A/N: Shorty. I just found out how heavily FFN reformats my text, so I'm going to try asterisks instead of triple newlines. I don't like it. But it's functional.
Some hundreds in the streets, some starving for a meal, somewhere between the shanty towns and high-rises. People did more of their living outside than in, and the hot dog cart had fair business.
"Did he come in from the desert?" Asked the boy his father.
"It's rude to talk about strangers. Ain't your mama taught you nothing?" Replied the father, handing out another hot dog.
"Mama talk about everyone." Said the boy.
"Mama's a gossip." The father said.
"Yeah." Said the boy, but kept looking at the man. "I think that man has blood on his clothes." He said.
"Anything can happen in the desert. He's lucky if it ain't his." The father answered.
"I guess." Said the boy. After a while, he walked over. The man didn't seem to see him coming, and didn't react when he spoke.
"Where'd you get that stereo?" Asked the boy, face curious and round.
The man didn't answer.
"It's a nice one." Said the boy. The man still didn't respond, so the boy sat down beside him.
"What are you doing?" Asked the boy. After all, the man was sitting cross legged, eyes downcast, polishing something that glinted in his lap. "Are you cleaning something?"
"Go back to your father." Said the man.
"What are you cleaning?" The boy asked. The man briefly raised it, set it back, and returned to polishing the steel.
"My daddy has one of those." Said the boy. "Except, I think yours is a newer model. The magazine looks bigger."
"Desert Eagle." Said the man.
The boy nodded. They were quiet for a minute, then the boy spoke again. "I saw you tearing down a flyer earlier. Why'd you do that?" The boy asked.
The man began to disassemble his weapon. He took his time before answering. "Do you know what the flyer was for?" The man asked.
"Agency recruiting. Daddy says the Agency is against all the new SINPD laws. He says he'd sign up if he didn't have me and mama to take care of."
The man peered down his barrel, pushed out the dirt, peered down the barrel. "Not all flyers are honest." Said the man.
"Why don't you like the Agency?" Insisted the boy.
The man stopped in his cleaning. He did not look at the boy, but did devote him a moment's attention. "I believe in freedom." Said the man. "Most people want control. Some want to be controlled, and some want to do the controlling. Whether there are gods or just their preachers, at least someone is after dominance." He resumed cleaning, no sense of import having ever entered his voice. "I'm not."
"Whatchu mean by that?" Asked the dealer.
"I mean what it fuckin' mean, nigga. I ain't buying the shit you pushing no more."
"How you gonna call my shit shit?" The dealer seemed hurt, underneath it all.
"With my fuckin' mouth. Listen, y'all dope is cheap, but it ain't nothing compared to this new guy. He done -"
"New guy?" Asked the dealer.
"That's what I said, wasn't it? He done murked y'all on the quality. Don't you pretend you wasn't cutting it with Advil - yeah, I see that look on y'all face, I know you know what I mean." Said the customer.
"Man..." Said the dealer, brow furrowed. "How you know he's not pushing some RC?" He asked. "Research chemical," he added when the customer's brow furrowed. "that shit's bad for you."
"Nah, I seen the packaging and whatnot. It's pharmacy grade stuff." Said the customer.
The dealer put his hands in his pockets, kicked a rock on the pavement. "What am I supposed to do?" He said.
"Talk to this new guy. Goes by the name Order-Up."
"That's gimmicky, man." Muttered the dealer.
"Ain't nobody care if the shit's gimmicky! I told you, it's pharmacy grade! Anyway, you probably gonna have to get with his crew. You find him here..." The customer wrote down an address and handed it to the dealer. "Tell him who sent you. He's this crazy looking white boy, doesn't have a quarter ounce of people skills. Would be a relief to deal with you and not him. You good?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm good. And I'll do it. Just can't believe this cracker blowing up my spot like this." The dealer said.
"I know. I'm sorry. Hey, at least you ain't got to sign up for that Agency bullshit." Said the customer.
"Those flyers? What, you don't like the Agency? I hear they're trying to get the bacon off our ass." Said the dealer.
"Oh, I like the Agency. Only thing is, you try to work for 'em, you'd get your ass shot."
"Aw, shut up, nigga! I'd be shooting up the enemy left and right!" The dealer said, firing his fingers as proof.
The customer laughed, and they parted ways, dealer heading off to meet a crazy white boy. He knocked on the door, and there was a pause in the rustling inside.
"Who is it?" Asked a distinctly white voice.
"I'm here to see Order-Up." The dealer replied, rolling his eyes as he said the name.
He heard several locks click open, then a chain stretched between the door and its frame.
"Are you a cop?" Asked the white boy, just one eye visible through the opening.
"No." Said the dealer.
"You know, you'd have to tell me if you were a cop." Said the boy.
