he has much on him--hell, he's just wearing track pants and a ratted hoodie, not even a shirt. He wants drugs, not to look good. Just a few to tide him over until he can go back to Kelly.

He's wary about the silver medalion, too, but he's not taking that off yet. Instead, he's shoving the watch into the backpack.

"When we're done," Billy assured.

Slowly, he lifted his head. Just enough to see Mike's face. If the other paid close enough attention, he'd be able to see Billy's bright blue eyes under the hat's bill, watching him like a hawk. He lifted the backpack to hold it open for Mike.

"When you've got it all, lift up your shirt. Show me front and back." Cold. Calm. Collected.

"I'm not a narc," Mike stated. Not offended, though he actually sort of was. Miffed, more like it, and in the way he set his jaw, licking his lips before hand, it definitely showed.

His wallet comes out. He makes a point of opening it up and showing the cash, though. He's got it, so this had better be a decent deal. Junkies are creatures of habit, and--not that Mike's a junkie--doesn't like not using his normal sources. This guy he has no clue about.

He doesn't take off his necklace, though that's more because he never realizes he actually realizes he ever has it on. He lifts up his shirt--fairly well built, of course, though a rather large scar from a knife on his stomach. Front and back, just like the other said.

"Just looking to buy, man."

The shirt lift had nothing to do with worry about a wire. He just wanted to get a look at what that sweatshirt was hiding. And his imagination had not gone far enough. A ripped junkie? That was an incredibly rare find. And he didn't mind the view one bit.

But in turning around, the chain of Mike's necklace caught the light. Dropping the backpack on the table, Billy got to his feet. He wasn't much taller than Mike, but that didn't matter. He reached out, running a finger over the chain. Intimately close.

"You forgot something."

That finger-light touch on his neck wasn't something he expected. Some rough handling, maybe. A gun to his head--that had happened more times than he'd like to count--put the light touch?

He doesn't bother standing up,though. Figures a dick measuring contest won't get him what he wants. Playing nice will. Instead of standing up and getting ready to pack a punch, he simply looks up, his jaw tight as he tilts his head upwards, just a tad, to see the other. Blue eyes. Soft English accent.

Alright, time to make him feel more at ease. The guy should already know he has the upper hand. Remind him. Fingers move up to his neck, removing it. Still not smiling, but suddenly aware of how his accent clashes next to the other's strangely musical voice.

"I'm looking for oxy," He states simply. "You get them in more than Kelly you might have a new customer."

Billy stays close. Uncomfortably close. Sharp eyes watching the necklace was removed. Before Mike can stash it, Billy's hand reaches up to wrap over his fingers, his touch almost gentle. He lingers a moment longer, looking Mike over.

"I've always got more than Kelly has."

He pulls back, grabbing the bag. He reaches inside, seemingly to deposit the necklace. And he comes up with the wallet. He flips through it. Pulls out a ten dollar bill to cover his drink and drops it on the table. Closing the bag, he slings it over his shoulder.

"Follow me."

With a casual stride he headed for the door. He kept his head down, his hands in his jacket pockets, not bothering to look to make sure Mike followed. His fingers toyed with the medallion in his pocket, moving around the building. In the back, in the darkest corner of the parking lot, was a shabby pickup truck.

Mike followed. Not close enough to look suspicious, but enough to not lose his way or look too nervous. He's been doing this a while, despite appearances--for three years, at least.

The money annoys him but it's not like Mike has a choice--not at he moment. Guy has his wallet and his only actual valuable possessions. It's not like Mike should care what he does with the cash anyway, most of it is going to him.

If he pulls through. Mike sure as shit doesn't trust the guy, and probably never will. Nothing personal, just the nature of the transaction. It's not like Mike can be trusted either unless he's positive he can get his pills and go.

That's exactly what he's expecting once they go to the corner. He clears his throat, stuffing his hands in his hoodie pocket once they near the car.

"Street price is 80, I'll buy for 90, max. Just want enough to get me through the week, man."

"Get in." No answer, no acknowledgement. Just a command as they approached the truck. Did Mike really think Billy was going to let his stuff go for just ten above street price? He was offering a premium service. An emergency supply didn't come cheap.

Billy moved around the bed of the truck and rifled in the bag again. He left the wallet but pulled out all of the cash. The cash went into his own pocket and the wallet back into the bag. Next came the cell phone. It was probably a burner, but he wanted to be safe. He dropped it to the pavement, stomped it with the heel of his boot, and kicked it under the truck's tire. With a nudge, he wedged it beneath the treads. Just to make sure he'd crush it when they moved. Zipping up the bag, he tossed it into the bed of the truck.

