Micky
The Beginning
This story that I’m about to tell you is not the one of how I died. It is not about me, it’s not even about Bronywn. This story? Well, this story is about a man named Michael Bonwic. And maybe it’s not about who he was, but who he became and how I came to find him.
It all started back in high school, I suppose. This was before Bronwyn and I were as kosher as we are now. No, then we were two very different people.
Randall High School, Amarillo, TX.
Senior Year, Class of ‘09.
I, Brielle Coleman, was ASB President. I had straight A’s, belonged to the school’s theater department, and had never skipped school - ever. I had a good head on my shoulders. I knew where I was going in life. I knew what I wanted to be, and how I was going to get there. I was bright, so very bright.
Bronwyn on the other hand, was the complete polar opposite. Bronwyn was a mess. She had no sense of respect for any authority figure, argued whenever and wherever she could, and had a knack for arson charges. I’d seen her a few times, hanging out with the punk kids smoking cigarettes on campus. She didn’t care where she was headed in life, one of those ‘go with the flow’ kind of kids. She didn’t fear anyone, or anything.
I knew for a fact that wherever my life took me, Bronwyn would be nowhere near it. I’d never spoken a word to her, and I never planned to. We were so different, her and I. Like water and fire, oil and water. We shared no same interest. We had nothing in common… except for one thing.
Methamphetamine.
Now this factor I wasn’t aware of until the end of Senior year. Though I should’ve known, a girl like her would definitely be pinned in a line up for drug use, for sure. I, on the other hand, would’ve walked free. I wasn’t like addicts. I didn’t smoke it for the pleasure. I smoked it to test the product before repackaging it and selling it to another. I didn’t use, I was too smart for that. Besides, it did nothing for me in the long run, I knew.
Bronwyn, though… she was an addict. So along with our common interest with Methamphetamine, a common dealer came hand and hand. That’s where Micky, er - Michael came in.
I’d been doing business with Michael since the beginning of Junior year. In exchange for a wholesale price, I tutored Michael and provided other simple favors. Now, the regular Methamphetamine Michael sold would sell at a decent rate.
¼ g =$20
½ g =$40
1 g =$80
16th (1 ¾ g ) =120.00
8 ball (3 ½ g) =$200.00
Because I’d made a deal with Michael, I got my share at a very low cost, as long as he got at least 30% profit.
¼ g =$10
½ g =$15
1 g =$30
16th (1 ¾ g ) =50.00
8 ball (3 ½ g) =$100.00
I sold each amount for 20% less than Michael, and profited greatly. I could have continued working on my own, without having any trouble if Bronwyn hadn’t fucked it up. Though, now that I think about it, it was a blessing in disguise that she did.
I was scheduled to meet up with Michael after the last bell behind the old Barn in the lot across the street from the school. That was usually where all the burn outs decided to smoke and get high, a perfect place for Michael to set up shop. During our exchanges though, he’d clear them out, tell them that the pigs were on their way and watch them scatter like mice.
Michael was very particular about who saw him doing what. He didn’t want his people to know he was doing business with me, just like I didn’t want my people to know I was doing business with him. If anyone from either side saw us together, it would destroy the social order that had been perfectly set by others before us. So in reality, I didn’t mind at all.
Bronwyn must’ve caught on, or maybe she was just too high to go very far. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. She already knew too much in Michael’s eyes. I watched her stumble out from behind a hay barrel, wide eyed with her finger pointed towards us.
“You prissy bitch!” I could hear her laughter start to boom as she got closer to us. It was then that I heard the click of the gun’s safety being removed and cocked.
I knew that sound from anywhere. My father, John Coleman, was a police officer, and my grandfather John Coleman Sr. was Chief of Police. I knew guns. I also knew he was carrying a Glock 22, chambered for the .40 S&W cartridge. It had a standard magazine capacity of 15 rounds. 15. That could kill her ten times over.
“I didn’t see anything.” She put her hands up, I just stood back.
