​Weight limit

Chapter one? There were scratch offs on the floorboard. A bag of meth under the seat. A pistol in his pocket. He was driving the man to his death. Down a dirt road to some alligator pit in the swamp. He’d never be found. “You ever win big?” The dead man asked “Can’t say I have.” Wallace replied. “Why keep playing?” The question was a solid one. It hit his heart. Why did he keeep playing? “I win enough to keep goin.” The answer, summed his life up. He didn’t quite realize it then though. He didn’t think much deeper or farther than today maybe tomorrow. Life was fast, cheap. Especially, in the trade. The whitegirl, Jody, crystal methamphetamine. His life was intertwined with the substance. He sold for about two years now. It was 1993 all there was was meth and all the meth was local. The deadman had that vice and a problem with the brown dope too. Except, he was a thief. He stole from Jaybird, stole from Chief, essentially stole from Wallace. So, Jaybird told him. “Wallace take em on down to the hole and show him the way a thief winds.” So as a soldier did as he was told he took the deadman out. “Where are we going Wall?” He used his nickname. “Chief invited you out to lab.” Wallace lied. “Awesome.” The deadman replied.

There are a few ways to get an adult man on his knees. Out those, a .38 is the prime rib. Wallace got out the truck first. His headlights out lining the bayou ahead. He walked around to the passenger door. “Get out Bill.” He ordered after opening the door. He then pulled the pistol from his pocket. He leveled it at the deadman. “Forgot yours, huh?” “Wallace what’s this?” “End of the line. Outta my truck!” Bill got out of the 4Runner, It was a 85 model. His name was Bill. The deadman was Bill. Damnit. Why’d he remind himself. They were friends he told himself. “Move.” Wallace barked. His father was a Dixie mob guy, a real Galtier legend. He told Wallace. “If you ever got to ice a man. Set him up cold and murder him. Don’t ever let the man cross your mind. Everything y’all were and could’ve been is gone. Once you change your mindset he’s already a corpse..” His father was full of wisdom about crime. Wallace stuck the .38 in Bills back. “Walk.” He demanded. “Just don’t shoot Wallace. Everything will be fine.” Bill told him. Bill always was a liar Even now he was trying to lie even if it was only to himself. Things had to be this way. He remembered the first time they met, at Wailings. That old bar south of paradise on 4. They took many a shot, sold many a gram, Met many a chick and laughed at more then they should’ve. He took it for granted. He’s a thief he chided himself marching Bill off towards the bayou. Bill fell to his knees a few feet before the edge. I would’ve jumped into it. Wallace thought. Bill sobbed. “Please, Wallace no.” Wallace looked at Bill’s crown over open sights. “I got to.” Wallace replied. “No, you don’t. I promise.” “You’re dead. Whether I kill you here or one of Chief’s other guns or the heroin will get you anyways.” Wallace whispered to his old friend. “Wallie, you can’t.” “Don’t call me that.” Wallace said half pleading. Bill looked at him through the dark. The moonlight made his tears shine. “Please.” Wallace cocked the hammer, even though it was a double action. “You should feel it when you kill a man.” His father spoke in his mind. “No no don’t I’m a CI!” Bill hollered. “They’ll look for me.” He pleaded. Bitterness filled Wallace. Bill was a thief and a fucking rat. Wallace squeezed the trigger. Bill fell in the flash. Wallace hardly could see the small entry point. The exit wound on the back of his head, where the bullet tore out, Flinging gray matter across the swamp. Was very visible. Bill fell funnily. He crossed himself. Then he rolled his friend down the bank into the slough. Wallace stood back, he saw the splash in the moonlight. Now, the deadman floated in the still water. Where nature would take its course. Wallace turned away and withdrew his pack of Marlboro reds. He lit a joe up. Then he walked towards to 4Runner. He reached under his seat, pulling a half pound bag of meth out. He slowly selected the best suited crystals. He took out his pipe, that he kept in a leather pouch. He broke the crystals up to fit better through the hole. He dropped into the bowl not from the stem. He touched the glass bowl with the flame of a lighter. He watched and smoke plumes rise from the small hole on top of the pipes bowl. He touched his lips on the stem and pulled. He began rolling the bowl. Such began an engrained ritual that took place every three hours. Until he decided he needed to sleep. Rolling the bowl stole so much of his life. More than he could realize. In the meth smoke his mind drifted to Bill, His murder. What made a man a murderer? Was he predisposed to such? Perhaps, even as early as at birth? Was being a killer a inheritable trait? His first hit. This was definitely murder he told himself. Didn’t have the affect him, he expected even though it was a friend. It seemed to rush past him. Just like the last two years. Better a year as tiger then ten as a turtle or so Jaybird had philosophized. Wallace cranked his 4Runner. After packing his gear up. His father crossed his mind.

So, I wrote this scene with no particular story or direction to take it. Any ideas or suggestions let me know. It does include elements from one of my wips. The locations of Galtier and Paradise.