Three men sit on opposite sides of a dilapidated, one storey, two bedroom house in one of the most dangerous cities in the United States. The line between the two sides may not be physically there, but to cross it would be a death sentence. On one side sit a little man and a large one. Both are dressed in dark blue. One has a shirt, one a bandana on his neck. On the arms of both of the chairs they sit in rests a Glock pistol. They don’t say anything. They just watch the man opposite them, silent. The smaller man’s jaw seems to tense every few seconds. The larger man runs his fingers over the gun.

On the other side of the room a man with a restless leg and wide eyes does his very best to avoid eye contact with his companions. He shifts occasionally between positions on the battered couch. No one talks. He reaches into the pocket of his coat for a cigarette. Instantly both men opposite him snatch their guns. He slowly removes his empty hand from his pocket.

Record scratch, freeze frame
You see that guy there? The one who looks like he’s hit rock bottom? Well, that’s me. You’re probably wondering how I ended up in this situation…
Five hours ago.

My plane landed at LAX from London Gatwick at 6pm, local time. The Sunshine State’s blue sky remained, and instantly my sweat pores gasped in unison as the sun radiated down on my body, covered by my green jacket. As I looked around at the people outside the airport, I noticed I was the only one stupid enough to wear a coat. I winced as I moved to a shaded area, the chafing that had bothered me for the entirety of the twelve hour flight spilling over to the realms of unbearable. The heat, of course, was not solely responsible for my sweat, and the shirt under my jacket had been practically glued to my chest from security checks in London to passports in Cali.

I crouched down, out of view of the passing individuals, all of whom were focused only on their holidays or business trips or whatever it was that brought them to the hell on Earth that was a major city airport. Police were doing their usual checks but had passed by and back into the building, and I saw no signs of security cameras monitoring my little hideaway. I reached into my pocket for my nearly empty packet of cigarettes and, as I did, relaxed slightly. The familiar feeling of matter hitting cloth meant one of two things;

A) My elaborate plan has succeeded and I’m not entirely alone in a strange new country
B) I’ve shit myself.

Without daring to look up I rummaged around in the back of my trousers. I’m nearly brought to tears of elation as I find a small bag in the seat of my trousers. I placed the unlit cigarette in my hand in my mouth and take the packet, putting it in the cigarette carton.
‘Excuse me?’

The sound of the voice nearly sent me into cardiac arrest. I looked up immediately, expecting to see an officer about to Rodney King the fuck out of me, but instead it came from the driver’s seat of a car.

‘Taxi for the Hills?’

I glanced around, at the police presence that seemed to have doubled. I quickly moved to the car, dragging my suitcase with me. The back was already open, and I threw my case in there before moving into the car.

‘The Hills, yeah?’ I asked, slamming the door shut.

‘I’ll take you where you need to go.’

The car didn’t resemble a taxi, but then on the other hand in an age of Ubers and Lyfts the yellow cab had probably died out.

‘You been Cali before?’ the driver asked, pulling out of the parking bay.

‘No mate.’

He laughed and whistled, before driving off.

---
I don’t recall ever falling asleep on that journey but I must’ve, as before I knew it the car had come to a stop. The sun had been replaced by a full moon, and I opened my eyes to look out of the blacked out windows. I pressed the button to open it, but they remained shut.

‘How much do I owe you?’ I asked. The driver kept his head forward.

‘I’m not too sure man, why don’t you tell me?’

At this point he turned around, a gun in his hand. This time I actually did shit myself.

‘You wanna tell me where you’re getting product in our hood? Cos it sure as shit ain’t from us.’

‘What product?’

There was no laugh this time.

‘Listen man, you either tell me and hand that shit over or you don’t ever see the outside of this ride. This ain’t no Hills, man. This is Bompton, blood’

I looked around the car and realised for the first time that it was unmistakably red. I sighed and reached into the cigarette carton, producing the packet of white powder. I handed it to him and he instantly examined the packet.

‘The fuck is this shit? That ain’t no ‘caine, man. That shit’s whack.’

‘No it’s…something different.’

‘A new product? On our turf? Shit man you just don’t help yourself.’

He knocked the safety off of the gun but before he could pull the trigger his head exploded.

---

Turns out neither my taxi driver nor the Bloods have a monopoly on the drug trade in Cali, and that’s why I’m currently in the living room of MC Fade and Jimmy TwoTone, two Kelly Park Crips who, as they escorted/forced me to their shithole of a house helpfully informed me of their gang allegiances.

‘What is it?’

