A drug induced story..
Tue Mar 18, 2003 10:08 am
Well...not really...but how 'bout some input? 
Shane Hefty
English 304
Writing 6
Breaking
The phone was ringing. I woke up and there was drool crusted to my cheeks. The phone was chirping in the kitchen; I stumbled off the couch, clunked into the coffee table, swore at the pain, and headed towards the phone. My throat was dry and my stomach rumbled lightly. I rubbed my eyes awake, the pupils adjusting to the afternoon sunlight streaming through the picture windows of my condo. Jamaal was on the phone.
“Where’s my money?” Jamaal’s voice hissed through the line. Jamaal was my dealer, about thirty, and he was known to cut off fingers of junkies unable to pay.
“Didn’t you get the envelope? I left it with Nadia, she’s your bitch, ain’t she?” I asked. I had given her the money, and if she ran with it, it wasn’t my problem. “She delivered the shit, I paid her for the shit, and I used the shit. If you don’t have the money – you know damned well I’m good for this – then blame her, not me.” I poured myself a glass of water from the Brita pitcher in the fridge.
“Mothafucka, if I don’t get the money for you the shit I gave you, you’re gonna be sorry,” Jamaal replied in a voice that chilled my veins.
“Look, Jamaal…” I began.
“Get my fucking money! Twelve fi’tty by tomorrow, or else…” Jamaal said, and, before I could respond, the line went dead. I stood in my kitchen, unsure of what to do, and downed the rest of the water. I rubbed my nose, as it itched, and looked down at my fingers, smeared with blood. There was a box of Kleenex on the counter, I grabbed one and held it to my nose to stop the bleeding…
Some do cocaine for the rush, some do it because they think it looks cool, and some do it as an escape from reality. I started for those reasons, and continued because it helps me to be creative in my writing. Every night, right around five, I cut three lines of cocaine, laced with Drano, on my glass coffee table and snort them in quick succession. The high lasts around three hours for me, and I usually smoke a joint or two besides the coke. In those three hours, I can usually churn out a few songs, thus justifying the drug “addiction.” My on and off girlfriend, Reanne, tells me to stop or she’ll leave me, but she loves the royalty checks I get far too much to leave me, so the coke stays and so does she.
I debated on whether or not I should pay Jamaal the grand he said I owed him. I had already paid the crackwhore who delivered it to me, so I don’t see why I should have to pay twice. Then again, I mused, he does cut off fingers and kill people. It is only a grand...I sighed and called my accountant.
Jamaal came to my house around ten the next morning. He let himself in with a lock pick and yanked me out of the leather Lazy Boy where I was sleeping. I rubbed my eyes, staring back at his angry gaze.
“You didn’t deliver the money, so for your sake, you better have it here,” Jamaal said quietly. He was a large black man, taller than me, and I was over six foot tall. His arms were as big as my thighs, and his mouth was full of gold teeth that gave him an even more menacing appearance. He had a semi-automatic pistol – a berretta, by the looks of it - in one hand and a knife in the other. I knew him pretty well, and he was actually a decent guy. Of course, I’d never seen him mad until now…
“I have your money, but I’m paying ya twice, man. Talk to that bitch of yours, she delivered and I paid, you know me, come on,” I said as I reached for an envelope on the coffee table. I tossed it to Jamaal, and he caught it and counted the money, grinning in satisfaction, his teeth glinting in the Santa Monica sunlight.
He threw the envelope back to me and started laughing. I looked at him, and turned to the door as one of his body guards slouched into the room carrying a case of Budweiser. Jamaal handed the fat black man his gun and the knife, and they both looked at me and started laughing. I must have missed the joke.
“We was just fuckin’ with ya, man, we do that sometimes, just for laughs. Dealing drugs is a serious business, but we gotta have fun sometimes,” he grinned at me and tossed me a beer and a small bag of coke. “These’re on the house,” he laughed, and he lit a joint that appeared from somewhere. I opened the bag of coke and measured enough for three lines…
The phone woke me up again. Jamaal and Deshondis, his bodyguard, had left around three that morning. The beer and weed and coke had fucked me up good, and I was still somewhat high when I woke up. My head thumped and my vision was blurred as I stumbled toward the phone. It was Reanne.
“I’m outside, let me in, it’s three in the afternoon,” she chirped, and I could almost see the grin on her face through the phone.
