I'm standing at an old town stop. There's no one, so I'm a winner.
I put chewing gum in my mouth to wipe the taste of the peacock. The city of 2 streets and the marketplace – I think gloomy. Pypeć on the map, known only from one: The combination, which produces fuel, which feeds, which poi, who dresses and which annoys all Poles, outside the combination, of course. City of 1 bet. Please, twenty-one o'clock, Thursday, everybody in bed and dogs barking.
Why'd everyone come here like that? Rats. Rats from the compound.
I give you my word, this utilized to be different.
There utilized to be a life here at this time. Now what? Not even a pharmacy. Where there are pharmacies – reflect. The Frog isn't even here.
A I think the frogs are everywhere.
Or just, for individual who was born on the street and took the first steps on a fluff, I have besides advanced expectations under the dumpster.
Someone's knocking on the window.
Some young prick. Ugly as hell. Long hair. Ears as large as bagels, with white headphones without cable. Plus suit pants and carefully rolled sleeves of white shirt.
It shows me to open the window. I'm opening.
“The arrow, baby,” he says.
The arrow, I answer.
- See, I'm setting up a market. If anyone wants to buy anything, call me, man.
He gives me a black card, where the convex silver li-terami is written, “The Magician.” And the telephone number. Call. There's a 100 under the card.
– What to buy? – I ask.
- You know. - It's blinking.
I don't fucking believe it. This day is not working out.
You shouldn't have stopped.
– I don't know. I answer.
He's blinking again.
- You know. Chocolate, pudding, coffee, coconuts, popcorn...
Yeah, the grocery opens.
- Oh, sure, I say. - You can get a small closer to your head, 'cause I can't hear you.
I'm grinning, but I don't think I'm doing very well due to the fact that the boy is looking inside and abruptly he's making a face like he saw an attacking cobra. He's about to take off with a sprint, but I catch him with my right hand by his hair, and the left closes the window. Just to keep the dick up.
– AAA!!! – yells at my left drum.
I'm deaf for a moment, but calmly open the armrest and take out the folding knuckle with a knife. Now the hardest. Get out of the car, out of the wheel, through the passenger seat...
Stop! You're going to strangle me!!
– If you yell like that, the dogs will be here any minute. Let's think about what they'll do to you – I advise you.
I'm barely done, and I can feel my jaw caught next to my ear. That bastard's trying to bite me! I punch him in the face. Raising.
– Will you behave or should I bang again? – I ask control.
A friend nods. He's got a booger on his nose.
- Good boy. – I decision the chair to the rear maximum and effort to decision the leg over the mediate tunnel without grabbing the gearbox lever.
He's not coming.
You should have stretched. You gotta sit down. You have to...
– You gotta practice – says a teenager with any unusual satisfaction in his voice.
Why am I so tired?
– You'll practice, I promise.
I open the driver's door and push it firmly. "Aj, aj, aj," he snores a small boy and poultry backwards like a geisha.
- See? You practiced for me. Want any more?
– No, he barks with his head bent.
– Are you sure?
I'm pressing the window just in case.
– No!!! The guy's snarling, which I'm happy to say.
He cares about me in the back. He's bent like a paragraph. He's got a backpack. I'm opening. In the mediate of an eye of 30 parcels of herbs, the second so much hash, plus cocaine, but little, crystal, but a lot, and something like 20 samar with meth. That's a lot. In fact, how do I count, merchandise and drugs for, like, 15 grand? Please. That's what I got.
Maybe there'll be an ID? Can we get to know each another better? I'm beginning the front pocket of a backpack, where I find a beautiful large pack of beige-like substances with the consistency of granules. Not that I know about it, but it's heroin to me. And not yet divided into lots.
Did your mom pack your lunch for school?
– He's gonna pack you up, he's gonna talk.
What a deficiency of simple culture.
I go to the trunk, after which I methodically pull out a taxi rescue kit, i.e. gumophilics, bomb squad, la-terk and tritychs.
– Give me your hands, I say.
I want to take his backpack off first, but the guy's starting to make any fan by the taxi, dancing like Shakira on stage, so I have no choice but to stab him in the ass. Light. And he squeals like a slaughtered pig. However, he immediately gives polite hands backwards.
Please, any of us can't be culturally. You gotta pee. Tfu, stab.
I'm taking his backpack. I'm tying my hands. And then I open the window, freeing the tube head.
His face is red. It's like he's getting a break. He starts coughing and spitting on the sidewalk. erstwhile he straightens out, I can see he's taller than me. What kind of fire... Who are they taking for this occupation now?????
I'm not saying it's the Representation Company of the Polish Army, but the simple fucking should be.
I'm putting a knife to his neck.
– Get in the trunk, I say.
– But... – protest.
– Come in, or I'll throw you in, I inform you.
Listen. He's going in the trunk. I besides tie his feet to trinkets. In fact, power tape would be better...
– Where are we going? – he asks.
– For mushrooms. - I'm closing the flap.
Always the same stupid questions. Where we're going and where we're going.
You should have gagged him.
It's easy. In this job, you get in the trunk once, you get packed once.
You'll only order at the Empik for now.
