The Joint

Charles slams the steel door back into its Herculean frame. The echo fires like a gun about the open space. The industrial walls shake under the collision. Acrid P permeates – he curses the flatmate’s persistence with backstreet fourth-rate shit: When will they see the value of his quality? Tacky House music taps mercilessly to no one – irritations amping his state. At the phone he sees a note.

         Hey Babylove,
         
Just popped out for a bit. Casserole is brewing for tea tonight. Could you turn it up for us when you get in?
Thanks honey. See you later

Luv Carlotta

In one hand the note is taken, screwed tight into a ball of temper, and thrown into another world. With the other he yanks the casseroles plug from the socket.
Cupboards are flung. The freezer door’s cold released, ice chunks tinkle the tumbler, warm bourbon cracks with its’ pour.
Outside the rush hour symphony of horns and revs is ignored; the television is turned on and up. The coffee table in front is cleared; girlie mags, FHMs, sports; all filed under rubbish behind the couch. Burner and knives are moved to the side, mugs and plates to the floor. Pizza boxes join the mags. Belt is released, hands go down and the pungent smell of skunk weed precedes the heavily packed Glad bag. A flick sends it to the table.  The 9-bar lands without a slide, as if bonded by the sticky crystals that layer the bag like clear granules of sugar. You can almost see the trail of quality. 
A single hand goes to the back, there’s a click, a check, and the Magnum is laid down beside the heavy bag.
The couch takes him with a groan, springs strain under the impact. His sigh loads it more. Feet straddle the gear & piece. There is a moment of thought. Outside there is a sound of horns, then colliding cars, then horns again.
He looks for papers.
'Never any fucking papers when you want them!' he curses.
He contemplates the knives…no celebration in that.
He finds them in the bedside draw. Frisking he knocks a photo to the floor. It’s his favorite, a while back, trip to Indo. Carlotta looks her best: tanned, fit, hair pulled back, that shocking pink bikini…it joins the note into another world.
At the table fingers stick, layers accumulate with every prune, the smell is intoxicating; it increases his intent. Twigs are stripped in a patient frenzy. Size an acknowledged value.  Ripped from the paper’s housing, the roach is set at length, rolled to optimum bore. Three papers unsheathed: the first discarded the next two joined in the famous L.
Before him the bud sits transformed into rollable ingredients, the roach is in perfect proportion, the L joined with meticulous care. Nimble, experienced fingers work their trade. Higher rates of return have meant the knives remain the prominent apparatus, but no smoker worth his salt forgets the grandeur of the Empress: The icon of Mary-Jane’s utility.
The joint rests upon the coffee table in faultless trumpet shape. He swirls Jack in a field of ice, breathes the bite of the first swig.
Jack and a J - just the way it should be.
He admires the J once more; symbolizes beyond its truth.
The end goes up under light, the first breath is inhaled; he can taste the skunk resin, coughs, and knows it will work. 
The smell does as nature intended, sending his senses tiptoeing delicately upon his memory, like fingers along the keys of a piano. He remembers the first time. How things change: A smaller room, a crowd of friends, Carlotta by his side. A haze of smoke clouded the room, heavy lids impaired his vision. Then the giggles came; then giggles to turned laughs, then laughs to hysterics: Uncontrollable, untethered and unwarranted.  The first night he spent with her. 
A second hit and he drifts; sunny days, warm water, perfect waves – Indo.  Carlotta on the beach, wet from the sea: Firm, proportioned, exotic. Desire could not be more severe. Another hit soothes; the day comes back.
It’s cold outside Jonny's house. His breath can still be seen on the air, the sun shines bright on his back; its warmth superficial. Indifferent cars speed by, their noise muffled by Jonny's words, “Ten grand bro, that’s legs” pounding in his ears.
He looks to his watch; it’s been twenty minutes. Wiz and Sugar Shanne are late. Not today; time is money - leg saving money. How Carlotta had seemed worth it - remembers that she still had. He remembers the night, a soft moonlight. Dinner had been divine, crayfish mornay and wine. His head spins in the effects, his bravado buoyed. Carlotta lay glistening in the sweat of their passion. In his hand is their future, in her answer his heart.
“I know we’re mates but b’ness is b’ness” , breaks in.
The Charade, carrying Wiz and Sugar Shanne, squeals round the corner.
“By today, last chance!” The gun is given. Hope brings him back.
Dabbing lightly with his moistened fingertip, he needs to firetruck the joint. A cold breeze from the open windows braces his face; aiding the firing end. He tempers the smoke under an open mouth. He holds longer now; will need it all.
He reaches for the gun. Somehow it feels lighter, more comfortable; an extension of his hand. He looks it over.
His head tilts back on exhale like a full mooned wolf, his howl a silent grey. He rests his weary mind on the couch’s back. He’s gone again.
Sugar Shanne beats at the door. Wiz is gone round back. Before long he greets them both with the ‘Debt’ by the scruff of the neck, his P pipe tight in his shaking hand like a baby with a pacifier. The words 'not ready' swirl with the sinking feeling as it returns. His straight right to the addicts face discharges the blur, clears his gut, the image of blood almost soothing. More damage is done, tomorrow is promised.
Tomorrow's too late. Things are beginning to crack. The gun is in the addict’s mouth, the hammer pulled: Tension redlining, pressure boiling. The 9-bar is discovered, Wiz's smile is vivid, the sticky bag massive in his hands. A prayer is considered - one cannot be remembered. The gun finds its place in the small of his back. Relief is dousing. The green bag his stay of execution.   
“By today, last chance”
With his head still on the back of the couch the joint comes to his lips. It’s a strong suck this time; the roach is coming on fast. The hold is short - the exhale an old faithful geyser. The gun is still firmly in his hand; his sweat a glue, his grip tightens. He looks at the TV, contemplates the news, passes; too confirming. He drifts for the last time.
Outside Johnny’s house the door is ajar, there’s a thump from inside. The gun is pulled, the grip tight. There are noises down the hall: Something's up.
The lucidness of sound in memory deafens him. He knows the sound so intimately, has listened to it so intently. Hammer blows of an invaders gratification smash down on him with every closer step. His heart in ascending ebb beats like a machine gun. He blocks the realization from his mind, denies the knowledge until his eyes verify. The truth is with him at the doorway. Carlotta: firm, proportioned, exotic, wet from sweat and bent over, is being rammed from behind with moan inducing thrusts. His heart stops, legs waver, head spins…rage. The gun is up, at him, at to her. There are words, accusations, heartache, pain… anger. There is a demand for resolution, for the extinguishing of the pain. He threatens… cocks the hammer…takes another drag on the joint...and lets the trigger go.