He stood there for a couple seconds, thinking about it. It almost seemed as if he was truly considering killing her. After a moment or two, the silence broke. He put the gun down on a work bench and flipped the safety back on.
“Leave. Both of you.”
He didn’t talk much around others. The less he said, the more you should listen.
“But I still have your money.” I pointed out. He shot a stare, his hand quivering.
“Bronwyn, right? Let’s go.” I walked over to her, grabbing my satchel on the way.
“Wait, what?” I didn’t give her much time to fight back before I grabbed her arm and dragged her from behind the barn to the street, then down a few blocks before letting her go.
“Whatever you heard back there, whatever you saw - erase it. You never heard or saw anything. If you tell ANYONE you’re dead. If Michael doesn’t get to you first, I will.”
“Whoah whoah I was never going to say anything, calm down. Get the stick out of your ass.” She ripped her arm away from me, then stood her ground.
“Good. Now you should get out of here before anyone sees us.” I turned on my heel and started to walk away.
“Why should I listen to you? You’re not Michael and I certainly don’t see a gun on you so I have no reason to leave you alone. Maybe you should tell me why you were with him in the first place.” She paused. “OH MY GOD YOU DO METH.”
I froze, then spun around again, slapping my hand over her mouth. “Do you realize what kind of neighborhood we’re in right now? Look around, Bronwyn. You could get arrested saying things like that over here. And for your information I do not do meth.”
I looked her in the eyes, then loosened my grip. It clicked, this could be a good business opportunity.
The main people I sold to weren’t heavy users. They bought eight balls for parties and such for the weekends their rich parents went away. Some even bought for their parents as gifts. It was easy money, and I had fully infiltrated the upper class with my business. No one wanted to turn me in, even though they knew it was illegal because they knew I had the upper hand. I could easily turn in lists upon lists of users, some even good friends with my family. My work was silent, and my customers stayed happy.
If I had a customer like Bronwyn, she’d be buying all the time. I’d make twice the profit I had been. Or better yet, I could have her bring in customers, share the wealth, take 40% of that profit. I’d be rich. I’d be able to move out of my parents house and buy a fucking yacht if I wanted to.
“I sell it.”
It all started back in high school, I suppose. This was before Bronwyn and I were as kosher as we are now. No, then we were two very different people.
Randall High School, Amarillo, TX.
Senior Year, Class of ‘09.
I, Brielle Coleman, was ASB President. I had straight A’s, belonged to the school’s theater department, and had never skipped school - ever. I had a good head on my shoulders. I knew where I was going in life. I knew what I wanted to be, and how I was going to get there. I was bright, so very bright.
Bronwyn on the other hand, was the complete polar opposite. Bronwyn was a mess. She had no sense of respect for any authority figure, argued whenever and wherever she could, and had a knack for arson charges. I’d seen her a few times, hanging out with the punk kids smoking cigarettes on campus. She didn’t care where she was headed in life, one of those ‘go with the flow’ kind of kids. She didn’t fear anyone, or anything.
I knew for a fact that wherever my life took me, Bronwyn would be nowhere near it. I’d never spoken a word to her, and I never planned to. We were so different, her and I. Like water and fire, oil and water. We shared no same interest. We had nothing in common… except for one thing.
Methamphetamine.
Now this factor I wasn’t aware of until the end of Senior year. Though I should’ve known, a girl like her would definitely be pinned in a line up for drug use, for sure. I, on the other hand, would’ve walked free. I wasn’t like addicts. I didn’t smoke it for the pleasure. I smoked it to test the product before repackaging it and selling it to another. I didn’t use, I was too smart for that. Besides, it did nothing for me in the long run, I knew.
Bronwyn, though… she was an addict. So along with our common interest with Methamphetamine, a common dealer came hand and hand. That’s where Micky, er - Michael came in.
I’d been doing business with Michael since the beginning of Junior year. In exchange for a wholesale price, I tutored Michael and provided other simple favors. Now, the regular Methamphetamine Michael sold would sell at a decent rate.
