Free Break Free & Be Broken by Eros Winter Page A

his services. It's unfortunate to see his memory working; I was kinda hoping to convince him I called.
    "I know man, and I'm really sorry to just drop by. The thing is, it's kind of an emergency. It's my birthday, and I really need a score. Can you help me out?"
    "Well shit man, it isn't cool of you to jus show up like this, ya know? And I hate to bum you out seeing as how it's your birthday and all, but I'm not holdin."
    Lying fuck. An addict of his level always has plenty around. "Griff, come on! Don't pull my dick here man, you gotta at least have some personal?"
    "Well... yeah, but it's called personal for a reason hombre."
    The slow drawl of his voice is starting to piss me off. "Look, I'm telling you man, I'm desperate. I'm out here like a fiend in the night and I gotta get a fix. It's life and death. Please, man. How long we been doing business? I've never pulled anything like this before and I can assure you I never will again. I'll even pay double to make it worth your while."
    I watch with pleasure as the promise of money plops through his beady little eyes and into his drug riddled brain. Good. This one's hungry for dough. Money equals drugs, drugs equal life, therefore, money equals life. It’s an argument tried and true, and the effects are working in my favor.
    "I dunno man. I really only have a bit left. I'd be selling you all I have..."
    Another fucking lie. I see those drug clogged cogs churning in his noodle. He sees my desperation and is fishing for more cash. So be it.
    "I'll pay a hundred bucks for whatever you got dude, but that's all I can swing."
    He feigns indecision despite the fact I've already won. "All right, all right. Come in."
    He opens the door and invites me inside. The stank of burned tobacco bombards my senses the moment the door is fully open. As usual, the house is a heinous mass of filth. The ground is littered with beer cans and bottles, and every surface that can be used as a table is covered in cigarette butts and ash, much of which migrated south to join the garbage on the floor. A few pieces of filthy, worn out furniture sit unnoticeably around the room, as if embarrassed by their shabby appearance. Whoever was talking in here went off to more private places to spin their wiles, probably paranoid and assuming the worst from my knocking.
    I try not to look around as Griff and I move to his room. I can't stand the disarray of this place.
    His room, though slightly cleaner than the rest of the house, is still a mess. Clothes are scattered all over, along with the cans, bottles, and butts that seem to be a staple here. The disorder bugs the hell out of me. I hate it here.
    Griff reaches into his drawer and pulls out a bag of my precious drug. As I thought, he has plenty, but I don't call him out on it. I wonder if he even remembers telling me he only had a little, the way he carelessly just pulled that out. What an ass. He grabs a balloon for me and passes it over.
    "All right homie, there ya go." Clutching my balloon in one hand, he extends the other toward me, open and expectant of money. Money, money... shit! I have no money. Fuck! Griff is no slouch. He won't gimme the drugs without cash, even if I offered to go to an ATM right now. I suppose I really could run to an ATM... but no, I don't wanna make that run.
    He may not be a slouch, but he is a junkie. Frail. Out of shape. Weak. A dark plan forms in my head, the kind of maniacal absurdity that can only be born of desperation. I stick out my left hand for the drugs and slowly reach my right behind me, as if going for my wallet. He takes the bait and drops the balloon into my hand. As soon as I have it firmly in my grasp, my right hand, now balled into a fist, comes whirling from behind me. I go for his gut, hoping that if I knock the air out of him, he won't be able to cry out. My fist hits with a whomp. He is thinner than I realized, and I swear I feel my knuckles kiss the inside of his spine. A raspy whoosh escapes his lungs and