I let her in, and she jumped on me, wrapping her legs around me and kissing me lustfully. She saw my dilated pupils and glanced at the coffee table, and then she jumped off me, angry.
“I told you to knock that shit off, Bryant,” she began.
“Fuck you, I need the stuff for my work, it helps me work faster. If I didn’t need it, I wouldn’t do it. What, do you think I’m a fucking addict? Christ, what’s with you?” I shouted, slamming the still open door.
“I always said I’d leave you, but you never believed me. This is your last chance, choose me or the coke,” she was begging, now. I laughed, smiling at her.
“You’re full of shit, I could care less. I can find another gold digging bitch who won’t bug me about doing drugs. You take X, look, you’re tripping right now, so don’t give me any of that shit. If there’s anything I hate, it’s hypocrites…fuck off, and get out of here,” I opened the door again, motioning her to leave.
“When you’re dead, don’t expect me to identify your body,” she said as she stormed outside, her high heels clicking on the cement.
“Have a nice day! Call me?” I said, putting my fingers to my mouth and ear in a mock phone.
“Fuck you, I hope you die,” she said before giving me the finger and getting in her car.
After Reannae had left, I went back inside and cut a line of coke. I stared at the perfect line and picked up the straw I used to snort the coke. I thought for a second, and then I cut two more lines; I had a lot of work to do this afternoon. I put the tube in my nose and inhaled deeply, the chemicals quickly sifting up my nose. I could feel my heartbeat increase, and I moved on to the next line, and my heart sped up even more. The last line burned my nose, and I could feel the blood coming, but I sucked it back in to get all of the coke inside; it was expensive, I couldn’t let it go to waste. My heart was pumping in my chest, and I felt nauseas. The room began to spin, and I stood up, trying to go to the kitchen, but I fell on the glass table, breaking it. I pushed myself up and screamed in pain; my hands were ripped apart, and blood from my hands and nose was staining the plush white carpet. I finally stood and stumbled towards the kitchen, groping for the phone. I dialed Jamaal and he picked up, but before I could say anything my chest constricted, my shoulder grew numb, and I collapsed on the floor.
The phone was ringing. I was lying in a strange room, and my hands were bandaged. My eyes were fighting to focus and were in pain from the harsh light streaming in the nearby window. I watched as a nurse walked in; she was pretty, and seemed relieved that I was awake. A mix of cocaine and saliva was plastered to my cheeks, and I realized that my ears, not the phone, was ringing. As I finished waking up, the nurse carefully scrubbed at the drool that was crusted to my cheeks.
Shane Hefty
English 304
Writing 6
Breaking
The phone was ringing. I woke up and there was drool crusted to my cheeks. The phone was chirping in the kitchen; I stumbled off the couch, clunked into the coffee table, swore at the pain, and headed towards the phone. My throat was dry and my stomach rumbled lightly. I rubbed my eyes awake, the pupils adjusting to the afternoon sunlight streaming through the picture windows of my condo. Jamaal was on the phone.
“Where’s my money?” Jamaal’s voice hissed through the line. Jamaal was my dealer, about thirty, and he was known to cut off fingers of junkies unable to pay.
“Didn’t you get the envelope? I left it with Nadia, she’s your bitch, ain’t she?” I asked. I had given her the money, and if she ran with it, it wasn’t my problem. “She delivered the shit, I paid her for the shit, and I used the shit. If you don’t have the money – you know damned well I’m good for this – then blame her, not me.” I poured myself a glass of water from the Brita pitcher in the fridge.
“Mothafucka, if I don’t get the money for you the shit I gave you, you’re gonna be sorry,” Jamaal replied in a voice that chilled my veins.
“Look, Jamaal…” I began.
“Get my fucking money! Twelve fi’tty by tomorrow, or else…” Jamaal said, and, before I could respond, the line went dead. I stood in my kitchen, unsure of what to do, and downed the rest of the water. I rubbed my nose, as it itched, and looked down at my fingers, smeared with blood. There was a box of Kleenex on the counter, I grabbed one and held it to my nose to stop the bleeding…
Some do cocaine for the rush, some do it because they think it looks cool, and some do it as an escape from reality. I started for those reasons, and continued because it helps me to be creative in my writing. Every night, right around five, I cut three lines of cocaine, laced with Drano, on my glass coffee table and snort them in quick succession. The high lasts around three hours for me, and I usually smoke a joint or two besides the coke. In those three hours, I can usually churn out a few songs, thus justifying the drug “addiction.” My on and off girlfriend, Reanne, tells me to stop or she’ll leave me, but she loves the royalty checks I get far too much to leave me, so the coke stays and so does she.