Only then did he climb up into the driver's seat. He'd answer no protests or questions. Stoic and silent, as he started the truck. This was going to be his best conquest since Miami.

Mike laughs. He laughs because he's not sure what else to do, and surprisingly white teeth are shown as he just sort of stares at the phone under the truck.

"You want me to go with you," He states, looking at the other with an amused smile still on his face. This is crazy. He's not stupid enough to bring ID with him. He can walk away, find another dealer. Ask around the streets. Just chalk the money the other has a loss.

Slowly, though, his smile fades. Colin is starting the truck, looking straight ahead, and Mike is left with the scratching in his skull and a pain that he has no idea is imagined. He needs it.

Like it or not, he has no options. He needs a fix and he needs it soon, and he knows he can't rust this guy. He knows, in his gut, something's up. Shit.

He has to go. Mike Warren is desperate. It takes him only a few moments before he looks visibly frustrated at the other's silence and climbs in. He'll keep an eye on where they're going. That way it'll be safe.

Right?

Billy backed the truck out if it's space, the phone crunching under the tire. Not a word was uttered as he guided the truck out of the small lot. Onto the street. But he seemed to be headed away from the main drag. It was like he had an intuition for the darkest, shadiest streets possible. If his vehicle were smaller, he'd probably be taking narrow alleys as well.

He wondered just how observant Mike would be. The passenger door was obviously rigged. It couldn't be opened from the inside. The handle to do so had been completely removed. As was the crank to lower the window. Just the bolt where it was meant to be attached poked out of the door. The truck was old enough that doors, windows and locks were completely manual.

Ten minutes into his indirect drive, he finally spoke. Answering a question that Mike had given earlier. "If you want Oxy, it's a hundred and twenty. Minimum."

"Fuck," Mike says out loud. It's actually not to the question--he's desperate, he gets it, Colin had probably just counted the cash in his wallet when he wasn't looking. It was to the door, nimble fingers gliding over the edge of the handle.

This was just pain shady. Moreso than usual. The lack of communication just makes it worse, and so Mike clears his throat.

Time to play the charming boyscout.

"Right--Colin, right? Kelly talked you up pretty good, you know. You from Manchester?"

Edited 2015-07-15 08:18 (UTC)

Fucking Kelly. When would that piece of shit dealer learn to keep his filthy mouth SHUT for once? Maybe Billy would need to do something to make sure he couldn't go wagging his tongue to just anyone. It wasn't the truth, obviously. But it's what Kelly thought was the truth. Maybe it was time he made KELLY a fucking conquest.

"You want the Oxy or not?" Billy snapped. His accent was different now. A sidestep to the west, more Liverpool than Manchester. A subtle enough shift with few enough ears that only someone with a little intelligence could pick it out. Because there was a chance the information hadn't come from Kelly. Mike could be just that good with accents. Or he could be getting his information from elsewhere.

The truck finally turned onto a highway. Only two lanes, but stretching off into the dark. They were halfway there.

The accent was different now. Mike knows what's up--Colin's using the same tricks Mike does to keep his job. Lying and acting.

Shit,he's good, too--really good. He's fairly sure that it works all the time on normal junkies. Normal? Junkies. Straight junkies.

Mike Warren was not a junkie. Just needed something to get him through all the pain.

He's really starting to itch, too. He's fidgeting. Grinding his teeth. He's actually not even aware of how much he's moving. It was normally an every day thing for him anyway, but with the added need for his medicine? It's bad. He's quiet, though. For the entire car ride.

Memorizing the highways, of course. Figuring out their address.

Billy let it stretch. They seemed to be heading away from anything that could be useful. One of those dead stretches of high with no exits visible. Stretching along the back of some industrial area. High walls on the opposite side of traffic. High fences topped with barbed wire on theirs. The low crash barrier wall on their side eventually ended and the shoulder widened. A little further on, there seemed to be a turnaround. A spot to get out of traffic if need be. Butted up against the back of an abandoned warehouse. A dark, desolate patch of highway. Even the street lights seemed to be out.

Billy didn't just pull off the highway. He guided the truck into the shadows beyond. Until the grill of his truck couldn't be seen from the highway.

He killed the engine and turned toward Mike. "Since you seem to have a hearing problem," he said, mildly irritated, his accent keeping on with the Liverpool lilt. "I'll ask you again. Do you want the Oxy or not? Because if not, this is where you get out. If you do, you get a ride back. Hundred and fifty." How much had he been paying attention to notice it went up?

