Tales of an Unsponsored Amateur, chapter one

I snatched the revolver from the holster and stared at it. The blue glow from the television reflected off the barrel. Six Hydra-Shoks sat patiently in the cylinder while the cherry wood grips sat comfortably in my hand. Slid the holster on my belt, grabbed my brown handkerchief, locked up the apartment and headed back out on the Ave.

No skateboard for this one…


The mission started a half-hour ago, my black Thrasher hoodie kept me warm as I rolled towards Red Square.

I pushed hard with my left foot and put it back on the tail. That’s when I spotted Tatiana out of the corner of my eye.

The petite teenage junkie with bleached hair and too much black mascara. She was sitting next to Lenny in a metal bus stop shelter. He was old, like upper forties.

“Fuckin weirdos,” I said to myself and smiled.

I turned back down the hill towards my apartment, skating through Seattle’s University District with my hood up and going unnoticed.

She bragged to me once about how hard she was, Lenny being too much of a pussy to sell his own dope.

“He just buys it and bags it up. I’m the one who bangs it out on the Ave,” Tatiana had said as she loaded a rig and injected the filthy looking substance into her young vein.

Lenny fronted her work; crystal meth. They packaged quarter grams of the orange colored powder in little envelopes made from pages of a porno magazine. She banged it out all night, he returned in the early morning to collect his money and break her off.

I skated through the Dollar Store parking lot and into the rear alley of my apartment on Brooklyn Ave. My feet vibrated on my board as I rolled over the pavement.

The iron mesh door at the rear entrance squeeled on its hinges and slammed shut behind me as I entered the moldy concrete staircase and ran up to the third floor. Brightness had blinded me as I entered the hallway and twisted the key in the doorknob to my studio apartment.

I laid my board against the wall and locked the door. A futon, a television, a boombox, and a bong sat on the hardwood floor. I looked at my bong, crafted in the shape of the grim reaper, and felt a craving for a hit. No time.

The pitchfork veins in my forehead bulged as I changed from my black hoodie into the grey one. Kicked off my Lakais and put on my boots, lacing them tight. I reached under my pillow and felt the grip.

I got the Ruger .357 with a ziplock bag full of Hydra-Shok hollowpoints for $150. Bought it off an Army brat who’d burglarized his parent’s house for a fix.

My leg brushed against my skateboard as I headed out the door. I heard wheels spinning on Swiss bearings. I left through the back and made my way up the hill through the labyrinth of buildings, alleys, and streets.

I came out the alley onto 45th St. and saw the bus stop bench where Tatiana had been earlier. Empty. I continued.

It was easy to blend in. There were lots of freaks walking around the U.D. that night.

Tatiana was in front of the arcade drinking a Colt 45 and talking with some Vietnamese gang bangers. I posted up at a game called Operation Wolf and inserted a couple quarters.

After a few games, Tatiana breezed past me on her way to the ladies room. The shadow of the arcades rear hallway hid me as I pulled the handkerchief out and tied it around the lower half of my face. I looked like a train robber.

My left hand pushed open the door to the ladies room as my right hand slid the Ruger out from behind my hip. I stepped in.

Her feet were visible in the stall. I let her finish. I heard the toilet flush and the plastic latch unlocked. I stepped towards her with the gun to her face. Her nostril flared as I stuffed the barrel into her septum. She didn’t even breathe. I reached down the front of her pants and snatched the pack.

I was caught by surprise. Instead of porno paper triangles it was cream-colored rocks.

I herded her with the gun to sit back down on the toilet.

Backed out, flicked the light switch off and left.

This was way better than being a busboy.