Quality

It was coming on. In full, fuck-you force. It better come through. And soon.

The clarity was worse than the sickness. Things coming into clear and sharp focus.

The state of the house around him. The other people in the room. The smell. The various fluid stains on his clothes.

He heard footsteps. The thump of a body falling next to him. The sound of a hand rustling through various pockets.

And then the slight and almost imperceptible weight of a small, plastic bag in his lap.

“How is it?” He asked.

“It’s good shit. This guys got the good shit.”

“Did you get off?”

“Not yet. I got other stops to make.”

———————————————————————

It was something she never got used to. Feeling this bad in a house this nice.

She hoped it came through. And soon.

The light reflecting from the chandeliers was almost migraine-inducing. Her mother used to watch her play under those lights when she was younger. When she was better.

She needed this fix tonight. There were important people coming over. Charity event. Her parents society friends.

What started as curiosity turned into weekend indulgence that evolved into necessity.

She heard footsteps. A body eclipsed the chandelier’s light. And she felt the tap of a small plastic bag hit her foot.

“Is this as good as last time?”

“It’s good shit. This guy’s got the good shit.”

“Did you try it?”

“Not yet. I got other stops to make.”

———————————————————————

It was getting harder to keep the customers coming back. And now, a friend told him, Vice was able to trace overdoses back to the source.

He’d worry about that later. Right now, he had other stops to make.