“He found the press and Flintstones all through the apartment!” one young man said to other in a dark recess of a sixth floor staircase. “I used to love eating Flintstones when I was a kid,” the teen then said, while absent-mindedly hitting the side of his hand against the coarse, gray walls of the stairwell.
“Maybe we can reminisce about childhood later… if Kool don’t fuckin’ shoot me! What happened next?” the other young man asked. He wasn’t scared. His voice did harbor a slight tremble, but it was due to a stream of anxiety coursing through him, not fear or nervousness. He could also feel a slight shake in his hands, but he carefully concealed that in his Polo varsity jacket. He knew to never show anything that even looked like fear, not even to someone he considered an ally.
“My fault, bro… relax…yeah, but he was telling a couple of the others he wanted to pop you if he saw you over that way today…” the first teen finished.
“Twist! What the fuck, bro! What kinda info is this? Is he tryna shoot my ass or not? Did he link up with any of those boys from the back building? Can I sneak back and get some of my shit? I need answers on shit like that…You out here distracted. I know you since we was kids…You wanna see me dead?” the young man finished.
“Damn, Bizzy…my fault. I ain’t know you was scared like that,” Twist replied. Bizz was very disappointed in himself for losing it and so clearly giving off an impression. It was the wrong impression, but still an impression. In fact, Bizzy felt far removed from fear; all he felt, at that moment, was frustration with his slow-witted friend. It seemed his friend wanted him to be scared, so he needed to play it that way; any denial or show of strength felt like it would, ironically, put him in a weaker position.
“You wouldn’t be scared!?! He tryna “pop” me… like does that mean kill me or just punch me in the face? I can live with one but not the other,” Bizz said jokingly, while taking his left hand out of his jacket displaying a slight tremor. As mentioned before, these two young men had known each other for years. That fact bred in Twist a sense of familiarity he mistook for knowledge. Twist thought that, like himself, Bizz told jokes when he got nervous. This wasn’t true, but Twist, in that moment, conspired with his fragile memory to create that reality. Perhaps, he wanted to believe that Bizz had more in common with him than just the environment. Perhaps, he thought this quirk could be the by-product of a deeper, more fraternal bond. Of course, Twist could never consider the truth: Bizz was rarely ever scared or nervous, but, instead, in a perpetual state of anxiety that he strictly managed, beside the outlying and occasional shaking.
“Bro, relax! He saw you was making fake pills, but his count was good and a couple of his girl’s friends took some of his work and was lit! So you good! You definitely gunna have to pay for trying trade under his name, but anyone dumb enuff to buy ground-up Flintstones instead of pills aint none of our clientele. At most, I’ll bet he’ll tax you, but I don’t see him calling Steel and dem nuts,” Twist said before slapping Bizz’sshoulder with the intention of buoying his spirits.
Bizz fingered a stack of money in his jacket pocket. He would be taxed, but didn’t care because apparently no one in Kool’s crew knew shit about the catalytic effect of vitamin C on MDMA. Kool didn’t realize his “count” was off by several hundred doses. All of Kool’s product was milligrams lighter on the “Molly” side (Along with many other things, Kool dealt in two types of ecstasy: Molly and Stacks) courtesy of some ground-up Vitamin C. Moreover, the press he bought off Amazon was going to be used to skim off ecstasy stacks (which is just street jargon for dose levels). Disappointment panged inside of Bizz again because he didn’t even get to that part of the hustle before he drew some attention. He was seemingly busted by a bunch of no-accounts before he even really take off! What was he going to do with all those caffeine pills back at his auntie’s apartment?
“Anyway, bro, if you scared just say you scared! Kool loves shaking cats up. Just go there and let him do his whole schtick. He’ll have that old .40 out and talk his bullshit, but after that you’ll be back, because we need you. And shit, I need you! We been making moves forever! Come on!” Twist finished before putting his arm around his friend. Bizz smiled even though he was thinking about how many times he’d skimmed off his friend throughout all their countless endeavors.
Strip Clubs are Sad Discos 