I debated on whether or not I should pay Jamaal the grand he said I owed him. I had already paid the crackwhore who delivered it to me, so I don’t see why I should have to pay twice. Then again, I mused, he does cut off fingers and kill people. It is only a grand...I sighed and called my accountant.
Jamaal came to my house around ten the next morning. He let himself in with a lock pick and yanked me out of the leather Lazy Boy where I was sleeping. I rubbed my eyes, staring back at his angry gaze.
“You didn’t deliver the money, so for your sake, you better have it here,” Jamaal said quietly. He was a large black man, taller than me, and I was over six foot tall. His arms were as big as my thighs, and his mouth was full of gold teeth that gave him an even more menacing appearance. He had a semi-automatic pistol – a berretta, by the looks of it - in one hand and a knife in the other. I knew him pretty well, and he was actually a decent guy. Of course, I’d never seen him mad until now…
“I have your money, but I’m paying ya twice, man. Talk to that bitch of yours, she delivered and I paid, you know me, come on,” I said as I reached for an envelope on the coffee table. I tossed it to Jamaal, and he caught it and counted the money, grinning in satisfaction, his teeth glinting in the Santa Monica sunlight.
He threw the envelope back to me and started laughing. I looked at him, and turned to the door as one of his body guards slouched into the room carrying a case of Budweiser. Jamaal handed the fat black man his gun and the knife, and they both looked at me and started laughing. I must have missed the joke.
“We was just fuckin’ with ya, man, we do that sometimes, just for laughs. Dealing drugs is a serious business, but we gotta have fun sometimes,” he grinned at me and tossed me a beer and a small bag of coke. “These’re on the house,” he laughed, and he lit a joint that appeared from somewhere. I opened the bag of coke and measured enough for three lines…
The phone woke me up again. Jamaal and Deshondis, his bodyguard, had left around three that morning. The beer and weed and coke had fucked me up good, and I was still somewhat high when I woke up. My head thumped and my vision was blurred as I stumbled toward the phone. It was Reanne.
“I’m outside, let me in, it’s three in the afternoon,” she chirped, and I could almost see the grin on her face through the phone.
I let her in, and she jumped on me, wrapping her legs around me and kissing me lustfully. She saw my dilated pupils and glanced at the coffee table, and then she jumped off me, angry.
“I told you to knock that shit off, Bryant,” she began.
“Fuck you, I need the stuff for my work, it helps me work faster. If I didn’t need it, I wouldn’t do it. What, do you think I’m a fucking addict? Christ, what’s with you?” I shouted, slamming the still open door.
“I always said I’d leave you, but you never believed me. This is your last chance, choose me or the coke,” she was begging, now. I laughed, smiling at her.
“You’re full of shit, I could care less. I can find another gold digging bitch who won’t bug me about doing drugs. You take X, look, you’re tripping right now, so don’t give me any of that shit. If there’s anything I hate, it’s hypocrites…fuck off, and get out of here,” I opened the door again, motioning her to leave.
“When you’re dead, don’t expect me to identify your body,” she said as she stormed outside, her high heels clicking on the cement.
“Have a nice day! Call me?” I said, putting my fingers to my mouth and ear in a mock phone.
“Fuck you, I hope you die,” she said before giving me the finger and getting in her car.
After Reannae had left, I went back inside and cut a line of coke. I stared at the perfect line and picked up the straw I used to snort the coke. I thought for a second, and then I cut two more lines; I had a lot of work to do this afternoon. I put the tube in my nose and inhaled deeply, the chemicals quickly sifting up my nose. I could feel my heartbeat increase, and I moved on to the next line, and my heart sped up even more. The last line burned my nose, and I could feel the blood coming, but I sucked it back in to get all of the coke inside; it was expensive, I couldn’t let it go to waste. My heart was pumping in my chest, and I felt nauseas. The room began to spin, and I stood up, trying to go to the kitchen, but I fell on the glass table, breaking it. I pushed myself up and screamed in pain; my hands were ripped apart, and blood from my hands and nose was staining the plush white carpet. I finally stood and stumbled towards the kitchen, groping for the phone. I dialed Jamaal and he picked up, but before I could say anything my chest constricted, my shoulder grew numb, and I collapsed on the floor.
