Two roads diverged...

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
It's a very short tale of a young man who has made the decision to become a drug dealer. It takes place in Dublin city in Irealnd. A lot of bad language and slang in this story that you may or may not understand, just ask me if you have any problems, Thanks for reading!

Submitted: January 30, 2009

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Submitted: January 30, 2009

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Two Roads Diverged...

 

I glance at the clock on the wall, still time for a cup of tea before he arrives. I put the kettle on, take a mug out of the press and open the box of Lyons I bought that morning. There was plenty of Tetley's left but I hate that piss. The lads always buy it because it’s cheaper but I'm a man who cherishes his tea. I only drink Lyons, with a small splash of milk. I don't take sugar - unless I'm coming down, it takes the edge off. At least I like to think it does. I open the fridge.

 “Fucking pricks, Jono! Where's the milk?” I shout up the stairs. 

No Answer. The bollocks probably has his headphones on. Can't be bothered traipsing up there to quiz him so I just take out the soy stuff that my other housemate Fergal drinks. He reckons he’s lactose intolerant. We reckon he’s gay. The click of the kettle lets me know it's boiled. Pouring the water is a skill in itself, has to be done from a height.  I grab a dirty spoon from the sink and give it a scrub under the hot tap. Lazy bastards in this gaff, never wash up after themselves. A quick stir and my tea is ready to go. A little taste, perfect. Jaysus, if I could pull birds as well as I pour tea I'd be a happy man.

 I check the time again. Where is that gobshite? He should have been here 20 minutes ago. There's nothing on the box except Riki Lake and Dr. Phil. I've read the paper, the local newsletter and every leaflet on the table. I go to the jacks and take a piss. Turn to wash me hands and see there's no soap. The hot water will have to do. The water runs until steam is rising from it. Fuck! That's hot but it feels good, sort of comforting. I turn the tap off and give me hands a shake. A brief inspection in the mirror, looking tired but what do you expect after the weekend I've had? I run me fingers through me hair and walk out to the hall.Peering through the frosted glass of the front door I check to see if his car is pulling up. I take out me mobile and look for messages, nothing. Sure I'd hear the thing going off if I received a text. But you know what it's like when you're waiting for someone? Then I hear it, the offensive bawl of his modified exhaust and the throbbing beat of techno music. I hate that poxy car. A real skanger-me-banger. The looks you get when you're sitting in it. I open the front door and give him a nod. Got me wallet, keys, and phone. Out the door and into the "General Gee".

 "Alrigh' Stevo, what's the story?" He looks at me, a giant grin on his face.  "Ya ready ta make a mint?"

 I sit in the passenger seat and laugh. Darren's sat there wearing a pair of silver Nike Air Max with grey track bottoms tucked into a pair of white sport socks. He's given his Celtic jersey the day off and instead sports a blue sweatshirt emblazoned with a fluorescent Kappa logo. All this topped off with a Le Coq Sportif baseball cap and a pair of diamond stud earrings
 

"I see you dressed up for the occasion," I quip.  "Fuck you, ya poncey git." He digs me on the shoulder and lets out a whoop.

"Wait till you see this fella's stash man, you'll gick your cacks."

 He turns the key, revs the engine and we tear out of the estate, tyres screeching against the tarmac. 

 

Darren was a mate of mine. He sorted me out, you know what I mean? All the lads in the gaff came to me when they wanted anything and Darren would get it with his lot and pass on the discount. Then I lost me job at the building site. The dole covered me rent and but there was no money left for bills, food and nights out. I was having no luck finding a new job. I mentioned it to Darren one day and he suggested we start dealing together. That way we could buy larger amounts and get a better price. The bars and nightclubs in town were full of people looking to get off their faces. Darren even knew some bouncers who'd help us out, so long as we threw a few readies their way. Granted it wasn’t exactly a career with prospects but when you’re broke you can’t sit around waiting for Bill Cullen to knock on your door, you’re bleedin’ hired and all that. So here we were on our way to Larry’s gaff to see exactly what kind of a deal we could get. 

 My head is melting.  I can’t listen to this music much longer. I check to see if there’s something better in the glove box. I find an open bag of fizzy cola bottles, a mix tape with "deadly dance tunes" scribbled on the label, a few loose skins, a packet of John Player Blue and a Zippo embossed with a golden hash leaf. I take out the Zippo and turn it over, engraved on the back is Happy 21st Birthday Darren love Ma and Da. I smirk, toss the Zippo back, swipe a fizzy cola and close the glove box. I can’t think straight between the noise of the engine and the music blaring from the speakers so I press the eject button on the cassette player. Darren throws me a look but lets it go.  The car turns into the estate we’re heading to. The houses are terraced with more then a few boarded up. There are kids out playing football on the road and as Darren gets closer to them he beeps the horn to get them out of his way.  One of them sticks his fingers up at him.

