Free Life Struggles (Life Stories Book 1) by Mark Treble

clothes with me and weaved about a little, trying to act unsteady. It wasn't difficult – I was walking down the street in my boxer-briefs a hundred feet from a drug delivery truck while following a bunch of gay men looking for a good time. I heard the truck coming from behind me, and darted in front of it.
    The truck hit me. Shit, that really hurt! I went to the ground and dug in my pants pocket for the panic button, then covered it in my hand with my shirt. As expected, the two guys jumped out of the truck.
    “Holy shit! You jumped right out in front of me, you faggot! What are you trying to do?” The guy might have been trying to establish who was at fault for the accident, but I didn't care. I already knew I was at fault.
    The other guy was a bit more solicitous. “Buddy, are you all right? Is anything broken? Can you talk?” He seemed a bit jittery, and the asshole was starting to look concerned.
    “Yes, I can talk. I want to talk to you.” I pointed at the asshole. “I can call the police before you can stop me and they'll be here in seconds. If they search your truck, not to mention the cargo you just delivered, what are they going to find?”
    Asshole actually broke immediately. Jittery was the one still thinking, so I ignored him.
    “While I get dressed you're going to get your boss on the radio and report the accident, and that the police are on their way. You can't deal with the pedestrian for reasons you'll explain later. Tell him I must see him immediately.” I was a whole lot braver than I felt.
    “Look, dickhead, I don't know what your game is, but” I interrupted him. The him in this case was Jittery, not Asshole.
    “I wasn't talking to you, I was talking to your boss.” I finally had my pants on and just threw the shirt away. Explaining the blood stains wasn't on my bucket list. I still had my cash, car keys, panic button and two burners in my pants pockets.
    “Now, boss, you and I are going to walk to the truck and you're going to get on the radio. Not the phone, the radio. Understand?” God, this was right out of a straight-to-video low-budget gangster film. I hoped the boss hadn't seen me trying to catch my breath.
    “He's bluffing,” said Jittery. He approached me, but the group of inebriated (and probably horny) nearly-naked guys were headed our way.
    “Need any help?” The guy talking was not quite sprinting, but not exactly walking either. I let him get within teen feet before telling him that it all seemed to be OK. The only problem was (I gestured at Jittery) that this guy is trying to pin the whole thing on me.
    By then the whole bare-skin crowd had surrounded the three of us. “The boss is going to take me to the truck so we can call for some help, OK?” I looked at the group and hoped enough of them were sufficiently sober, and insufficiently horny, to stay back.
    Asshole and I walked to the truck. “Skinny for Stiletto, over. Skinny for Stiletto, over.” Christ, if I wrote the way this thing was going down I'd be fucking fired.
    “This is Stiletto, what do you need?” The man's voice sounded bored. I reached for the mic.
    “Your truck's contents and what they just delivered can be in police hands in thirty seconds, so work with me here.” Dialog still sucked.
    “Dipstick, you're supposed to say ‘Over.’ And who is this?” Stiletto was engaged, which was all I needed.
    “Stiletto, this is Little Dick.” It was the only name I could bring to mind. “You're going to meet me at the – wait a minute –“ I stopped pressing transmit and asked Skinny for the name of the drug retailer to which he had just delivered. “At the Quarter Glass and Silver Extravaganza, and do it in five minutes. I don't care what you have to do to get here. At five minutes the police show up and Skinny and Blowjob are toast. As is the whole transport business.” Jittery was mightily offended at the nickname Blowjob. Well, fuck him.
    “Put Skinny back on.” I didn't know what was going