To begin with, I just want to say this is not my normal shit,
tu capisci
? I'm pretty straight-laced and on the up and up in this life. I try to not do bad shit, cause what goes around comes around.
But that girl had such a sweet ass.
And I was stoned off mine.
Anyway, I found myself in a fucked up situation to begin with. I was broke, owed some not nice people money and needed a way to earn some cash to pay them off. So I did some shit I don't normally do. I moved some
product
from one hand to another.
This is the way it works, you got one rich guy with something that he wants to sell, and you got another fairly-rich group of guys that are good at selling. Now normally you would think that is win-win for both, right? Easy-peasy. Not always. See the rich guy didn't get that way from being stupid. He knows that those other idiots are young, dumb, and full of cum. And he ain't going to jail for their asses being stupid with his shit. So what he does is he hires a middle man. A go-between, who can be trusted to do the time without talking if shit goes bad.
Me.
See for me a little time in the "house" is an all-expenses-paid vacation from the normal rat race and hell a chance to see old friends, on Uncle Sam's dollar no less. I've done more than a few, and yeah sure I have no great desire to go back and do more, but if I had too, I would.
And I would keep my mouth shut.
Now Mr. Rich guy knows this, he also knows I'm in a fix and need cash. So I play middle finger for him–wipe his ass so to speak–and deal with the people with the matching wardrobe colors. Reds, blacks, browns its all the same so long as it's green on both ends.
For me, it was easy work. I drive out to the middle of the desert, late at night. And I meet up with some "border jumpin' rat" who was "muleing-in" a backpack full of rich guys shit. The no habla fellow has family back over the border ... who are being held till word from me gets there that I got the stuff. Now if I don't call this guy's mom, wife, sister ... whatever ... will most likely be servicing fifteen cocks a night till they die.
He can't wait to get it into my hands. Familia.
So I get the backpack from the
mule
, take it to my hotel–registered in a fake name of course–and call the bandanna brotherhood to come pick it up and pay for it. I meet them somewhere in a day or so, get the cash, take my cut, and wire the rest to an offshore account in Mr. Moneybag's name. Or, more and more often of late, I go buy a Wal-Mart gift card and mail it to a P.O. box number. Biggest money laundering service there is, Wal-Mart.
Whatever, it's sucky work but it pays well, and the only real risk is death or jail time.
Speaking of suck, I was in that in-between time. I had the bag, and I had called, and the meet was set up, but they said they were busy for a few days and I had to sit on it. Yeah, I know right? I got enough powder to make Richard Pryor sit back up and start telling jokes again and these fuckers were too busy!
What. The. Fuck?
Fuck it, I went to a bar. I was sippin' Seven and Seven and watching the game on the screen when this girl comes in, looking to use the phone. Now this was back when I was young before everyone had a cellphone stuck under their noses, savvy? Anyway, she gets on the payphone–that's a phone you had to put money in, for all you too young to know–gets into this big argument with whoever is on the other end. Slams down the phone and starts to boohoo. Oh, my god, the waterworks were going strong.
So I bought her a drink. Being all gentlemen like. And as she is sitting there drinking her Jack on the rocks I was checking out her body. Not bad, little flat up top but hippy, and not in the beads and flower kind of way.
I buy her another. And I give her a little sample of what I have to trade to the locals, my own makings, you understand? Just a blotter. Or two. Three, I'm sure it was no more than three.
Soon she is telling me this sob story, and I'm drinking faster to drown her out, and then next thing I know we are in front of my hotel room door. Both of us laughing like we're dying. I got the door key to work–yeah I know hotels work with swipe cards, shut up already–and we tumble into the place.
She says she needs to go "pee" and I let her and then after a bit I notice she has vanished on me. So I open the door and she is passed out on the toilet, underwear around her ankles, and head on the tile wall. Catching some Z's. If I hadn't needed to piss myself, I would have left her there. But I really needed to get a refund on those Seven and Sevens. So I scooped her up, took my leak and turned on the news to see if I could hear the score on that damn game I missed dealing with sleeping beauty.
No dice. Just weather crap.
My buzz was gone, my high was not peaked and I needed a little in-between snack, as it were, to tide me over till I joined her in dreamville. So I opened one of the little bags in the backpack and got a plastic spoon from by the coffee pot. I was just about to pour out a line of white on the table when I looked over at the bed.
The most perfect goddamn ass in the world!
Now she might not have tits to talk about but ... damn! I walk over, I'm looking down at that pretty pair of hills with that sweet valley between and I realized I had a spoon full of "happy" still.
