Binge Marathon Sundays 5/4c
Alright, I’ve been hitting the home front hard in my last few bloggings (or whatever you’d call these), so today you all get a break: no crying babies, no crying parents, no crying. Period. Today, let’s talk about the wheels of justice, and how I ride ‘em like a bicycle.
I’m kind of a big deal.
I think folks around here are finally really waking up to that fact. A guy comes in, barfs up a condom full of coke and tells you how he smuggled it across the border, it don’t take much brains to know to lock him up. But some dealer gets a wild hair and thinks he’s the Einstein of the drug business: that’s the guy that takes a little finesse. And that’s what sets me apart. I’m the goddamn Skell Whisperer, man. I have a gift. I can get inside these dicktards’ heads. I kinda wish I couldn’t. It’s like knowing what a dog’s thinking when he’s trying to figure out how to hide the dump he just took — it doesn’t clean the shit up, it just helps you understand better why it’s smeared all over your Persian rug.
And today, the itch I’ve been trying to scratch for months got a real good tickle. The crew that’s been busting my nuts? They got caught. Red-handed. I told you before: it’s always the money. Nobody gets into the drug trade thinking “yeah, the pay’s low, but I really love the people.” No way. You do it for the money. And thinking like a skell, I followed that thought through to its conclusion with geometric logic. Today I got to make life miserable for the three kinds of worthless people I hate most: bankers, lawyers and criminals. It was sweet. I don’t have all the pieces in place yet, but it’s like one of those domino set-ups where once the first one goes, even if it hasn’t happened yet, you know the last one’s gonna fall into place. It’s just a matter of time.
That’s the other thing that I understand that skells always miss: time is not on their side. They all think it is, but it’s not. Every day they’re not in jail they figure is another day they’ve proved to the world that they’re never going to jail. Time’s on my side. Every tick of every clock says my name. Elephants and the DEA never forget.
One of my first cases, I had this dealer — pretty low-level, modest amounts, but enough that he was a nuisance. Darnell. Dealt in smack, crack, whatever he could get his hands on and turn fast. Everyone knew him on the street. We all knew him, too. But he was fast: you’d try to pick him up holding and he’d be able to ditch the stash. Or he’d have a cute system set up so he never had it on him, just told his clients where the stuff was. Nothing ever swapped hands, so you couldn’t stick a case to him. Smart kid. Talked fast, lived fast. Had a couple kids and to give him his due, he was working to put food on their table, not to shoot up or something. Always called me his “brother” when I busted him: “Brother, why you gotta go hassling the working man?” I liked him, kinda.
Darnell thought he was untouchable. And I want to say I caught him, put a charge to him, got him to clean up. Really, what happened, he slung product on the wrong corner one too many times and some gangbangers got to him first. Bled him out, kosher-style, hung up like meat in a warehouse. Kids ended up in foster care. Don’t know what happened to them.
That’s what I can never get through to these jokers: I’m not the bad guy. I’m not the worst thing facing them. Because no one gets out of the business if they don’t have to, and no one has to unless they get caught. If you stay in it, there’s really only one thing you can count on: you’re not sailing off into a tropical sunset. One way or another, you’re either gonna end up without the life you had, or without your life, period. And the latter is more likely, and it sure ain’t gonna be pretty. Compared to dying in a gutter, man, I’m the light at the end of the tunnel. Getting caught is the best thing that could happen to them. You’d think more of them would say “thank you.”