Temptation’s Slings

Waiting for the drugs. That’s the worst thing. You wanna drink, you go to the pub and get served. You go to the offie and get served. You get in the car and drive to the supermarket, braving the white light and strangers for a six pack and a bottle of single malt. You go to the fridge and get an ice cold beer with beads of condensation making the can slippery, and drink it.

But you want drugs? You gotta wait. Wait while your guy phones his guy. Wait while the phone calls go round and round. And smile. Because you can’t get stroppy with your dealer. No way! How else you gonna score anything halfway decent tonight, before you go to that party, that gig, that dance?

So your stomach gets that feeling you used to get on Christmas morning, before you saw the presents waiting under the tree, when you still weren’t sure if Father Christmas was real, and did he know about the slugs in Mrs Pruneface’s bathroom. But that feeling goes quickly on Christmas morning. It lingers while you wait.


He’s on the phone. Looking good. Shit. Looking bad. Shit.

No deal tonight. No one has. No one is selling, anyway.


About bookmole
I am pro-choice. You make yours, I'll make mine, okay?

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