The phone was ringing. I was lying in a strange room, and my hands were bandaged. My eyes were fighting to focus and were in pain from the harsh light streaming in the nearby window. I watched as a nurse walked in; she was pretty, and seemed relieved that I was awake. A mix of cocaine and saliva was plastered to my cheeks, and I realized that my ears, not the phone, was ringing. As I finished waking up, the nurse carefully scrubbed at the drool that was crusted to my cheeks.
Tue Mar 18, 2003 12:18 pm
Nice job.
Again, I'm not really into the heavy stuff that you like to write, Shane, but there's really no denying your talent and skill as a writer. Good job.
If I could make one suggestion...
I know Jamaal doesn't have a whole lot of lines in the story; at the same time, you're trying to use dialect in his speech. Between "Mothafucka" and "twelve fi'tty" it creates a intriguing effect in Jamaal's speech, but I'd personally like to see some more consistency. It seems that other than those two words, Jamaal speaks fairly coherently. Ultimately, it's not a big deal, and using dialect in your character's speech is one of the most difficult things to do (I stay away from it all together) but if you're going to use it, why not go all out?
All the best,
Eugene
Again, I'm not really into the heavy stuff that you like to write, Shane, but there's really no denying your talent and skill as a writer. Good job.
If I could make one suggestion...
I know Jamaal doesn't have a whole lot of lines in the story; at the same time, you're trying to use dialect in his speech. Between "Mothafucka" and "twelve fi'tty" it creates a intriguing effect in Jamaal's speech, but I'd personally like to see some more consistency. It seems that other than those two words, Jamaal speaks fairly coherently. Ultimately, it's not a big deal, and using dialect in your character's speech is one of the most difficult things to do (I stay away from it all together) but if you're going to use it, why not go all out?
All the best,
Eugene
Tue Mar 18, 2003 1:05 pm
Thanks Eugene. 
I haven't had much time to work on my book more, so hopefully I'll be able to work on it all summer...maybe not, who knows. 
As for the dialect, I was hoping it would come across that he only slips into the "dialect" when he's threatening someone. Plus, in most dialects, only a few words are really all that different. If I thought more closely about it, I could probably form a consistancy between the sounds, but he doesn't really say anything similar to the 'mothafucka' and 'twelve fi'tty' in the rest of the story. I was going for the educated, smart man, yet still street...I'll definately see what happens when we workshop it in class.
Thanks for the praise, but thanks more for the input.
Bests,
Shane
I haven't had much time to work on my book more, so hopefully I'll be able to work on it all summer...maybe not, who knows.
As for the dialect, I was hoping it would come across that he only slips into the "dialect" when he's threatening someone. Plus, in most dialects, only a few words are really all that different. If I thought more closely about it, I could probably form a consistancy between the sounds, but he doesn't really say anything similar to the 'mothafucka' and 'twelve fi'tty' in the rest of the story. I was going for the educated, smart man, yet still street...I'll definately see what happens when we workshop it in class.
Thanks for the praise, but thanks more for the input.
Bests,
Shane
Tue Mar 18, 2003 1:54 pm
Nice work Shane.
Tue Mar 18, 2003 8:35 pm
Version two with more dialect...what do you think Eugene (the other four that read this can chip in anytime now )?
Shane Hefty
English 304
Writing 6
Breaking
The phone was ringing. I woke up and there was drool crusted to my cheeks. The phone was chirping in the kitchen; I stumbled off the couch, clunked into the coffee table, swore at the pain, and headed towards the phone. My throat was dry and my stomach rumbled lightly. I rubbed my eyes awake, the pupils adjusting to the afternoon sunlight streaming through the picture windows of my condo. Jamaal was on the phone.
“Where’s muh money?” Jamaal’s voice hissed through the line. Jamaal was my dealer, about thirty, and he was known to cut off fingers of junkies unable to pay.
“Didn’t you get the envelope? I left it with Nadia, she’s your bitch, ain’t she?” I asked. I had given her the money, and if she ran with it, it wasn’t my problem. “She delivered the shit, I paid her for the shit, and I used the shit. If you don’t have the money – you know damned well I’m good for this – then blame her, not me.” I poured myself a glass of water from the Brita pitcher in the fridge.
“Mothafucka, if I dun get tha money for tha shit I gave ya, ya ass gonna be sorry,” Jamaal replied in a voice that chilled my veins.