"No I wouldn't. You ever met a cop? Everything they say is a lie." The dealer replied. Is this kid retarded?
"Nah, I mean..." The boy opened the door fully, looked both ways down the hall, and invited him into the room. "The deal I have worked out with the Sheriff."
"I don't know no Sheriff, but Michael sent me for some..." The dealer stopped, mouth open, when he saw the piles of packages littering the apartment.
Where does this cracker sleep? The dealer wondered.
"I assume you want to deal for the Agency, right?" The supplier asked. "What do you sell?"
"Mostly coke." The dealer murmured, eyebrows raised. "So, you just let me in here, not even knowing who I was."
"Yeah, yeah. Alright, here you go. I think that's about a kilo. I don't know how fast you move 'em, I can get you a few more if you need. What? What are you doing with your face?"
The dealer tried to clear his shocked look.
"I'm sure you know how to price it already, so just bring me back eighty percent of your revenue by the end of the month. Honor system." Said Order-Up.
He couldn't help it. The look returned.
"I don't know why you keep making that face at me. Oh, by the way, would be a big favor if you took one of those to that cart that charges thirty dollars for a hot dog. You know the one." Said the white boy.
How was this boy the new Scarface of Nevada?
"Christ, you're creeping me out with that face, man. Get out of here, sell some horse. What? This isn't horse? I don't know your lingo. I'll get you a bag to carry those."
Later, the dealer found the hot dog cart. "Hey." He said to the vendor.
"Hey. You here for a dog?" The vendor asked. Dealer nodded. "How many grams?" Asked the vendor.
"No, a real hot dog." The dealer replied.
"Oh." Said the vendor, a little surprised. "Mustard?"
"And ketchup."
The vendor nodded, and the dealer pulled a package from his bag. "This is for you." He said, holding it out. The vendor inspected it, opened a door on his cart, and set it carefully inside.
"Thanks." Said the vendor. "So, Order-Up sent you?"
The dealer rolled his eyes at the name, and the vendor laughed.
"I know, man, I'm right there with you." Said the vendor. Condiments applied, the dealer leaned back against the cart to eat. "What's your name?"
"Lamar." Said Lamar. The vendor's name was Ahmed. "You know, that white boy let me in without even knowing who I was."
"Not like there was anything to worry about. We're all under Agency protection." Said the vendor.
"White boy said something about that." Replied Lamar. Specifically, he'd said there was a deal worked out with the Sheriff.
Then again, the cracker'd been high as hell.
Lamar took a bite, and there was a lull in the conversation. "Tragic news, about the massacre." Lamar brought up. It had been weighing heavily on his mind, compounded further by the sackclothed sun.
The vendor grunted. "Rich-ass folk deserved it."
Lamar took a look at the vendor. The man was old, conservative, and meant white when he said rich. "There were kids there." He mentioned, as if in passing. And two hundred people.
The vendor grunted again, this time with less disdain.
"They might be rich up in SIN Woods, but you hear about their police station? That wasn't the taggers down here. Maybe the rich folk do got some spark." Continued Lamar.
"That may be so." Said Ahmed. "And it may be that some have more spark than us. I heard that one man slew thirty just yesterday in the desert."
"Well, that one sounds like a myth." Said quickly Lamar.
"I wouldn't rush to judgement. You've seen the sky. We both heard of the 200 Massacre. Strange things are happening in Nevada."
Lamar nodded. The man was right. "And what role you think the Agency plays in all this?"
Ahmed packed foil full of cocaine, wrapped it around a hot dog. "I think they have the guns. And whatever's coming," he said, pulling something else from his cart, "we do too."
It was a magnificent rifle. "I'm sure you'll get your own." The vendor continued. "Order-Up is forgetful. Ask him for one next time you drop off your earnings."
The rifle was stowed, and Lamar's hot dog was finished. He crumpled it slowly, pocketed it to recycle later. "I never have packed anything before." He admitted.
Ahmed gave him a meaningful look. "Times are changing, son." He said. "You'd better start."
The man sat, cleaning, long after the round-faced boy had left. When the steel of the gun was a mirror, when the rag was worked thin, he found oily residue on the street. He wiped it onto the surface of the pistol, just to ruin the day's work.
The sky began to darken, and people retreated to their shacks, their tents, their safe overhangs. The man threw a tarp onto the street and lay on his back over faded yellow lines. There were no cars here.
You could only make out a few stars through the city smog. Today, with clouds hanging oppressive and orderly over the sky, you could see none. The man stared at the smoke, smog, and galaxies behind it, laying on the earth, nothing to shelter him from the coming storm.
He had a nightly chant, this man. It came the moment before he fell to sleep, as it always did.
His eyes were closing, fogged over by dark.
"I will kill you." He said once to the sky.
And the sky shivered.