Tuesday, February 6, 2018

"The Madam of Suburbia" Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Does contain foul language and drug references. 



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.
 

No comments:

Post a Comment