Fade’s actual voice isn’t what I expect. It’s not deep and monosyllabic, nor high-pitched and comical. His tone has a certain melody to it.

‘You should be a rapper.’ I say without thinking. Fade and TwoTone instantly laugh.

‘What you think the MC stands for cuz? Monster Cock?’

‘Does it?’

‘Fuckin A right it does. Now. Tell me what it is.’

He holds the small clear bag in front of me, waving it before my eyes like he’s trying to teach a dog a magic trick. I sigh. TwoTone’s eyes are still locked on me.

‘Horse tranquiliser.’

Silence falls in the room again. Fade kisses his teeth.

‘Why the fuck would you come all this way to Cali with some horse tranquiliser?’ Fade mutters. Before I can even blink the back of his hand meets my face. ‘You think I’m fuckin’ playin’?’

‘Jesus fucking CHRIST.’ The words come from my mouth before I can even think about stopping them and I quickly stand to my feet. ‘What the fuck did you do that for? That fucking stung like a bitch. It’s fucking horse tranquiliser you moron, sniff it and see what fucking happens, JESUS.’

I realise, then, that I’m stood right in front of the two men. Neither has even flinched. TwoTone’s hand is on his gun. Fade’s glare shifts into a smile, showing a set of perfectly white teeth.

‘Horse tranquiliser, huh?’

‘Ketamine, yes.’

The smile hasn’t dipped.

‘Well looks like there’s only one way to find out.’ Fade dips his hand into his pocket and produces a key and a white bag of his own. He opens the bag and pushes the key into it, which returns with a small amount of white powder on it. With an exaggerated sniff he shovels the powder up his nose. Instantly his jaw clenches. ‘There’s three main food groups round these parts man. Weed. ‘Caine. Crack. Why don’t you show me what you can do with that shit?’

He throws my baggy back at me and raises his eyebrows. I look at TwoTone, who still has the expression of a stone cold killer on his face which, to be fair, is probably because he is.

‘You mean…’ I start to say. Fade nods his head. ‘Pass your key, then.’

‘Nah nah nah, cuz. I want that all gone.’

I laugh, feeling myself ease up a little bit.

‘Yeah it’ll all go…’

‘No.’ Fade says, silencing me immediately. ‘I want it all gone now.’

He snatches the bag from my hand once more and empties the contents onto an edition of US Weekly from 2012. Without missing a beat he produces a card from thin air and roughly pushes all of the ketamine into one enormous line. As quick as it appears, the card returns to where it came from, and in its place Fade produces a dollar bill. He throws it in my direction, and it hits me on the forehead.

I stare at the note, then at Fade, who nods his head once again. I pick it up and feel my hands start to shake slightly as I roll the crumpled green into a small, functioning tube. I raise it to my nose and hover over the pure powdered ketamine in front of me. I look up at Fade again.

‘Go on.’ he says, his eyes not leaving me even for a second.

I clench my jaw and say a silent prayer as, in one, I tilt the bill, inhaling quickly as a gram’s worth of horse tranquiliser travels up my nose and down my throat. Fade laughs and this time so does TwoTone, and for the first time I realise that he’s actually capable of noise.

‘Not bad whiteboy, not bad.’ Fade says, laughing once more. ‘Now it’s time we get down to business, no?’

I collapse back against the couch, and without even using them I can already tell that my legs have failed me.

‘Business?’

‘You like wrestling whiteboy?’

‘W..wrestle…’ I mutter, unable to think of the correct words.

‘Yeah wrestle. Well me and my boy TwoTone here have ourselves a little vested interest in XWF.’

‘What?’ I reply, although I’m really not paying attention to what Fade says, and am instead transfixed by the patterns on the plain white wall behind him.

‘XWF. EX DUBYA EFF.’ Fade says slowly. ‘Basically a friend of a friend of a friend needs someone to ‘participate’ in an event coming up. That’s where you come in.’

Or what? is what I want to say, but I’m looking around the unfamiliar room and suddenly a troupe of dancers dressed in full pirate attire are appearing out of the corner of my eye. I nod to Fade who turns to face them. He laughs again, and I start to think that maybe they’re not really there.

‘So there’s your choice cuz. You help us out or my boy TwoTone here kills your ass and leaves you somewhere they won’t find you.’

‘Yeah yeah yeah, fine, in the office next week, I heard you,’ says my mouth as the rest of me stares around the room, my body fixed perfectly (and probably permanently) in place while my mind explores outer space.

I’m vaguely aware of Fade standing over me for a second as he rams another line of cocaine up his nose.

‘I sure am glad you happened into our hood, cuz’.

I don’t remember anything after that.