Bogo (Closed)

[Dope]

The stink of stale old tobacco being lit was a very distinctive odor. It could curl even the hardiest of nose hairs, a thick and offensive reek that one could almost liken to grave dirt being burned - however that could be done. So, even over the stench of the unwashed, tightly packed bodies of the Blok, the waste being ground into the narrow roads winding like collapsed arteries through its clutter, Dalton still grimaced as he pushed the sulfur match into the tan wad of tobacco in his pipe. A thin gray coil drifted into his left eye and he cursed angrily as the sting immediately rocked his head back. The slick glass pipe almost slipped out of his fingers to fall three stories to the stomach churning ground below, but a chubby hand shot out from his left and snatched it with the dexterity only a factory worker could have.

"Shit hurts, eh?" Dalton grinned awkwardly, wiping a tear from his stinging eye, and took the pipe out of Klent's hand. Klent was the first friend he'd made in his childhood - they bonded over the fact that they'd each lost their first tooth fighting with each other. He was only about four inches shorter than Dalton, kept his head neatly shaved, and had his ears pierced with bronze studs. The Blok rats loved to decorate themselves, even if the jewelry was visibly fake. His round belly protruded over his faux gold belt buckle, but his arms were heavily muscled, and he arguably had the strongest punch of anyone in his generation.

"Yeah, almost makes me wanna quit." Klent gave him a quick, confused glance, and then the pair burst into loud, obnoxious laughter, slinging their arms over the rickety third floor balcony railing, blowing smoke rings out into the air, wobbling and wavering as the gentle breeze brought a small breath of fresh air through the ghetto. All around them, the post-afternoon shift commotion rattled and clattered, hundreds of bodies bustled back and forth, rushing to get dinner ready, rushing to get their hit packed up, rushing to keep their kids from beating each other bloody. Down in the streets, the lowest of the low were slinging their goods to the few trickling in from the last factory shifts, scuttling and hopping over gray skinny men and women laying motionless in the dirt roads. They were the people that let their habits come to rule their lives, the people whose hands shook so bad that they couldn't even wind together a simple antique fuse wick, so they'd sell anything and everything they could to get their next hit. Some sold badly made cups and plates, the red clay already chipped and warped. Some rummaged through market trash and found old medicine bottles to fill with ditch water and sell as "panaceas". Dalton watched a blonde man with burn scars on his hands kick a wailing woman down into a clogged storm drain after she threw a threadbare blanket over his shoulders and dove for his coin purse. It was ironic how much the denizens of the Blok hated them, considering that nearly nine out of ten of them would end up shuffling through turds down there, itching at scabs and trying to sell damp paper flowers.

"Got any sharpleaf?" Dalton eyed the soiled glass bottle Klent pulled out of his vest pocket with a bright, excited gleam in his eye. The cork popped loose with a little prying from a sharp corner of an iron ring on his chubby friend's thumb, and he kept his gaze on it as the mustard yellow powder dusted the inside of Klent's oak pipe. Sharpleaf wasn't hard to come by, and was probably the most common stuff you could get your hands on in Corone. It grew all around the shores of the rivers that snaked through Concordia, and you only had to fight off the boars to get a hold of the stuff. Bright yellow and eight leaves on each stalk, sharpleaf kept the factories churning and the armies marching, as long as the captains didn't find it. Something about the purity of combat, keeping the soldiers sharp, some nonsense. It was exactly what it did; numbed any pain you had, and gave you energy for hours! Or an hour. Depended on how much you did, which was also the beauty of it; you could smoke it, snort it, drink it in your tea....

Klent smiled, squinting against the pale-yellow afternoon sunlight trickling through the ropes and boards of the Blok, and leaned over to give Dalton's pipe a couple taps from the bottle. The bright red light that burst from the ember in his glass pipe mirrored the gleam in his eyes as he greedily pulled hard and felt the nervous energy jolt through his body. He could tell from the brightness of Klent's eyes that he was already high, and thus generous, but he wasn't expecting his next words.

"That's the first payment. You'll get an ounce of it if you wanna work tonight." Dalton froze, face unreadable as he ran formulas through his head. An ounce ought to last him the rest of the week, but most likely only three days but still....scratching at an ill drawn smiley face on the inside of his right wrist, he took another puff, feeling his toes dance in their paper-thin hide boots.

"Eh....doing what?"

"My uncle's boss wants to swap a shipment of sword hilts. They're just surplus junk, stuff that lays around in a warehouse, but they been hollowed out in the middle, stuffed full of shit."

"What sort of shit?" Dalton flipped his pipe and delicately tapped the ashes out against the railing. He watched them fall down to the road, focusing on one particular flake, watching as it shed itself and grew smaller and smaller, until it faded away and he was staring at a pair of watery opaque eyes locking their gaze on him from the most visible storm drain. Blinking, he swatted Klent on the shoulder, who had drifted off watching the younger women of the Blok.

"Oh, you don't wanna know. Bad bloody shit going out to the front lines. There's some heavy lifting, but nothing heavier than the usual daytime shit." Flexing his hands, Dalton chewed at his lip. He did want to know. Badly. Klent didn't know, or he would have told him, and it was a good idea - if it was anything good, they'd take it. The soldiers wouldn't bother coming to claim their illegal goods either. The Blok was as dangerous as most battlefields to outsiders, and the people living there would gladly dog pile a squadron and slit their throats for just their boots.


"Yeah....let's get Grimmy then," Dalton agreed, tucking his pipe into his pocket.