Muskogee, Oklahoma

Tuesday, August 8, 2023

6:10 p.m.

Skidded into the same fuckin’ Walmart where I bought the burner. Determined to be a little more discreet than I was at Dunham’s. Went straight back to the electronics section, where I eyed up the selection of cheap laptops.

Fuck it, let’s go. Stop wasting time, Boss.

Grabbed one listed at $569 and took it over to the guy in the blue vest. Flat face. Looked retarded. The fluorescent lights overhead gave everything a surreal, artificial quality. Tons of cheap Chinese-made shit piled everywhere I looked. If you checked the packaging that’s all you saw. China, China, China. Okay, fine, Mexico, here and there. Walls of it. Heaps. All for sale. Looking at it felt exactly how insomnia feels.

Took the wad of cash out of my coat. Crisp bills handed over.

Count ‘em and bag it, mother fucker. Don’t got all day.

Blue vest, his eyebrows raised to the top of his pancake, took the cash, rang everything up. He gave me my change and receipt, plus the laptop.

On my way.

With the gun incident only half an hour behind me, I decided to keep moving. Best bet. That meant opening up the Ledger and getting back in touch with LunaRider at my next stop, but I wanted to get the hell out of Oklahoma. I figured the Muskogee PD didn’t have the will to chase me for too long, definitely not out of state. Plus no way they had the heft to get the ear of the Feds. Not over a single fuckin’ pistol. Worse shit happened every second of every day here in Amerikwa.

They’re not gonna investigate shit. Ain’t a damn thing they’re gonna do about it.

No one really cared, even Dunham’s. As long as I get out of town, I’m good. So I threw the new laptop in the back of the Malibu and peeled out, heading north until I found highway 44. Beam, Reds, loud music. I on-ramped to the 44 doing seventy-five, thought for a second I was gonna skid off the fuckin’ road. I didn’t. Smooth sailing and I’d stay on it heading northeast as far as it let me.

7:35 p.m. Beam. Beam. More Beam.

8:42 p.m. Fresh pack of Reds.

9:17 p.m. Third bump of coke, this ride.

I stopped to stretch my legs and get gas in Springfield, Illinois. Paid cash for gas, snagged a Red Bull. Also picked up a couple more cases of Marlboro Reds just to be safe. Lit one up as I got back to the pump. Two quick drags. As I filled the tank I had a couple minutes to think.

I wonder if the cartel is here, in Springfield. I’ve never been to Springfield before.

The heat and humidity pressed against my bare chest. Oppression. A fat couple parked right next to the front entrance and walked into the convenience store. They were both wearing Air Jordans.

I hate the fucking cartel.

Gas filled, I jumped back on the road, ripping north, of course.

10:56 p.m. Audioslave.

11:45 p.m. Beam, Reds, Coke. The yooshe, as my ex would say.

12:08 a.m. Cracked that Red Bull.

1:36 a.m. All of it, again. Louder music.

I kept burning that gasoline. Every mile I put between myself and Laredo made the monkey on my back feel smaller. Time went by fast, what with the music and the Beam and the Reds and the coke and the Red Bull. And even though I had the music blaring, trying to drown out my own thoughts, I couldn’t help but let a few of them seep into the Malibu. They surrounded me, tried to get me to crack.

I should mention that I hauled ass the whole way. I was burning up the road. Touching 100 m.p.h. here and there. Ripping on the open highway. I have to admit I couldn’t believe I didn’t get caught up in a speed trap or two. And that would have been dicey considering the Beam in my bloodstream and on my passenger seat, the gun on my back seat, and the drugs in my trunk.

While busy thinking my ass off and doing all that other shit, voicemails from the fucking cartel were piling up on my old cell phone.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

Ping.

Ping.

I still hadn’t smashed that fucking thing to pieces and replaced it with my burner. I would have known if I saw the calls coming in, since they were calling me on Evvy’s phone. They butchered my landlady, and they were using her phone to fuck with my head. Fuck, they killed her daughter, too. Sure of it. No limit for these fucks. Calling me over and over probably would have worked as a psyop… but I wasn’t paying attention to it. Suck dick, faggots.

Finally, one of the calls lighting up my screen caught my attention.

At that point, I was cruising ‘bout five minutes outside of Saint Louis. I grabbed my phone and saw that there were six other missed calls. All from Evvy’s phone.

The fucking cartel is blowing up my phone. Galling, considering they were chopping up everyone I knew in Laredo. Hopefully Evvy’s daughter relaxed and leaned in and it didn’t turn out too bad for her. At least they can only chop you up once. How bad can it be?

With hindsight, I know that they were calling in order to ping cell towers more often than my phone otherwise might. I was being hunted. At the time, I felt happy to be out of Oklahoma, rolling through Missouri. The show me state. Huh. Show me the money. Show me your tits. Show me what it means to be a lover. Show me…

A few minutes went by and I hit the exit I was looking for. I took one of the coins I’d gotten as change at Walmart out of my pocket.

A quarter.