“Look, Jamaal…” I began.
“Get muh mothafuckin’ money! Twelve fi’tty by tomorrah, or else…” Jamaal said, and, before I could respond, the line went dead. I stood in my kitchen, unsure of what to do, and downed the rest of the water. I rubbed my nose, as it itched, and looked down at my fingers, smeared with blood. There was a box of Kleenex on the counter, I grabbed one and held it to my nose to stop the bleeding…
Some do cocaine for the rush, some do it because they think it looks cool, and some do it as an escape from reality. I started for those reasons, and continued because it helps me to be creative in my writing. Every night, right around five, I cut three lines of cocaine, laced with Drano, on my glass coffee table and snort them in quick succession. The high lasts around three hours for me, and I usually smoke a joint or two besides the coke. In those three hours, I can usually churn out a few songs, thus justifying the drug “addiction.” My on and off girlfriend, Reanne, tells me to stop or she’ll leave me, but she loves the royalty checks I get far too much to leave me, so the coke stays and so does she.
I debated on whether or not I should pay Jamaal the grand he said I owed him. I had already paid the crackwhore who delivered it to me, so I don’t see why I should have to pay twice. Then again, I mused, he does cut off fingers and kill people. It is only a grand...I sighed and called my accountant.
Jamaal came to my house around ten the next morning. He let himself in with a lock pick and yanked me out of the leather Lazy Boy where I was sleeping. I rubbed my eyes, staring back at his angry gaze.
“You didn’t deliver the money, so for your sake, you better have it here,” Jamaal said softly, almost eloquently, his accent disappearing. He was a large black man, taller than me, and I was over six foot tall. His arms were as big as my thighs, and his mouth was full of gold teeth that gave him an even more menacing appearance. Jamaal was wearing khaki pants with what looked to be shoes from Gucci and a jacket of the same brand. He had a semi-automatic pistol – a berretta, by the looks of it - in one hand and a knife in the other. I knew him pretty well, and he was actually a decent guy. Of course, I’d never seen him mad until now…
“I have your money, but I’m paying ya twice, man. Talk to that bitch of yours, she delivered and I paid, you know me, come on,” I said as I reached for an envelope on the coffee table. I tossed it to Jamaal, and he caught it and counted the money, grinning in satisfaction, his teeth glinting in the Santa Monica sunlight.
He threw the envelope back to me and started laughing, a carefree, nasal laugh, almost like that of Eddie Murhpy. I looked at him, and turned to the door as one of his body guards slouched into the room carrying a case of Budweiser. Jamaal handed the fat black man his gun and the knife, and they both looked at me again, and Jamaal, then his body guard, burst into another fit of laughter. I looked on in bewilderment; I must have missed the joke.
“We just fuckin’ with ya, man, we do that sometimes, fo’ laughs, ya know? Dealin’ drugs is serious bi’ness, but we gotsta have fun sometimes,” he grinned at me and tossed me a beer and a small bag of coke. “These’re on tha house,” he laughed, and he lit a joint that appeared from somewhere. I opened the bag of coke and measured enough for three lines…
The phone woke me up again. Jamaal and Deshondis, the fat bodyguard, had left around three that morning. The beer and weed and coke had fucked me up good, and I was still somewhat high when I woke up. My head thumped and my vision was blurred as I stumbled toward the phone. It was Reanne.
“I’m outside, let me in, it’s three in the afternoon,” she chirped, and I could almost see the horny grin on her face through the receiver.
I let her in, and she jumped on me, wrapping her legs around me and kissing me lustfully. She saw my dilated pupils and glanced at the coffee table, and then she jumped off me, angry.
“I told you to knock that shit off, Bryant,” she began.
“Fuck you, I need the stuff for my work, it helps me work faster. If I didn’t need it, I wouldn’t do it. What, do you think I’m a fucking addict?! Christ, what’s with you?!” I shouted, slamming the still open door.
“I always said I’d leave you, but you never believed me. This is your last chance, choose me or the coke,” she was begging, now. I laughed, smiling at her.
“You’re full of shit, I could care less. I can find another gold digging bitch who won’t bug me about doing drugs. You take X, look, you’re tripping right now, so don’t give me any of that shit. If there’s anything I hate, it’s hypocrites…fuck off, and get out of here,” I opened the door again, motioning her to leave.
“When you’re dead, don’t expect me to identify your body,” she said as she stormed outside, her high heels clicking on the cement.
