Читать книгу Days of the Trap - Johnny Mitchell - Страница 9

From these green leaves, so bland and bitter as to be nearly insufferable, there shall appear a magic dust that will one day rule the world and bring even the Devil himself to his knees. No Incan prophet could have foretold the impact of the Fish.

Patient but not pushy, like the serpent gently teasing Eve with the apple, so too does the hook of the Fish reel you in slowly — so much so that most don’t even realize they’re hooked.

Odd how such a tepid buzz can cause ordinary people to do the strangest things — make a hyper person mellow and a mellow person hyper, turn complete strangers into old friends, even incline a whole generation to mix it with baking soda and deep throat it through a glass pipe.

And for what? No one can really tell you — that’s the magic of it. I suppose that’s why the Colombians who introduced Fishscale to the world in the early ’70s were referred to as Mágicos, or Magicians, for with a wave of their wand they turned the chalky white rock — barely stronger than a cup of dark roast —into a business bigger than U.S. Steel.

I’m proud to be on the front lines of the Fish trade, the port of entry for the dollars arriving off the street that will eventually ascend the invisible ladder until they’re resting safely in a Panamanian bank account. Spokes like me are what keep the wheel turning, same as any industry. The only person more important than me is this bitch hunched over the table with the jaw that won’t stop moving.

“Toxic masculinity and gender inequality are the inevitable bi-products of neoliberalism,” she says, before leaning over and making the white line disappear through a rolled-up Washington’s face.

Fourth time tonight I’ve been through here, a party of yammering white women drinking craft beer and discussing intersectional feminist politics while they suck up the Fish like a Hoover vacuum.

Thursday through Sunday I’m on call ’til the wee hours, burner phone chirping non-stop like a bird’s nest. Frat houses, study sessions, strip clubs, hospitals — I even have the Ducks’ star linebacker and future NFL draft pick coming through to cop. These anonymous but invaluable men and women are the true heroes in the war on drugs — fighting bravely against the politicians and federal agents who wish to curb North America’s appetite for the snort. Every dollar they spend with me helps fight poverty in rural Peru, bolster employment in the barrios of Medellin and Barranquilla, spurn investment and infrastructure on the frontiers of northern Mexico, and line the pockets of countless border patrol agents, cops, lawyers, bankers, judges, and merchants spanning the seven continents.

“Do you have any more?” the woman asks playfully, cozying up next to me on the couch as I drink a beer.

“Sure, it’s seventy for the gram or one-twenty for two,” I say, digging into my pocket.

At $70 a gram, I thought I was getting away with murder, until I learned that sniff of similar quality sells for $100 a shot in major cities like New York and Los Angeles.

“All I have left is twenty dollars,” she says. “Is it okay if I pay you later?”

She’s gonna make me laugh alright. I shake my head, shoving the stones back into my pocket.

“Nope.”

Sorry, sweetie, but in the snow biz, it’s C.O.D.

“Pleaaase!” she giggles and bats her eyelashes, her bare thigh rubbing up against my leg.

She’s got me pegged as someone who capitulates to the cat, but she doesn’t know me at all. The only ingredient truly necessary for success in the cocaine business is a passionate, unabashed love for money — and I love it alright, more than cocaine and cunt combined.

“You better go find an ATM,” I say, checking my burner phone. I got moves to make.

“Hit me when you’re right,” I say, getting up from the couch.

A shaggy haired kid in a polo shirt enters the living room. His eyes are pools of ink, like a Great White when it attacks at the surface.

“This is great shit dude!” he exclaims, rubbing his gums fiendishly. “Where’d you get it?”