Winning the drug war

I looked up from what I had been concentrating on and gazed blearily through the big plate glass window in the front room of the apartment my girlfriend and I were squatting in. Her mom had abandoned the place (and her), and the Sheriff hadn't come to put the furniture out yet.

The complex was built in a horseshoe with the open end facing West. Our apartment was on the second floor halfway down the Southern leg of the U. Below was a pool, a small laundry room, and a Coca-Cola machine.

I lit the joint I had just rolled, and placed the bag of weed, the papers, and the tray underneath the edge of the couch. I took a big toke, and held it until my head started to throb a little.

As I blew out a cloud and surveyed the morning unfolding below, Bob Barker's boy was telling some cow from the midwest to come on down in the background. TV sucks.

A cat skittered from the corner of the laundry room on the other side of the complex towards the pool, passing from left to right.

Behind the calico were people running.

They took the door of the bottom corner apartment right off it's hinges at a dead run and poured inside.

The first ones in the door looked like the black-suited, jack-booted thugs in the movies.

The guys in the plainclothes stopped and let them go past 'em at the corner of the building. One was wearing a yellow polo shirt, and carrying an MP-5 submachine gun like he was Don Johnson or something.

I watched, fascinated, toking on my doobie.

My doobie.

It might be a good idea to close the door, I thought to myself.

And the curtains too.

In fact, I think I'll finish this in the bathroom.

I needed my schmoke. I had been up all night drinking and smoking with this hoe I was shacked up with for the moment. Real piece of work that one. Once she woke up she would be on the rag again and it would be best to find a better place to be until she gets horny again.

Since I was in the can for the wake 'n bake, I went ahead and got cleaned up. Closed up in there I realized I smelled like a goat in the springtime.

Coming out of the shower in last night's clothes, I grabbed my keys. And my ID - don't want to be out there without that. And my shades. Some coins.

Playing off, I went down to the vending machine to quench my terrible thirst. It was already hot early in the morning, in the way only Texas can be.

I thought I'd hang out in the parking lot for awhile. See what the narcs were driving. The squad cars were gone, but for a couple. The arrests had all been made. A plainclothes cop walked by so I thought I'd ask him...

What happened?

He stopped and fixed me with a steady gaze and then he said to me with a stern and serious demeanor:

"Winning the drug war son."

"I'm glad." I said to him. He just nodded and walked away.

Self-righteous, tight-assed bastard doesn't have a clue, I thought to myself.

With all of this excitement, I decided that I needed another doobie, and so I walked upstairs with my warming half-can of Coke, contemplating the past half hour and shaking my head, just kinda grinning to myself.

When I opened the door the phone was ringing, so I went to answer it before some fool woke that bitch up. It was my best friend telling me about this killer stuff he had just scored from his new connection.

I looked out the curtain at the evidence technicians hauling off the belongings of my best hook-up.

That's good, I said. I'll have to check that out. I'll see ya in about an hour.