¼ g =$20
½ g =$40
1 g =$80
16th (1 ¾ g ) =120.00
8 ball (3 ½ g) =$200.00
Because I’d made a deal with Michael, I got my share at a very low cost, as long as he got at least 30% profit.
¼ g =$10
½ g =$15
1 g =$30
16th (1 ¾ g ) =50.00
8 ball (3 ½ g) =$100.00
I sold each amount for 20% less than Michael, and profited greatly. I could have continued working on my own, without having any trouble if Bronwyn hadn’t fucked it up. Though, now that I think about it, it was a blessing in disguise that she did.
I was scheduled to meet up with Michael after the last bell behind the old Barn in the lot across the street from the school. That was usually where all the burn outs decided to smoke and get high, a perfect place for Michael to set up shop. During our exchanges though, he’d clear them out, tell them that the pigs were on their way and watch them scatter like mice.
Michael was very particular about who saw him doing what. He didn’t want his people to know he was doing business with me, just like I didn’t want my people to know I was doing business with him. If anyone from either side saw us together, it would destroy the social order that had been perfectly set by others before us. So in reality, I didn’t mind at all.
Bronwyn must’ve caught on, or maybe she was just too high to go very far. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. She already knew too much in Michael’s eyes. I watched her stumble out from behind a hay barrel, wide eyed with her finger pointed towards us.
“You prissy bitch!” I could hear her laughter start to boom as she got closer to us. It was then that I heard the click of the gun’s safety being removed and cocked.
I knew that sound from anywhere. My father, John Coleman, was a police officer, and my grandfather John Coleman Sr. was Chief of Police. I knew guns. I also knew he was carrying a Glock 22, chambered for the .40 S&W cartridge. It had a standard magazine capacity of 15 rounds. 15. That could kill her ten times over.
“I didn’t see anything.” She put her hands up, I just stood back.
He stood there for a couple seconds, thinking about it. It almost seemed as if he was truly considering killing her. After a moment or two, the silence broke. He put the gun down on a work bench and flipped the safety back on.
“Leave. Both of you.”
He didn’t talk much around others. The less he said, the more you should listen.
“But I still have your money.” I pointed out. He shot a stare, his hand quivering.
“Bronwyn, right? Let’s go.” I walked over to her, grabbing my satchel on the way.
“Wait, what?” I didn’t give her much time to fight back before I grabbed her arm and dragged her from behind the barn to the street, then down a few blocks before letting her go.
“Whatever you heard back there, whatever you saw - erase it. You never heard or saw anything. If you tell ANYONE you’re dead. If Michael doesn’t get to you first, I will.”
“Whoah whoah I was never going to say anything, calm down. Get the stick out of your ass.” She ripped her arm away from me, then stood her ground.
“Good. Now you should get out of here before anyone sees us.” I turned on my heel and started to walk away.
“Why should I listen to you? You’re not Michael and I certainly don’t see a gun on you so I have no reason to leave you alone. Maybe you should tell me why you were with him in the first place.” She paused. “OH MY GOD YOU DO METH.”
I froze, then spun around again, slapping my hand over her mouth. “Do you realize what kind of neighborhood we’re in right now? Look around, Bronwyn. You could get arrested saying things like that over here. And for your information I do not do meth.”
I looked her in the eyes, then loosened my grip. It clicked, this could be a good business opportunity.
The main people I sold to weren’t heavy users. They bought eight balls for parties and such for the weekends their rich parents went away. Some even bought for their parents as gifts. It was easy money, and I had fully infiltrated the upper class with my business. No one wanted to turn me in, even though they knew it was illegal because they knew I had the upper hand. I could easily turn in lists upon lists of users, some even good friends with my family. My work was silent, and my customers stayed happy.
If I had a customer like Bronwyn, she’d be buying all the time. I’d make twice the profit I had been. Or better yet, I could have her bring in customers, share the wealth, take 40% of that profit. I’d be rich. I’d be able to move out of my parents house and buy a fucking yacht if I wanted to.
“I sell it.”
♠ ♠ ♠
"I don't do meth - I sell it." ;lsfkja;sdlfkj :3