“Have a nice day! Call me?” I said, putting my fingers to my mouth and ear in a mock phone.
“Fuck you, I hope you die,” she said before giving me the finger and getting in her car.
After Reanne had left, I went back inside and cut a line of coke. I stared at the perfect line and picked up the straw I used to snort the coke. I thought for a second, and then I cut two more lines; I had a lot of work to do this afternoon. I put the tube in my nose and inhaled deeply, the chemicals quickly sifting up my nose. I could feel my heartbeat increase, and I moved on to the next line, and my heart sped up even more. The last line burned my nose, and I could feel the blood coming, but I sucked it back in to get all of the coke inside; it was expensive, I couldn’t let it go to waste. My heart was pumping in my chest, and I felt nauseas. The room began to spin, and I stood up, trying to go to the kitchen, but I fell on the glass table, breaking it. I pushed myself up and screamed in pain; my hands were ripped apart, and blood from my hands and nose was staining the plush white carpet. I finally stood and stumbled towards the kitchen, groping for the phone. I dialed Jamaal and he picked up, but before I could say anything my chest constricted, my shoulder grew numb, and I collapsed on the floor.
The phone was ringing. I was lying in a strange room, and my hands were bandaged. My eyes were fighting to focus and were in pain from the harsh light streaming in the nearby window. I watched as a nurse walked in; she was pretty, and seemed relieved that I was awake. A mix of cocaine and saliva was plastered to my cheeks, and I realized that my ears, not the phone, was ringing. As I finished waking up, the nurse carefully scrubbed at the drool that was crusted to my cheeks.
Shane Hefty
English 304
Writing 6
Breaking
The phone was ringing. I woke up and there was drool crusted to my cheeks. The phone was chirping in the kitchen; I stumbled off the couch, clunked into the coffee table, swore at the pain, and headed towards the phone. My throat was dry and my stomach rumbled lightly. I rubbed my eyes awake, the pupils adjusting to the afternoon sunlight streaming through the picture windows of my condo. Jamaal was on the phone.
“Where’s muh money?” Jamaal’s voice hissed through the line. Jamaal was my dealer, about thirty, and he was known to cut off fingers of junkies unable to pay.
“Didn’t you get the envelope? I left it with Nadia, she’s your bitch, ain’t she?” I asked. I had given her the money, and if she ran with it, it wasn’t my problem. “She delivered the shit, I paid her for the shit, and I used the shit. If you don’t have the money – you know damned well I’m good for this – then blame her, not me.” I poured myself a glass of water from the Brita pitcher in the fridge.
“Mothafucka, if I dun get tha money for tha shit I gave ya, ya ass gonna be sorry,” Jamaal replied in a voice that chilled my veins.
“Look, Jamaal…” I began.
“Get muh mothafuckin’ money! Twelve fi’tty by tomorrah, or else…” Jamaal said, and, before I could respond, the line went dead. I stood in my kitchen, unsure of what to do, and downed the rest of the water. I rubbed my nose, as it itched, and looked down at my fingers, smeared with blood. There was a box of Kleenex on the counter, I grabbed one and held it to my nose to stop the bleeding…
Some do cocaine for the rush, some do it because they think it looks cool, and some do it as an escape from reality. I started for those reasons, and continued because it helps me to be creative in my writing. Every night, right around five, I cut three lines of cocaine, laced with Drano, on my glass coffee table and snort them in quick succession. The high lasts around three hours for me, and I usually smoke a joint or two besides the coke. In those three hours, I can usually churn out a few songs, thus justifying the drug “addiction.” My on and off girlfriend, Reanne, tells me to stop or she’ll leave me, but she loves the royalty checks I get far too much to leave me, so the coke stays and so does she.
I debated on whether or not I should pay Jamaal the grand he said I owed him. I had already paid the crackwhore who delivered it to me, so I don’t see why I should have to pay twice. Then again, I mused, he does cut off fingers and kill people. It is only a grand...I sighed and called my accountant.
Jamaal came to my house around ten the next morning. He let himself in with a lock pick and yanked me out of the leather Lazy Boy where I was sleeping. I rubbed my eyes, staring back at his angry gaze.
