Saturday's Storyteller: "I wish he'd told me that before."
by Belinda Roddie
"I wish he'd told me that before."
"What, that he was leaving?"
"No, that he didn't want me to come with him."
Sydney nodded and pursed her lips as the waiter finally brought her dejected friend her pancakes. Not even the chocolate chips embedded within the batter seemed to make Dora smile. She just doused the stuff in hot maple syrup and let it all grow coagulated and cold.
"Did he give you a reason?" Sydney dared to ask.
"He just didn't think he was comfortable with me dropping everything to be with him," sighed Dora before throwing up her hands. "But isn't that what true love is about? Sacrificing your everyday life to be with the person you want to be with for the rest of your days?"
"That's how I'd describe it."
Dora fiddled with her fork. She still did not touch her food. Sydney was halfway through her omelet but didn't feel hungry anymore.
"Then why doesn't he want that?"
Sydney bit her lip. She didn't want to tell Dora the truth about Hank. Not yet, anyway.
***
The whole warehouse, to McSharp's disgust, reeked of urine. And not animal urine, either. He could have expected rodent piss, or some form of fecal matter from a creature better fitted to be flattened roadkill on the Oregonian highways. No, this was a human odor. This was the bowel stink of mankind, and it pickled the man's nostrils in a terrible way.
He went over to one of the shipped crates and yanked the eight-inch knife from his belt. He didn't need a damn crowbar to break open the thing. The wood had become brittle in the dank heat of the space, while the typical rain leaked in from every crack and created mud where there should have been floor. One look at the flash of syringes and bags beneath the crate's lid, torn up by a blade, affirmed everything. McSharp nodded and whistled for the vendor.
"Here."
The man looked green around the gills. Juvenile. Bright as a bulb, though. Hank took one glance at McSharp and cleared his throat.
"Yessir."
The crinkling of green from the druglord's pocket said more than words did. When the bundle was in his hand, Hank counted. One hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred. All the way up to three thousand. All wadded up into disapproving Ben Franklin faces, the founding father's scowls hidden in the folds.
"That should be enough for one crate...for now. I'll send my 'kids' Scurvy and Brat up tomorrow to pick up the rest."
"Done deal, sir," Hank muttered. He reached for his wallet before realizing that the money just wouldn't fit. The picture of Dora was growing faded and looked even worse in the sparse warehouse light.
"You keep this up, boy, and manage the right people. We mountain folk here...we admire connections."
McSharp brushed a spot of water from his hat and brushed past Hank with a splash of dim light glinting across his mustache. Hank would always remember the knife at the man's side. From what he heard, he never used a gun to deal with the pettier drug vendors. The boy would remember to hold his tongue and keep the thousands. It more than covered than what the goodies had initially cost him. Dumbass Rickley thought one thousand for ten pounds of lowgrade heroin was plenty. But any addict would pay more for even the shittiest stuff. He would die soon for his idiocy. And that meant Hank would have to find another mule.
***
"Scurvy!"
"Shit."
"Scurvy!"
"I'm stuck, dude!"
"Suck in your tummy, fatass! C'mon!"
"Fucking...ow! Shit!"
With a tug under the arms, Scurvy half-popped, half-slithered out of the drainage pipe, as Brat straightened up and checked her watch. Two hours in the sewers. That set them off their schedule by seven minutes. And time meant everything. McSharp would not be happy with the turn of events.
"Think we lost sight of the po-po, asshat?" Brat spat at Scurvy, as the chubby man grimy from sludge stood up and failed to wipe any of the slime off.
"Fuck if I know."
Brat growled to herself. She reached into her coat to pull out a box of old-fashioned tobacco and started to chew a sliver of it. The taste soothed her and forever etched itself into her rotting gums, but she didn't mind.
"Never mind. We've got the contact information. If we jog a little bit, we'll get to McSharp before sundown, to give him the phone number so he can make the appropriate calls."
"And the 'chewy'? What about the 'chewy'?"
"'Chewy's' safe," grumbled Brat as Scurvy searched around his plump figure for a pack of cigarettes. "All sixboxes of it. Should make us twenty grand, at the very least."
"Man, I'll buy a motorcycle with my lion's share," laughed Scurvy. "About time."
"Save it for liposuction," snarled Brat, "and start jogging."
She sped up before Scurvy could complete, the mold from the sewer settling in her curly hair. From a distance, people would cower, thinking a skeleton was sprinting across the walk. It was indeed like Jack Sprat and his gargantuan wife were racing, only the genders had switched. And Brat would never, in her entire lifetime, dream of marrying Scurvy.
***
"We lost 'em."
"Fuck." Bishop slammed her fist into the table. "What about the boys they were talking to?"
"Drove off and slammed into one of our cop cars." The sergeant hung his head. "Rodrigo was...killed on impact, ma'am."
Bishop was not pleased by that snippet of news. All four of the druggies they had attempted to nab were worth more than most of the scumbags on the Oregon mountain range. If things kept going the way they were, then more dealings would be done and more people dead from overdose. Bishop never thought she'd be a drug cop, and more and more she was struggling with what the whole point of it was.
She had divorced her husband for this job. Left her daughter for this job. Why bother?
"I'm going to make a call," she announced, disappearing from her office.
The payphone hung dismally outside the station, the metal cord battered and exposing the frayed wire beneath. But it did work. Dialing the appropriate numbers, Bishop waited for Dora's voice to emerge on the other line.
"Hello?"
Bishop exhaled, smiling. "Hi, sweetie. Did I wake you?"
"No. Still mad over Hank being an asshole and leaving."
"He came up here, right?"
"Yeah. Tell me if you ever see him, right?"
"I will."
