Sunday, January 19th, 2014 - 1:00 PM PST - Some fuckin' park - Los Angeles, California

Business is terrible.

Not in the sense that we haven't made any sales in the (almost an) hour we've been here, but in the sense that the people we're selling to are far from the average "rich guy" image of coke users. In other words, we're selling to the lowest common denominator, the scummiest of the bags, the dirtiest of addicts. I should feel disgusted, unwilling to cooperate and be an enabler, but I don't. I'm far from disgusted, actually.

Standing with my back to a tree, looking an inconspicuous as you can get while still covering your entire face, I spot a guy walking towards me. Slightly hunched over, looking around, trying to divert the pressure of the nonexistent eyes that fell on him. His T-shirt had one giant hole in the right center, exposing his protruding ribs to the world. His right hand shoved into his pocket, his entire arm quivering. That fucking wild eyed stare, unblinking as he continued to look for someone who wasn't there. Finally, he came up next to me and regained control of his arm long enough to pull the wallet out of his pocket.

"He-hey man, you got the stuff?"

Cue eye roll from behind the protective shielding of the sunglasses. I nod, swishing around a collection of saliva that just now was the perfect time to cure me of my dry throat. He leans in closer to me, his rotten, yellow teeth flashing in front of my face and putrid breath penetrating the cover of the bandanna. His shaky hands rest on my shoulder as he whispers: "How much?"

"First thing's first psycho; get the fuck off me." With that, I shove him back, or should I say to the ground. Right, forgot he probably weighed 82 pounds soaking yet and the slightest wind could send him flying through the air like he was wrapped up in his own personal tornado. He dusts himself off and gets off the ground, his desperate junkie smile quickly becoming a frown as he raised his voice towards me.

"What the fuck was that for?" He was attempting to get right back to where he was before I shoved him to the ground.

"I told ya, get the fuck off me." My hand shoots out from my side and blocks his advance further. "I got what ya need, but that don't mean we're friends."

"Whatever, how much?"

Hmm, someone this addicted? I could make a fucking killing off him alone. Just, jacking up the price until I bleed every last penny he has on him. To abuse my power, or to not? That is the question, fuck Shakespeare.

"How much you got on you?"

"Uh, I'm good man, I'm good for it." His eyes dart back and forth.

"That wasn't what I asked. I asked; how much do you have on you?"

"Shit man, I got a couple grand, cash."

Oh, if he could see the grin on my face behind the bandanna...

"Then a couple grand for, let's say... ten grams." Now, he looks pissed.

"You think you can do good by gypping me, boy?"

"The way I see it; you can spend the money on whatever offering I give you, or I can just beat the shit out of you and take the money from ya. Either way, I win."

"You motherfucker."

"Y'know; I've been called that a lot. Do you think by somehow uttering that, that my intentions of getting your money will somehow stop?"

"I'll fuckin' kill ya!" he shouted, whipping a switchblade from out of his back pocket. My hand instinctively balls into a fist and I throw the first punch; literally. He goes down, blade flying from his hand and skidding across the ground. I reach into the waistband of my pants and pull out the pistol that has been in my possession since last night and aim right between his eyes.

"You were saying? My offer still stands, in case you're done being a fucking ]

"Shit man, shit!" He flips open his wallet and empties all the cash from it before handing it over. As he flips the wallet closed, I see a picture, this guy and a kid no older than 8. He looked to be in better shape, the guy did. If this wasn't his wallet, I wouldn't be able to see the resemblance, but looking at him lying on the ground, it starts to connect. Yeah, the wallet wasn't stolen. I drop to my knees and ask him:

[color=#C71585]"How old's your kid?"

"Huh?"

"You heard me."

"Sorry, didn't expect someone to take such a concern in my life after punching me in the face."

"Can't blame you for that," I say as I produce a baggie of cocaine from my jacket pocket. The ten grams I extorted him for. Before handing it to him, I'm getting my answer.

"He woulda been fourteen today."

Would have? Shit. My hands start to shake, not much unlike his own. Looking down at the money in my hand, it feels hot to the touch, scorching my skin. I slide the baggie back into my pocket and help the guy up to his feet.

"What the hell are ya-" he starts before I cut him off by shoving the money back into his possession.

"Look man, take it back. Get yourself cleaned up. You think this is how he'd want to see ya?"

"Huh?"

For fuck's sake; I'm getting sick and tired of having to repeat myself. I return the gun back to my waistband and straighten myself out. "Go get yourself cleaned up."

He turns around, the bruise on his face left by my fist shown to me on full display before his face disappears and his mangy, greasy hair is the only thing I see on his head. Saying nothing, he walks off the way he came, his head jerking around wildly as if he was still on the hunt for the imaginary people that he thought were following him.

I lean back against the tree. If all goes well and I sell all this shit today, I won't have to answer the question of why I didn't just make that easy money and gone on my way. This is important because I have no fucking idea why I did that. Maybe it's seeing someone so fucking depressed about the loss of their child that in a way, it reminds me of my own.

He isn't dead, though. I'm dead however. Dead to him and his mother.

Fuck it, it was for the best.

Right?

Dammit, I shouldn't be concerning myself with these thoughts right now. If I let emotion cloud my business senses, then I'm digging my own fucking grave when it comes to gaining their trust. The Organization needs this, or so they keep telling me. Maybe, if I was more bold, I'd run off and fall completely off the grid. Change my name this time, get some plastic surgery, pull whatever tracker chips they might've implanted under my skin out and live the rest of my life as a fucking recluse.

That sounded a lot more intelligent when I didn't think too much about it.

Fuck it, another customer. Hopefully, I don't fuck this one up.

"Lazarus?"

I'd recognize that voice anywhere. I turn my head to look at the source, and it's just who I'd guessed: The motherfucking Organizer.

"Oh, shit." He was wearing his "serious business" suit. This isn't good.

"Don't be alarmed, we just need back at the bunker for a short while."

Yeah, it was never that simple. "I'm kind of in the middle of something-"

"Your contemporaries have already been informed of your sudden absence."

"When you word it like that, all the fear that you're dragging me off to my death just washes away!"

He shakes his head, momentarily hiding it in his hands before looking back up at me and clearing his throat.

"This isn't a joke, Laz-"

"You think I'm fuckin' joking?" I ask, stabbing a finger into the top of his dress shirt, uncovered by the top button of his jacket being left unbuttoned. "I know how ya deal with shit, need I remind y-"

"No L- Lazarus, you don't." Nice almost slip of the tongue, jackass.

"Nice almost slip of the tongue, jackass." Mental filter: disengaged.

"Forgive me for my mistake, but I am being serious. We need to go at once."

Fuck it, all this resistance is wearing me out. And this way I have an excuse for not selling everything. I pull the hood of the hoodie over my head and hat before uttering softly behind the fabric: "Fine, let's go."