“You didn’t deliver the money, so for your sake, you better have it here,” Jamaal said softly, almost eloquently, his accent disappearing. He was a large black man, taller than me, and I was over six foot tall. His arms were as big as my thighs, and his mouth was full of gold teeth that gave him an even more menacing appearance. Jamaal was wearing khaki pants with what looked to be shoes from Gucci and a jacket of the same brand. He had a semi-automatic pistol – a berretta, by the looks of it - in one hand and a knife in the other. I knew him pretty well, and he was actually a decent guy. Of course, I’d never seen him mad until now…
“I have your money, but I’m paying ya twice, man. Talk to that bitch of yours, she delivered and I paid, you know me, come on,” I said as I reached for an envelope on the coffee table. I tossed it to Jamaal, and he caught it and counted the money, grinning in satisfaction, his teeth glinting in the Santa Monica sunlight.
He threw the envelope back to me and started laughing, a carefree, nasal laugh, almost like that of Eddie Murhpy. I looked at him, and turned to the door as one of his body guards slouched into the room carrying a case of Budweiser. Jamaal handed the fat black man his gun and the knife, and they both looked at me again, and Jamaal, then his body guard, burst into another fit of laughter. I looked on in bewilderment; I must have missed the joke.
“We just fuckin’ with ya, man, we do that sometimes, fo’ laughs, ya know? Dealin’ drugs is serious bi’ness, but we gotsta have fun sometimes,” he grinned at me and tossed me a beer and a small bag of coke. “These’re on tha house,” he laughed, and he lit a joint that appeared from somewhere. I opened the bag of coke and measured enough for three lines…
The phone woke me up again. Jamaal and Deshondis, the fat bodyguard, had left around three that morning. The beer and weed and coke had fucked me up good, and I was still somewhat high when I woke up. My head thumped and my vision was blurred as I stumbled toward the phone. It was Reanne.
“I’m outside, let me in, it’s three in the afternoon,” she chirped, and I could almost see the horny grin on her face through the receiver.
I let her in, and she jumped on me, wrapping her legs around me and kissing me lustfully. She saw my dilated pupils and glanced at the coffee table, and then she jumped off me, angry.
“I told you to knock that shit off, Bryant,” she began.
“Fuck you, I need the stuff for my work, it helps me work faster. If I didn’t need it, I wouldn’t do it. What, do you think I’m a fucking addict?! Christ, what’s with you?!” I shouted, slamming the still open door.
“I always said I’d leave you, but you never believed me. This is your last chance, choose me or the coke,” she was begging, now. I laughed, smiling at her.
“You’re full of shit, I could care less. I can find another gold digging bitch who won’t bug me about doing drugs. You take X, look, you’re tripping right now, so don’t give me any of that shit. If there’s anything I hate, it’s hypocrites…fuck off, and get out of here,” I opened the door again, motioning her to leave.
“When you’re dead, don’t expect me to identify your body,” she said as she stormed outside, her high heels clicking on the cement.
“Have a nice day! Call me?” I said, putting my fingers to my mouth and ear in a mock phone.
“Fuck you, I hope you die,” she said before giving me the finger and getting in her car.
After Reanne had left, I went back inside and cut a line of coke. I stared at the perfect line and picked up the straw I used to snort the coke. I thought for a second, and then I cut two more lines; I had a lot of work to do this afternoon. I put the tube in my nose and inhaled deeply, the chemicals quickly sifting up my nose. I could feel my heartbeat increase, and I moved on to the next line, and my heart sped up even more. The last line burned my nose, and I could feel the blood coming, but I sucked it back in to get all of the coke inside; it was expensive, I couldn’t let it go to waste. My heart was pumping in my chest, and I felt nauseas. The room began to spin, and I stood up, trying to go to the kitchen, but I fell on the glass table, breaking it. I pushed myself up and screamed in pain; my hands were ripped apart, and blood from my hands and nose was staining the plush white carpet. I finally stood and stumbled towards the kitchen, groping for the phone. I dialed Jamaal and he picked up, but before I could say anything my chest constricted, my shoulder grew numb, and I collapsed on the floor.
The phone was ringing. I was lying in a strange room, and my hands were bandaged. My eyes were fighting to focus and were in pain from the harsh light streaming in the nearby window. I watched as a nurse walked in; she was pretty, and seemed relieved that I was awake. A mix of cocaine and saliva was plastered to my cheeks, and I realized that my ears, not the phone, was ringing. As I finished waking up, the nurse carefully scrubbed at the drool that was crusted to my cheeks.