Heads listen, tails don’t. It came up heads, so I pulled over to the side of the road and played the voicemails on the speaker. Same caller, same bullshit. I made it through one-and-a-half messages before I just deleted the whole lot of ‘em. Blah, blah, blah. Don’t give a shit what you say, cartel fag.

I remember an old friend in California, once telling me that the secret of playing a part was to convince yourself that you were it. So, I shut off all other thoughts and switched them on to my escape. To escape the cartel, I needed to blend in. In Saint Louis? From Saint Louis.

And what better way to do that than to hit the bars?

Some place called the Trophy Room stayed open late. Found it on my phone. Hopefully it’s a dive. I got that info from my phone and figured I’d roll the dice.

I drove there.

I made sure the Malibu trunk closed securely and headed inside to knock back some whiskeys. Got a mind to have three or four, on the cartel’s dime. Had a bump of coke on the way in. Lit up a Red as soon as I sat down at the bar.

I hadn’t been saddled up to the bar for more than ten minutes, one drink in, when a crisp voice spoke from my left. I looked up and saw a round-faced old man in a bowler hat. An odd character. Like he’d been ripped out of the early 1900s. He looked like he should have been in black and white. Whiskey in front of him, a chewed down cigar in his mouth. A smug look on his face.

‘And what brings you to Saint Louis, young man?’ he asked.

‘I’m from here.’

He eyed me suspiciously. My blue suit and French cuffs were offbeat. But there’s no reason they couldn’t be offbeat and from Saint Louis. I stuck to my story.

‘Oh really? I had you pegged as a visitor. But then again we don’t get too many visitors ‘round here.’

We both took sips of whiskey.

‘And what is it you do, young man?’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name, Mister…”

‘Name’s Turnbull.’

‘Nice to meet you Mister Turnbull. I’m Jay Dawson but my friends call me Boss… I work in hospitality, mostly.’

Turnbull snorted and looked at me sideways as if I was fucking with him. He seemed to realize I was being serious and that everyone called me Boss. That I wasn’t messing around.

‘Okay, Boss. So what are you really doing in Saint Louis? Everyone your age with any prospects leaves. What kind of hospitality can you do here anyway?’

Turnbull had a good vibe. So I made a U-turn.

‘You really want to know, Turnbull?’ I said, conspiratorial. Took a sip of whiskey. Fuck it, man. This guy doesn’t have the cartel on speed dial.

‘Hit me with it.’

‘I’m not from here. I’m in from Oklahoma. Well, Texas really. Phoenix before that. California before that. Before that? Louisiana. And before that, Boston and California again. Originally from LA. Anyway, I’m on the run from the cartels.’

‘The cartels?’

‘Yeah, one of ‘em. You know, Mexican drug shit. I don’t really bother keeping up with all the names and shit. Guadalajara, Sinoloa, Tijuana, Juárez, Gulf… They’re all the same to me. Might as well be all of ‘em after me. Right? I hate the fuckin’ cartels.’

I was looking at my whiskey when I spoke, but after I finished I straightened my back and turned toward Turnbull. He was staring into my eyes. He took a sip of whiskey. He pushed his hat up half an inch.

He paused for at least ten seconds.

‘There’s war bein’ done to you. And then there’s doin’ war on‘a somebody else. The second one’s way better. Take my word for it. You say these… these Mexuhkins are chasin’ you down? Tryin’ to kill you? Take the fight to them. What’ve you got to lose? You can’t run forever, Boss. Nobody can.’

I nodded. Not in agreement, just an I’m listening nod.

‘They bleed same’s you, Boss.’

I listened carefully. Turnbull’s suggestion was either pure genius or the most retarded shit I’d ever heard in my entire fuckin’ life. Bring the fight to the cartels… No middle ground on that one.

We both sat in silence for minutes on end.

‘I—’

I started to say something to him but realized it was going to be a bunch of bullshit and excuses so I stopped. Why did the cartel get to scare the fuck out of me? Why did the cartel get away with so much shit in this country? Above the law. Why did the cartel get to fly their fuckin’ drones and push their shit all over the place? Weed was one thing but heroin? Fentanyl? One set of rules for everyone, then the cartel gets to run roughshod over everything? I don’t think so.

They did it because nobody stood up to them. They weren’t going to stop on their own. And nobody fuckin’ stopped them.

It was as if the current United States government wanted the cartel operation active.

Turnbull is right. But on a bigger scale than Jay Boss Dawson. If I took the fight to them by myself I’d be roadkill. Not like nobody could do it, though. They bleed, all right.

Turnbull seemed to realize what had happened, with my aborted response and the following thirty seconds of silence.

‘See? I’m not wrong.’

I can’t explain why, but I came to see Turnbull’s presence as a gift. A stroke of good luck. Since I started out on the run, I hadn’t had much interaction with people, and had only gotten advice from my friend Will.

Will said to run my ass off.

Move or die, he said.

Turnbull, the crazy old bastard, said to fight. No man’s nerve could stand years and years on the run. Both perspectives were interesting.

I stayed at the bar another half hour. When I got up to leave, Turnbull dropped some cash on the bar and walked out with me. I lit a cigarette.

‘Let me show you something.’

We went around the corner and he motioned toward a Ford Falcon.

