Jack and Jill

David Gillanders pic

Jack and Jill were a couple aged mid-late 20s. They had dual income and no kids but often spent too much on drugs. One day Jonny visited, arriving in a new black Audi. Jonny was a member of the Kalashnikov Mansions Posse, a drug gang. He proposed to Jack they set up a skunk growing op in the couple's flat. The KMP would capitalise it, maintenance was minimal, and later they would share the crop. The main risk would be if anyone outside the loop got to know. So Jonny put heavy emphasis on silence.

"Don't tell anyone. Fucking ANYONE."

Jack agreed. Jill went along.

Two weeks before the skunk was due harvest, police entered the couple's little home, seized everything and placed Jack under arrest.  Bailed him prior to appearing in court to answer serious charges.  A bad day turned worse when Jonny and the KMP came to know. They went ballistic, almost literally.

"WHO FUCKING GRASSED?"

These dudes crashed into Jack and Jill's life and rendered it down to fragments, looking for the intel leak. The couple were dragged over coals and questioned in minute, repetitive detail. They both broke down, claimed to know nothing, but the gang were merciless.

"Fuck it, we still want paid. And we want the squealer...you fucking slags."

The KMP were a street search-engine. Mined every corner of the scene, noted details of everything, cross-referenced statements of anyone remotely associated. They said no-one need fear, if innocent - but talk. Or suffer Spanish Inquisition by Russian Roulette. Wicked heavy pistol held at the face. Hammer drops dry but after a few spins, even big boys bubble.

The Posse never 'officially' solved the mystery, but didn't stop persecuting Jack and Jill.  Stress melted Jill's mind and her drug use soared.  Paranoid delusions and a persecution complex led to hospital. Released to re-addiction and a family helpless. Admitted to long-term rehab, then rehoused in a council tower block.  She began working as a street prostitute with other girls from there.  Not for the paltry pay or insipid drugs.  For the company, mostly.  No-one else to be with, nowhere else to go.

Jack got twelve moon, served six in prison. Released, he took up IV heroin, sharing needles in the homeless hostel. He ran up debts though still owed from inside. One day, paramedics used Narcan to revive Jack from overdose on the pavement outside the hostel. He cursed the paramedics, cursed Narcan, cursed the world. Later that night he was found dead behind some wheeled bins near the hostel.

So who informed? Well, it could be speculated that a KMP member traded the skunk op in exchange for unofficial leniency on a class-A possession charge. Not a bad deal, but don't tell anyone. ANYONE.

What about Jonny? He's around. Got another Audi, metallic blue.

Boogie pic

Sister Morphine

Five am; nothing left on TV except ads for phone sex and fake gems.  Another day passed with no drugs taken.  Congratu-fucking-lations.

Although, the family are going away for a few days tomorrow.  I'll be left alone, susceptible to relapse.  Reasoning of the little voice, devil on my shoulder.
 
Why postpone the inevitable?  Right now is as good a time as later.

I assemble the kit.  Still got a ton of morphine tablets; no excuse to score so many.  Definitely no excuse to inject them.  Pure sick indulgence.

Peel and crush three 20mg MST.  Add a water ampoule, stir.  Filtering the sludge always takes awhile; an alprazolam aperitif will help pass time and blunt incipient self-contempt.

Finally get the cloudy solution sucked into a 2-ml barrel.  Intermediate stage, but handling the 2-ml makes me salivate.  Fifteen years ago, that syringe would be half-filled by a golden, viscous speedball mix.

Oh man...but let us be thankful for what we have.  Which, after a clarifying heat and filtration into a new 1-ml tool, is a thick but clear-ish shot of morphine.  Few drops left in spoon; could contribute to the next shot, if there is one.  Quite likely.

Poke it...when it registers crimson, I take it very slow.  Trickling the solution in 10-unit increments.  Between pumps, I gaze at the muted Adult Babestation TV channel, where 'Sexy Amber' writhes coquettishly, tempting premium-rate calls.  Amber is unusually pretty for free porn; her hot outfit charges the fetishistic intensity of the injection process. Thanks, darling.

Settle back, sigh.  That was stupid, all things considered.  Well...relapse in haste, repent at leisure. Or something like that.

David Gillanders pic

Black Stars

The sky is primer-grey grim. The streets and houses, moody darker grey. Some social-housing project, shitty. Never been here but I'm roaming these streets to connect. The vibe is bad but I'm sick to my soul. Got to keep on, but no-one's around to ask for help.

Rubble and trash everywhere. Finally I come across some men, dressed in dark military uniform. One regards me with wry amusement. Maybe an officer, though no badges.

"Do you know where you are?"

He's holding the shoulder of a guy wearing a beret tilted back. Grabs the the guy's jacket collar and yanks it down broad shoulders, restricted by cuffed wrists. The officer points to an arc of black stars tattooed across the upper back.

"That means he's an assassin."

I study the killer's face, stoic and blank. But he's staring down a long street...telling me the shit I need is that way.

I walk and walk. Feel worse and worse. This whole place seems abandoned, but I just know stuff's going on. I hear a sudden noise, something landed in the weeds nearby. It moved too fast to see, but now I hear a rattle. A metallic snicker...I turn and run.

Back in my room, head bursting. Wretched and hopeless, so cold now.

Some men enter, carrying cloth sacks which must weigh 20 kilos each. Swarthy and tawny, the men wear robes and hats in the style of the Golden Crescent area. They put the sacks in my wardrobe. The eldest approaches, smiling warmly. He has a white beard and twinkling eyes.

"Cash, we know you are cool. We trust you to store this. Just take what you need for yourself, that is fine. There is plenty."

My heart explodes with gratitude and I trickle tears of pride, a kind of love. Of course I won't betray the old man's faith in me. Soon I'll have relief. Can almost taste it, smell it cooking.

When I awake, I'm actually opening the wardrobe door. There are no sacks. I thought there were sacks and I thought I'd get cured. Of course not...there's only a rack of flight jackets and winter parkas. They can't keep me warm, now.