Black Hole by Bucky Sinister Page B

van.
    You have pockets.
    You talk pretty bold for a pile of garbage.
    Fuck you. I prefer refuse-American.
    My money. My fucking money was in the van. I can’t get the van out of the impound without them finding me, but I can’t get to the money unless I do. Is this how they’re trying to get me? Take my van and my money and wait for me to show up and then nab me?
    Not me. Nope. They’re not getting me that easy. No sir. They’ll have to try something else. I’m not falling for that trap.
    But I need money. I need drugs. I have to work something out. Someone has to front me.
    By the time I get to the Tenderloin, I’m coming down again; I still have a hard-on, but it’s not like it was.
    Big Mike won’t answer his buzzer. Calls go to voicemail; texts sit unread. Not good. He has a kitchen full of everything I need, but I can’t get in.
    There’s a Crown Vic parked across the street. Undercover cops are common in the TL, but maybe they’re watching Big Mike’s place.
    I can feel them looking at me, their eyes scanning the back of my neck, trying to look at the hands for telltale tats. I know they’re behind that tinted glass checking me out. I have a sense for these things.
    I scamper off, duck into the nearest corner store.
    A smell hits me. It’s a soured-cat-piss smell. The owner has his shirt pulled over his face. Looks helpless against it. I head back toward the beer. I know this smell, personally.
    Oso’s in the back of the store by the refrigerators.
    Something’s wrong. The man has lost a lot of weight. There’s no way he could lose this much weight in what, a week and a half? His skin hangs loose on him like one of those Chinese fighting dogs. It creeps me out.
    What you looking at, fool? he says with a sneer.
    Oso, it’s me, Chuck.
    Oso squints. He walks toward me. He has a shopping basket filled with TV dinners, four or five ice creams, and a Desert Eagle.
    Oh, shit, fool. What the fuck is up?
    He smiles, but somehow it looks creepier than before. As he gets closer, I see tiny lumps under his skin.
    You’ve lost some weight.
    Funny. I’m smaller and shit. But I don’t feel a god damn bit lighter.
    You seen Big Mike around?
    Nah. That fool is AWOL. Fucking up my business, that’s for damn sure.
    Aw, fuck.
    What’s up, fool?
    I need something to tide me over. I lost my stash, my cash, and almost my ass.
    I got your hookup. Come back to the crib and we’ll work it out.
    We walk out. Oso throws two twenties on the counter, doesn’t stop to be rung up or wait for change.
    In the studio, the smell is somehow worse than I remember. It throws me off balance. There’s a taste in my throat; I’m afraid to breathe through my mouth, but when I breathe through my nose, it stings and burns. I’m not sure what’s happening here. This is beyond rotten food or body odor or cats. This is something inhuman, something wrong, something that shouldn’t be. There’s some kind of strong ammonia theme that is making it hard for me to keep my eyes open.
    Sit down, fool , Oso says.
    I’m afraid to sit anywhere. It’s really gross in here. I want to get some shit and leave. I want to go to rehab. I should quit all this shit. Not worth it. Not fucking worth it. I’ll sell some drugs, get some money and go to rehab, then get out and get a square job.
    I’ll go to that rehab down south, Promises, I think it’s called, the one where Robert Downey Jr. and Ben Affleck go, where you get clean by a pool, and I’ll write a screenplay, and one of them will get it to their people, and then I’ll have people waiting for me when I get out.
    And I’ll meet some nice actress from an old show like The Facts of Life or something who’s having trouble with pills since her kid died or a car wreck or something, and we’ll hit it off and she’ll be tired of those Hollywood jerkoffs and want a real