Chapter 1 – Madam
My entire life has been nothing more than
a drug-fueled orgy of chaos and anarchy encircled by the fires of Hell. There
was no calm before the storm because I was thrown into a tempest of shit, and
the winds are still blowing harder than ever before. The motto that life has
carved into my thick fucking skull is make them bleed before you do. In other
words, if I'm enjoying peace and quiet, I'm six feet under the fucking dirt
with a bullet in my head.
I know I could have escaped so many times,
but it would be like a nymphomaniac, millionaire playboy with a pocket full of Viagra
trying to leave the whorehouse. I enjoy waking up not knowing where I will be,
who or what I've done, and wonder whose blood is on my hands. Besides, after the crazy shit my body has
survived, there's no way I can put on a suit and join the normal, boring adult
society. Besides, when my rap sheets reads like an encyclopedia of things you
do to break every state law, no many places will hire you. I can imagine some
would end up using my resume to wipe their candy asses.
However, the call I got this morning has
really put the brakes on the disorder rollercoaster really fucking quick. I was
asleep on some stranger's couch when my phone goes off. I glance at the number
and let it going to voicemail when I recognize it's not my PO or my dealer
calling. Besides, with my throat as dry as a desert, I realize I'm too hungover
to talk to anyone.
I pull myself off the couch since
some asshole decides that calling me before noon is such a great idea. I rub my
hands through my blue hair as I try to figure out where I’m at. I see my
reflection in the mirror above the fireplace, and notice my green eyes are
bloodshot. I must have had a wild time last night because I can’t remember anything.
I’m happy to see my clothes, boots, and wallet are neatly stacked at the end of
the couch.
A minute later, the same number calls
back. I ignore it once again, but within seconds, my phone is going off again.
Annoyed that someone is disturbing my attempt to sleep off last night's
partying, I answer it with this cheerful greeting, "What the fuck you
want?"
"Now, that isn't a very nice
greeting, Ronnie," says the caller.
I almost drop the phone when I hear her
voice as sweat explodes out of my palms like a burst dam. The one that is
called Madam has my number, and is calling me directly. I only had to deal with
her once, and I fucking shitted myself after I left that creepy meeting even
though I never saw her. I begin to wonder how much I fucked up last night to
hear her voice this morning. I also wonder how much longer I got to live. I
stutter out as my hands start shaking as well because I know I'm a dead fucking
man, "I apologize, Madam."
"Good. Now, I got a proposition for
you. My driver will be there in five minutes. Be a good boy, and answer your
door when he knocks."
"Yes, Madam," I reply as she
ends the call. I toss my phone onto the couch and light up a joint. I begin to
think as my entire body still shivers that I was done with her, but the rumor
is true: if you ever owe her at all, she owns your soul. In other words, your
debt is never paid in full until you're dead. I quietly hope that today's
meeting isn't my last one. Either way, the fact she wants to meet means it's
not going to be a good fucking day.
As I slowly get stoned in hopes to calm my
nerves, I begin to recall my original encounter with Madam. It was my first
time selling cocaine after years of selling weed and pills. I never dealt with
the hard stuff, but when rich men want coke instead of weed, I had no choice. I
was barely making $500 a week, and they were willing to spend thousands. So, I
decided it was time to expand my inventory. I was able to get a kilo from my
weed supplier, and set up shop near the downtown district.
After my first week, I had easily $100,000
in my pocket and new clients with limitless funds. When I tried to get more, I
was told that Madam wasn't happy, and he was leaving town for good. I tried to
find out about Madam, but no one would say a word. So, with my only source of
cocaine tapped out, I decided to find another supplier. I wasn't going to let
some bitch stop my business. Needless to say, I couldn't find one. Whenever I
asked, all I was told was Madam said no more.
Around midnight, there was a knock on my
door. When I answered, a black hood was thrown over my head, and I was knocked
out with a taser. When I regain conscious, I found myself in a steel folding
chair in the middle of an abandon building. The only thing in front of me was
two goons armed with AK-47's standing in front of a big, black tarp. Behind it,
a woman spoke telling me bluntly that if I wanted to sell anything besides weed
and pills, I will have to go through her, or I'll end up like one of my buyers.
I looked up, and saw him hanging upside from the rafters with fifty knives
stuck in his torso like a sadistic voodoo doll. She agreed to let me walk away,
but I had to give her $100,000 and never sell anything besides hemp. I quickly
agreed, and got the fuck out of there.
I almost shit myself as there's a knock on
the door. I toss on my black work boots, and head to the door. Outside is a
stocky man in a cheap navy suit holding a black hood. Behind him is a
windowless, black van.
"I'll wear the hood, but don't
fucking taze me," I say.
"We won't do that," replies the
man. "Madam wants you to enjoy the ride."
As I step out the door, another goon grabs
me from behind. I try to fight back, but feel a slight sting in my neck. The
last thing I remember as I pass out is the black hood being thrown over my
head.
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