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Chips and dip

December 27, 2006

There was no way any teller was going to cash a check for this dipshit unless he had tampered with some ID to the point of acceptability. Knowing that either slats or Ragoosa would come for the pouch, I left the bank and rejoined Rudy out front.
“Careful with that”,said Rudy, “theres prolly a fit in there, and you do not need the disease”. It did not matter to Rudy whether he meant Aids, clap or radiation poisoning, he called them all “the disease”. A real no-bullshit guy, Rudy. He was right anyway, they were all the disease, and all equally threatening to a soldiers’ ability to do his job, and that was no good from any angle.
Rudy gave some cover and I opened the gooey zipper on the little, harmless looking change purse. There were around ten yellowish pills in a cigarette pack cellophane, a nasty looking insulin syringe and some rocks of what looked like crack lining the bottom seam. Strange; crackheads and all junkies actually, treated their doses with reverence and packaged them up somehow. Weird that the rocks would just be rolling around, possibly loosing valuable chips and lessening their ability to blow the top off the asshole who smoked the filth. It was a set-up. Slats had the real stash, no doubt stuffed into her rancid hole, or something equally repulsive.

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