“Eyo, you got that good-good?” asks Tyrone, in a hushed voice, under the light of a full moon surrounded by sounds found in the dead of night. “I gotcha,” says Terrance, the person who can always be found in a dark dumpster alley off of L’Avenue Boulevard. These two burly dark-skinned men always seem to find each other every other night, one trying to find wealth, the other trying to satisfy his desires, both with their own priorities, both knowing what they are doing is against the law of Holyshittoland.
Tyrone hands Terrance, his trusty “partner”, a bundle of green coloured paper in one hand and receives a small plastic ziplock bag filled with a minute amount of powder glistening in the moonlight. This way of trading ensures that the both of them can be sure that they are not getting scammed. “My man,” says Tyrone, while also patting Terrance’s arm, knowing he is the only provider of his source of sanity. Terrance replies only with a curt nod. This nod is a signal that the ordeal is finished, and to ensure that no one gets caught, both men shall not talk to each other, shall not see each other, shall not even think about each other, until they meet again at the same time, same place, but different day.
Tyrone, now equipped with his only source of ecstasy and joy, heads out of the alley with the cool, night air flowing around his bald glistening head. He can think of nothing but the impending delight and symphony of taste he is about to have in his mouth. He walks past the drug-ridden people on the sidewalk, paying no attention, as if he has been possessed by the gods of his powder in his hand.
He gets to his car, puts the bag of powder under his seat, and starts to drive with the windows down in the direction of Procrastination Avenue, where his humble abode is situated at. He passes the street lights, illuminating his face one light at a time only to the sound of the engine revving as he lightly presses on the accelerator pedal. He still cannot think about anything except for the powder under his seat. He’s starting to get desperate. His heart is starting to pound. Alas, he cannot resist it any longer. He struggles to find a quiet alley to enjoy himself. Between the buildings he sees no opening, until he passes by 974 Pearl Street, where he sees a dank, quiet opening to enjoy his powder.
Tyrone makes a beeline for the opening in his car, slamming on the brakes just in time so that his car doesn’t crash into a brick wall. He puts his car in park and grabs the bag of powder. There it is, in his hand, the brown powder he was looking forward to all this time. Made in Malaysia, he thought, where only the finest of this stuff comes from. The scent of sweet, chocolaty milk fills the air in his car. Without hesitating, he throws his hand up to his mouth and lets the brown powder enter his cavity and land on his tongue, where immediately he tastes only sweet chocolate milk.
All of a sudden, he hears a voice and a click. “Where did you get that Milo from?”
To be continued, as time goes on