Sequel: Carnage ›
Devil
Please Come Again Son
By 1 AM, the club was packed. The Kid had not come out of his office, but Nebraska had made over £8000 in the hour and a half they had been open. A glass of raspberry vodka sat idly on the bar as she leaned against it, scanning the crowd. Her heels clicked against the legs of the stool as she tapped her feet to the beat of the music, totally consumed with the energy. She almost didn’t notice a brown-haired man who sat down next to her as his blonde friend stood behind him. Almost.
“How much?” she asked simply, without turning around. This was her line. The other girls the Kid used to sell his new wonder drug all had different lines. Charlotte, who was Nebraska’s least favourite, apparently asked if customers were “Ready to have some fun tonight?”. Nebraska thought that made her sound like a sex worker. Or worse. At least sex workers had some dignity.
“Uhh,” one stumbled. Nebraska turned so that she was facing them. The brown-haired one looked nervous in his skin-tight black shirt. He had tattoos running up one arm, and a windswept look about him. She didn’t recognize him. He must have been new. She smirked, feeling almost bad for him. This was not the night for newbies.
“Here,” the blonde one interjected, shoving a bunch of crumpled up notes on the bar. They didn’t have to worry about being watched, but Nebraska liked being discrete either way. This exchange began making her uncomfortable. It was reminiscent of an undercover police job she had seen in a movie many years ago.
She looked closely at the blonde one. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place his name. He wasn’t a regular, but he had obviously been there before. Enough to know who to look for, apparently.
She counted the notes carefully, straightening them up as she went. £400.
“For both of you?”
They nodded. She tucked the bills in a small slot in the bar, and motioned to the bartender, Max. It was his first Saturday night, and he was already shaking with the effort of balancing the drug with the real drinks. He was going to be a problem.
Max brought over their drinks in glasses similar to hers, with little black straws in them. The blonde one downed his in one sip, while the brown-haired one sipped tentatively. He didn't have to worry; the drug was always served with vodka. It made it easier to sell. The brown-haired one turned around to look at her as his friend led him onto the dance floor. She met his gaze for a moment before being pulled away by another buyer. He was cute.
“How much?” she asked simply, without turning around. This was her line. The other girls the Kid used to sell his new wonder drug all had different lines. Charlotte, who was Nebraska’s least favourite, apparently asked if customers were “Ready to have some fun tonight?”. Nebraska thought that made her sound like a sex worker. Or worse. At least sex workers had some dignity.
“Uhh,” one stumbled. Nebraska turned so that she was facing them. The brown-haired one looked nervous in his skin-tight black shirt. He had tattoos running up one arm, and a windswept look about him. She didn’t recognize him. He must have been new. She smirked, feeling almost bad for him. This was not the night for newbies.
“Here,” the blonde one interjected, shoving a bunch of crumpled up notes on the bar. They didn’t have to worry about being watched, but Nebraska liked being discrete either way. This exchange began making her uncomfortable. It was reminiscent of an undercover police job she had seen in a movie many years ago.
She looked closely at the blonde one. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place his name. He wasn’t a regular, but he had obviously been there before. Enough to know who to look for, apparently.
She counted the notes carefully, straightening them up as she went. £400.
“For both of you?”
They nodded. She tucked the bills in a small slot in the bar, and motioned to the bartender, Max. It was his first Saturday night, and he was already shaking with the effort of balancing the drug with the real drinks. He was going to be a problem.
Max brought over their drinks in glasses similar to hers, with little black straws in them. The blonde one downed his in one sip, while the brown-haired one sipped tentatively. He didn't have to worry; the drug was always served with vodka. It made it easier to sell. The brown-haired one turned around to look at her as his friend led him onto the dance floor. She met his gaze for a moment before being pulled away by another buyer. He was cute.