 

“Your car is fuckin’ crap” another one shouts. 

 He can’t be older than seven. They all start laughing and give us the fingers. Darren revs the engine and they jump out if the way. As we drive off one of them throws the ball at the car and they tear up with the laughter. We turn down a cul de sac and Darren pulls up outside an end terrace house. We both get out and walk to the door. Darren asks me if I’m alright, I nod and he rings the doorbell. A man in his twenties, who I presume is Larry, opens the door a crack.

 

“Tha’ you, Dar’en?” he asks. 

 His face his hidden by the door. All I can see of him are his squinty eyes. They dart up and down the road.

 

“Yeah, it’s me, open the fucking door will ya and stop acting the gobshite”.

 

Darren pushes the door open and Larry eases back. As soon as we are in he sticks his head out the door one last time and then shuts it slowly. He turns around and stares at us both. When I see his whole face it immediately reminds me of a bull terrier. You know the white dog with the long snout, pinkish nose and the beady little eyes? Jesus, I nearly start laughing. He is short, about five and a half feet, and his head seems to be fixed in a strange position, sort of pushed out over his neck. It’s almost like he’s sniffing us, which makes the canine resemblance resonate. His head is shaved, and I can see from the patterned re-growth that he is going bald.

 “I think the cops are on ta me, I can’t stay around this kip for much longer” he says.

“Ah Larry, you’re always saying tha’. Ya need ta relax. And stop snorting that marching powder”. Laughs Darren.

 

Larry ignores him and guides us toward the front room. We walk in and take a seat on the sofa. I look around the room. There is a television the size of a small cinema screen mounted to the wall. “Loose Women” is showing but it’s on mute, thank God. Larry sits down opposite us. He is constantly shifting in his chair and his gaze never seems to stray far from the window. 

 

“Well, wha do yis want, how much, when and I need half the cash upfront. Yis can sort me out with the rest when yis start raking’ it in, yeah?” Larry says, beginning to laugh.  His face scrunches up; his eyes are now barely visible, just tiny slits on his scarlet face. All of a sudden he lets out this snort and pushes his head further out. He continues to howl his head rocking to and fro as his lips curl back revealing a pair of fangs that make me wish I’d brought some garlic and a crucifix. 

 Darren ignores all of this and begins to tell Larry exactly what we need. While he’s talking a kid sticks his head around the door. 
 

“Da, I’m starving Da, can I have bread and jam?”

 

A look of pure rage washes across Larry’s face.

 

“Wha did I fuckin tell you? Come over here ya little fucker” Larry yells.

 

The kid is about six years old. He‘s got a snot running down his nose that we wipes away with a sleeve that has seen its fair share of dirty noses. His lips are covered in sores that he keeps licking and his matted hair is clinging to his scalp with grease.  Larry goes to grab him but the kid races away under the coffee table to escape him. Larry grabs him by the leg and pulls him out. Without warning he strikes him across his face. The kid barely flinches. Larry isn’t happy, he wants a reaction. He grabs the kid by his greasy mop and pulls him out of the sitting room. We hear the kid let out a roar of pain and Larry marches back into the room triumphantly. He’s smirking away to himself.

 

 “Well tha little fuck didn’t know wha hit him did he? Little bastard, I told him never to come in here when I’ve customers. Little shit got an order wrong today as well. He won’t do it again in a hurry”. He throws back his head and laughs again, looking at us both to get a nod of approval.
 I’m sitting there with me mouth wide open. Did that just happen? I try to catch Darren’s eye but he just wants to get this done. He tries to get back to business. I’m paralysed. I take one more look at Larry. He grins at me again and I just stand up and walk out of that sitting room, out of that house. I’m nearly at the estate’s exit when Darren catches up with me.
 

“Where are ya going?” He asks, “What are ya at?”

“I can’t do it. He’s a fucking scumbag, Darren. A real fucking scumbag”.

“Of course he’s a fucking scumbag, Stevo, He’s a drug dealer”. 

“Exactly”.
 

Darren understands, he tells me to go home. He’ll deal with Larry. Maybe he’ll see me around. I walk out of the estate.

 Do you remember when you were little and people would ask what you wanted to be when you grew up? I always said I wanted to be a gangster. My aunties and uncles used to laugh. I dressed up as one for Halloween when I was 8. My Grandfather lent me his beige mac and a trilby to match. It was swimming on me but I thought I was the shit. My Dad dipped a cork in soot from the fire grate and carefully smudged it over my top lip, making a moustache. My Mam bought me a cap gun to finish off the costume. I fired it unexpectedly at the ol’ ones as they handed over monkey nuts and sweets. I scared the shit out of them. It was great.


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