"The extra 30 for gas?" He asks dryly, and he feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up. This is fucked. So, so fucked. He licks his lips, foot tapping the bottom of the car.

He's out of his element. He knows it ant Colin knows it and that accent shifts again--Mike follows it because it's something he can latch on to. Something he can follow in a place he's unfamiliar with. He's faking it but he's not that good.

Mike needs to get a bead on this guy somehow. Still, he doesn't move. He wants the pills.

Billy doesn't answer at first. He just watches Mike for a moment. Whether intentional or coincidence, he'd positioned the truck in such a way that even with the dim light from the highway, Billy's face couldn't be seen. Black-on-black except for the random passing car that cast him as a silhouette. One hand rested on the steering wheel, the other elbow up on the back of the seat.

"If it's too much for you," he responded, no slipping toward something that sounded more Irish. "I'm sure there's...an arrangement...that can be made."

And to that, Mike rubs a hand on his face, scraping his palm with stubble and sighing. This was it? An up price? It had to be some sort of way to intimidate wayward junkies. Make sure they won't go nuts and froth at the mouth or something.

Christ, this was over dramatic. He smiles again, still pleasant, slightly confused.

"It's not--can I reach for my wallet to actually pay you, man?" He's got the money. He's fairly certain. He left with 200 just in case.

Most junkies he didn't lead out of the bar. Most he turned away because they were under the impression that he'd sell cheap. But Mike was something special. He didn't care about the money. He just cared about the fit junkie on the seat beside him.

All of sudden, Billy lashed out. His arm pulled away from the seat, fast as a viper strike, to grab Mike by the neck and slam him against the car door.

"Maybe I'm not making myself clear." His accent had dropped, leaving him with his native Scottish. "I have a very specific price for my product."

The back of his head collides with the door and he doesn't bother hiding his pain, face scrunching as he winces. He swears instead of stars he sees birds, and not the kind that flutter around in cartoons.

His immediate reaction is to grab the other by the throat as well, or at least clock the other in retaliation. He can handle himself in a fight, that's for sure, and for a junkie--though he's not one--he has impeccable aim.

He's in pain, though, he tells himself. Mike hurts, almost everywhere, and needs the fucking oxy and needs it now. He can't just clock the other. He raises his hands, as if to show he's unarmed, and somewhere in the back of his mind he's positive the other's accent is now scottish. Or maybe he hit his head too hard? He must of, because what the other was alluding to was...

"You're making yourself clear," Grimacing because of the pain, hand on his neck tight but bearable, "It's just I'm not gay."

In the dark, Billy smiled. A wicked, cruel sort of smile that had the light made the visible, all of those cruel intentions would have shone in his eyes. His hand was already moving over Mike's thigh.

"Neither am I," Billy said, the smirk evident in his voice.

The hand glided over the front of Mike's track pants, nimble fingers tracing over what he found there. Almost teasing. His other hand tightened. Not enough to cut off air, but enough to make it more difficult to speak.

Shit, this guy was serious. It wasn't just a fake out. This was...

Well, this was the strangest situation he'd been in. He'd literally seen someone shoot himself but this has him nervous, this is what has him on edge, and the hand on his throat means both of Mike's hands come to the other's wrist, trying gently to pry them off.

It's the other hand, though. Touching him, even through the fabric of the jeans he can feel how warm the other's hand is compared to his shaking cold ones. When did they start shaking?

"Point proven--just tell me what I have to do." This is the lowest he's sunk, but what he needs he needs now. Oxycodone. He smiles again, nervous against trying to breathe. "Let me take the meds and I'll do whatever you want."

"What I want," Billy said, his voice dropping to almost a growl, "is for you to shut up..."

The soft fabric of the other's pants was so very easily to work through. Far better than the denim he wore. The jeans he'd been all too aware of the entire drive here. And just how tight they'd been growing the more he thought about just what he was going to do. It was the only reason he'd stayed so quiet. Others, he'd charm and chat with, casual as ever. But he didn't want to give the game away. He wanted Mike scared. Paranoid. And the best way to do that was silence. Keep him guessing.

"You'll get what you came for, if you behave."

His hand moved, fingers pushing beneath the waistband. He grabbed the other's cock, firmly. Stroking it hard while watching his face in the dark. Listening. Knowing just how much Mike must be hurting.

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I saved up all my pennies and I gave them to this special guy

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