Cocaine Mike McDonald was that bad motherfucker, a strong, broad shouldered, and wiry 6'6, he cut an imposing figure, close shaved black hair, black leather jacket, a voice that was part rasp, part hiss, as he came through the door that led from the basement, 9MM stuck in his belt, i had to stifle the urge to piss myself... hope i didn't freak you out he said, this is the kid i been tellin' you about Hippie Jack said pointing and smiling as if i was his prize pony, you the mover grinned Mike, i guess, i smiled back, Mike then sat down and began expounding on his love of firearms and need to keep sharp with his piece, you never know he rasped, when one a these fuckin' young bucks gonna try and make a name, i just sat and nodded in agreement like i had some sort of firsthand experience with this shit, he then began to tell me how he liked to make his own bullets, make sure that if the fucker hits you you ain't gonna be able to identify anyone as he put it, talked about being a paratrooper in the Army and how he had been one of the first guys to land in Grenada, i noticed his one hand was missing parts of a finger or two, i couldn't tell how old he was or what color he was, all i knew is that he radiated criminal, this guy was fucking serious, i was a fucking nancy boy compared to him, had we been locked in a cell together i had a rather uneasy feeling about who the bitch was gonna be...
After what could only be called a bit of hoodlum chit-chat Mike made for the door, he offered up his beeper number and told me he was steady for coke along with the occasional smack and pills, he pulled the front door shut and after about a ten second count the door on the side in the alley opened and you could hear Mike bound up the stairs to his place, i looked at Hippie Jack and asked somewhat stunned, so you just let him shoot down there? that doesn't freak you out?, Jack shrugged and gave his usual, well yeah man it sorta freaks me out but he showed me this thing he built in the back of the basement, some sort of pit to trap shit, i dunno, he says it's okay, whaddya gonna do? that's when Jack stopped and looked sheepishly toward the carpet, i dunno though, he seems like a decent guy but sometimes it seems stuff goes missing if he's around, maybe it's just coincidence, i get fucked up and people in and out, could be anybody? i studied Jack carefully, i knew what he was talking about, the motherfucker scared the shit out of me too, what do you do with a crazy bastard like that? i had an inkling the prisons were filled with guys like Mike, guys who acted long before they thought about the consequences hence just being in general proximity of him could be hazardous if not lethal, particularly if you happened to be the one he snapped out on...
As i was coming up i began to realize the value i held for those above me in the supply chain, i was a white guy who seemed to be able to move ample amounts, a pound or two a week, nothing major but if you were the guy one step up you could make a decent buck for doing nothing more than procuring said pounds when i needed them, it was always my biggest fear, a good connection running out or getting popped, so i always kept the ears open, made notes of potential options when the info was floated along, and though i liked Jack i also knew he might not be the most responsible sort... and so one day while i sat at the bar waiting for Jack to show Cocaine Mike pulled up a seat next to me, he wasted no time buying me a drink and proceeding to talk as much shit as he could on Hippie Jack, it's a game filled with sharks and poachers, like Alonzo Harris once said "this shit's chess, it ain't checkers..." and i sat and nodded and listened patiently as i was given a half-ass pitch about why i should think about joining Mikes team, in the end i shrugged and asked if he knew where Jack was and he said sure, he's at home prolly still fucked up from the eight ball i sold him last night, you need a ride?
This game, like chess, is one of thinking and strategy, one such strategy is keeping one's ass out of places that put them at a distinct disadvantage, like say a car with a 6'6 maniac behind the wheel but i needed to catch up with Jack and though i had a grand on me i was quick enough to tell Mike that i was getting something on the front, hoping that would maybe deter him from sticking a pistol up my nose and telling me to empty my pockets and hoping my freshly minted street cred would make it more worthwhile to not stick a pistol up my nose and tell me to empty my pockets, and so for some reason i accepted his offer of a ride to Jack's, loud enough so that Karen the bartender could hear it and then made for the door...
Outside he motioned me down the street, where's the car? i asked... right there, he motioned, now while i was expecting to see something like an Impala Super Sport or some other old muscle car i was a bit speechless by what we were rolling up on... it was a Chevette, painted fucking gold, a weird sparkly gold almost, it's back end was jacked up slightly and the whole of the hatchback was woofers, tweeters, and bass, as we got in i wanted to laugh, so much for inconspicuous i thought, Mike turned on the ignition and punched a button and the car began shaking, the bass was enough to make you shit your pants, the car rattled and wheezed as if it was going to fall apart, almost 13 feet of people jammed into a Chevette with enough sound system for a dance club, i was trying not to smirk as i thought of what this must look like, i looked over at Cocaine Mike, he smiled and over the din yelled, pretty fucking sweet ride ain't it... he was dead serious...
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