She hoped she wouldn't.
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.
"I wish he'd told me that before."
"What, that he was leaving?"
"No, that he didn't want me to come with him."
Sydney nodded and pursed her lips as the waiter finally brought her dejected friend her pancakes. Not even the chocolate chips embedded within the batter seemed to make Dora smile. She just doused the stuff in hot maple syrup and let it all grow coagulated and cold.
"Did he give you a reason?" Sydney dared to ask.
"He just didn't think he was comfortable with me dropping everything to be with him," sighed Dora before throwing up her hands. "But isn't that what true love is about? Sacrificing your everyday life to be with the person you want to be with for the rest of your days?"
"That's how I'd describe it."
Dora fiddled with her fork. She still did not touch her food. Sydney was halfway through her omelet but didn't feel hungry anymore.
"Then why doesn't he want that?"
Sydney bit her lip. She didn't want to tell Dora the truth about Hank. Not yet, anyway.
***
The whole warehouse, to McSharp's disgust, reeked of urine. And not animal urine, either. He could have expected rodent piss, or some form of fecal matter from a creature better fitted to be flattened roadkill on the Oregonian highways. No, this was a human odor. This was the bowel stink of mankind, and it pickled the man's nostrils in a terrible way.
He went over to one of the shipped crates and yanked the eight-inch knife from his belt. He didn't need a damn crowbar to break open the thing. The wood had become brittle in the dank heat of the space, while the typical rain leaked in from every crack and created mud where there should have been floor. One look at the flash of syringes and bags beneath the crate's lid, torn up by a blade, affirmed everything. McSharp nodded and whistled for the vendor.
"Here."
The man looked green around the gills. Juvenile. Bright as a bulb, though. Hank took one glance at McSharp and cleared his throat.
"Yessir."
The crinkling of green from the druglord's pocket said more than words did. When the bundle was in his hand, Hank counted. One hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred. All the way up to three thousand. All wadded up into disapproving Ben Franklin faces, the founding father's scowls hidden in the folds.
"That should be enough for one crate...for now. I'll send my 'kids' Scurvy and Brat up tomorrow to pick up the rest."
"Done deal, sir," Hank muttered. He reached for his wallet before realizing that the money just wouldn't fit. The picture of Dora was growing faded and looked even worse in the sparse warehouse light.
"You keep this up, boy, and manage the right people. We mountain folk here...we admire connections."
McSharp brushed a spot of water from his hat and brushed past Hank with a splash of dim light glinting across his mustache. Hank would always remember the knife at the man's side. From what he heard, he never used a gun to deal with the pettier drug vendors. The boy would remember to hold his tongue and keep the thousands. It more than covered than what the goodies had initially cost him. Dumbass Rickley thought one thousand for ten pounds of lowgrade heroin was plenty. But any addict would pay more for even the shittiest stuff. He would die soon for his idiocy. And that meant Hank would have to find another mule.
***
"Scurvy!"
"Shit."
"Scurvy!"
"I'm stuck, dude!"
"Suck in your tummy, fatass! C'mon!"
"Fucking...ow! Shit!"
With a tug under the arms, Scurvy half-popped, half-slithered out of the drainage pipe, as Brat straightened up and checked her watch. Two hours in the sewers. That set them off their schedule by seven minutes. And time meant everything. McSharp would not be happy with the turn of events.
"Think we lost sight of the po-po, asshat?" Brat spat at Scurvy, as the chubby man grimy from sludge stood up and failed to wipe any of the slime off.
"Fuck if I know."
Brat growled to herself. She reached into her coat to pull out a box of old-fashioned tobacco and started to chew a sliver of it. The taste soothed her and forever etched itself into her rotting gums, but she didn't mind.
"Never mind. We've got the contact information. If we jog a little bit, we'll get to McSharp before sundown, to give him the phone number so he can make the appropriate calls."
"And the 'chewy'? What about the 'chewy'?"
"'Chewy's' safe," grumbled Brat as Scurvy searched around his plump figure for a pack of cigarettes. "All sixboxes of it. Should make us twenty grand, at the very least."
"Man, I'll buy a motorcycle with my lion's share," laughed Scurvy. "About time."
"Save it for liposuction," snarled Brat, "and start jogging."
She sped up before Scurvy could complete, the mold from the sewer settling in her curly hair. From a distance, people would cower, thinking a skeleton was sprinting across the walk. It was indeed like Jack Sprat and his gargantuan wife were racing, only the genders had switched. And Brat would never, in her entire lifetime, dream of marrying Scurvy.
***
"We lost 'em."
"Fuck." Bishop slammed her fist into the table. "What about the boys they were talking to?"
"Drove off and slammed into one of our cop cars." The sergeant hung his head. "Rodrigo was...killed on impact, ma'am."
Bishop was not pleased by that snippet of news. All four of the druggies they had attempted to nab were worth more than most of the scumbags on the Oregon mountain range. If things kept going the way they were, then more dealings would be done and more people dead from overdose. Bishop never thought she'd be a drug cop, and more and more she was struggling with what the whole point of it was.
She had divorced her husband for this job. Left her daughter for this job. Why bother?
"I'm going to make a call," she announced, disappearing from her office.
The payphone hung dismally outside the station, the metal cord battered and exposing the frayed wire beneath. But it did work. Dialing the appropriate numbers, Bishop waited for Dora's voice to emerge on the other line.
"Hello?"
Bishop exhaled, smiling. "Hi, sweetie. Did I wake you?"
"No. Still mad over Hank being an asshole and leaving."
"He came up here, right?"
"Yeah. Tell me if you ever see him, right?"
"I will."
She hoped she wouldn't.
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.
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