Tue Mar 18, 2003 9:56 pm
Shane Hefty........Shane Hefty.........Shane Hefty.........Shane Hefty............Shane Hefty..........
What? ..oh, sorry...i'm just remembering the name for when he becomes famous...
What? ..oh, sorry...i'm just remembering the name for when he becomes famous...
Wed Mar 19, 2003 4:08 am
Nice...
Much better contrast between "angry" Jamaal and "calm" Jamaal. It's amazing to see what depth a little turn in speech can make.
Still, writing dialect is one of the most difficult things to do. There are actually some columns on writing dialect that you may be interested in on Fanfiction.net. Also, the sister site, Fictionpress.net now posts original fiction exclusively. It's a great way to get some feedback on your stories from your peers.
It may seem a little contrived or even inane, but there's really no better way to get feedback. The only problem is that there's just so much people writing and posting on the site that you may get overlooked.
I hope you take advantage of it though.
All the best,
Eugene
Much better contrast between "angry" Jamaal and "calm" Jamaal. It's amazing to see what depth a little turn in speech can make.
Still, writing dialect is one of the most difficult things to do. There are actually some columns on writing dialect that you may be interested in on Fanfiction.net. Also, the sister site, Fictionpress.net now posts original fiction exclusively. It's a great way to get some feedback on your stories from your peers.
It may seem a little contrived or even inane, but there's really no better way to get feedback. The only problem is that there's just so much people writing and posting on the site that you may get overlooked.
I hope you take advantage of it though.
All the best,
Eugene
Wed Mar 19, 2003 1:05 pm
Great story...you actually got me hooked from the beggining...
just great...
when i write...i tend to make things as unclear and as crazy as posible...so that every word would have a double meaning....letting the reader get whatever he wants to get from the story...not a irect messege...
Yet i loved what you did...yet, if i were you...if you feel like it...i'd write something brief about what's going on in the character's mind while he's doing cocaine....nothing is more interesting then knowing what people think...
just a suggestion
you're a great writer...
just great...
when i write...i tend to make things as unclear and as crazy as posible...so that every word would have a double meaning....letting the reader get whatever he wants to get from the story...not a irect messege...
Yet i loved what you did...yet, if i were you...if you feel like it...i'd write something brief about what's going on in the character's mind while he's doing cocaine....nothing is more interesting then knowing what people think...
just a suggestion
you're a great writer...
Wed Mar 19, 2003 3:24 pm
when i write...i tend to make things as unclear and as crazy as posible...so that every word would have a double meaning....letting the reader get whatever he wants to get from the story...not a irect messege...
Hehe, there is an underlying social message in the story...
Yet i loved what you did...yet, if i were you...if you feel like it...i'd write something brief about what's going on in the character's mind while he's doing cocaine....nothing is more interesting then knowing what people think...
Well, generally when people do cocaine it just speeds them up...it doesn't give them hallucinations (not that I've read) or anything like that, so what he's actually thinkin while doing the coke isn't all that important, as I don't go into what he does when he's writing and what not.
That's the reasoning behind that 
Thu Mar 20, 2003 2:00 pm
Maybe it's a spelling mistake, but I would have don' instead of dun. Dun is done, don' is don't. It doesn't make sense the way you used it.Shane wrote:Mothafucka, if I dun get tha money for tha shit I gave ya, ya ass gonna be sorry.
Thu Mar 20, 2003 2:53 pm
It's all subjective...phonetically, the way Jamaal is talking, that works. I spent quite a bit of time revising the dialogue so it works. How many times have you heard people say 'I dunno' for 'I don't know?'
I'm not ripping you, just explaining.
I'm not ripping you, just explaining.
Fri Mar 21, 2003 5:10 am
hullo.
As you said, its all subjective, I was satisfied with Jamaal's dialect in the first version. In my opinion, the second version draws attention away from the character.
I always like reading your stories, you are very talented. The only criticism I have is that the resolution seems to come early. The girlfriend/overdose bit at the end didn't seem to have as much weight as the Jamaal/money part of the story.
As you said, its all subjective, I was satisfied with Jamaal's dialect in the first version. In my opinion, the second version draws attention away from the character.
I always like reading your stories, you are very talented. The only criticism I have is that the resolution seems to come early. The girlfriend/overdose bit at the end didn't seem to have as much weight as the Jamaal/money part of the story.
Fri Mar 21, 2003 7:11 pm
Length constraints...it's a short short. I'll probably expand on it for our final paper.