‘My ride. Just thought I’d show it off.’

I admired the vehicle. Was never really into cars from the 1950s myself. But I could understand the appeal. He kept the vehicle in top shape. It gleamed under the fluorescent streetlights. Polished curves. A bygone era. Elegant, really. Chrome accents. Turnbull had a smile on his face as he got in the driver’s side. I kept admiring the Falcon. The engine had a nice throaty rumble, and he pressed the gas with the tranny in neutral to let me hear it roar a little bit. A classic American automobile, a relic from a country that no longer existed and a time gone by in a flash. Turnbull, a classic no-nonsense American. A man without a home.

‘Very nice, man. Very nice. I like your style. Me, I’m driving a shit-box right now.’

‘Yeah, it’s a big hobby of mine. Got a dozen classics. You take out two cartel guys and one’s yours.’

‘For real?’

‘I don’t bullshit. Too old for that.’

I kept staring at his ride for another minute. After I finished admiring the Falcon I turned to Turnbull.

‘Hey, I want to ask you something.’

‘What is it?’ Turnbull replied.

‘Can I have your ID? I’m not going to do anything fucked up with it. I just need something I can show to get rooms, you know. Wouldn’t use it for anything else… wouldn’t fuck you over in any way. And you can just say you lost it and order a new one. Prolly fifty bucks to replace. I’ll give you some cash to cover the fee and your time.’

Turnbull had a good 25 years on me, but I figured hotel desk workers were stupid and on drugs and, if they weren’t, they didn’t give a shit anyway. Even if they noticed, they wouldn’t do shit. It was worth asking, at least.

‘I don’t know… can’t trust anyone these days. Buncha cock-suckers. Ya know?’

‘That’s exactly what I say. I’m not one of ‘em though.’

‘You say that, but then I get a speeding ticket in the mail. Or you open up some credit cards or some other fucked up shit I can’t even conceive.’

‘I wouldn’t be dumb enough to show it to a fuckin’ cop. And I have my own money. Not tryin’ to scam you, Turnbull.’

He took out his wallet.

‘Here. Take it. I’ll trust you on this. You’re just gonna use it to show to hotels. Or any other shit that doesn’t fuck me. And here’s my card. Has my number on it. That’s my cell, direct. Call me if you ever decide to fight. You know…’

‘A thousand thanks,’ I said, smiling for the first time since Waco. ‘You won’t be disappointed. And will do.’

I stood and smoked for another minute as Turnbull drove off, watching his tail-lights dwindle away. I reflected on my current situation. Still had to switch out my car and destroy my phone. Besides those two things, I had done everything on my list.

Tomorrow. Car and phone, gone. Tomorrow.

 

Saint Louis, Missouri

Wednesday, August 9, 2023

2:53 a.m.

Saint Louis was a fucking dump. At least the part I saw after the Trophy Room. The whole stop went downhill fast after I parted ways with Turnbull.

Only good part was the ten-degree difference in temperature, cooler than Texas and Oklahoma. Still hot and muggy and gross. Smelled bad, too. But cooler than those other two. I knocked back half a bottle of Beam on the ride from Muskogee, plus three more whiskeys at the bar with Turnbull. That means I have to admit I wasn’t overly careful about my destination within the city. After I left Turnbull and the Trophy Room, I just picked some dive motel at random, using my phone.

Bad luck shining down on Boss, ain’t that a thing.

On the cell phone map, it looked like the motel was right in the center of the city, an easy location. ‘Bout ten minutes away from the bar.

Everyone knows Saint Louis has what polite people refer to as ‘bad neighborhoods.’ The black areas. Turns out it was like a coin flip, since that is half the city these days. I lost that coin flip and landed right in the middle of a hellhole.

Remember, it was the middle of the night and I had a huge stash of drugs and cash in my trunk.

Fucking Boss. Can shit get any worse than this?

As I drove through Jeff Vander Lou I started to figure all of that out. I fucked up.

The whole place had that black neighborhood look and feel. Totally run-down and unmaintained. Broken-down cars, dilapidated buildings, boarded-up windows, bars protecting liquor store owners, crappy pawn shops, graffiti, unkempt plants, trash on the sidewalk and in the street, broken liquor bottles, half-stepped-on 40-ounce malt cans, needles, murky figures in baggy clothes hanging out on crumbling street corners. The whole nine yards. Very black. Blackety black. Blickety black black. If it wasn’t Saint Louis, it could have been Haiti or the fuckin’ Congo. Or Baltimore. Same vibe. Same quality.

You’re fine, Jay Boss. Just don’t get caught in a pack attack. You’re good one on one.

Place should be bombed out. Bulldozed. Started over. But if you left them there, they would just destroy it again, even if you built it for them fresh. You could build every one of them a castle and in a few years you would have a pile of stones. But Hollywood would still be there, kissing their ass.

I thought about getting back on the road. I wanted to recoup, though. Had been driving for hours, and as long as I could get into a hotel room with my cargo, I’d be alright. I had my pistol in my belt in case of a pack-attack. I had no reservations about knocking down that kind of life, the lowest.

With that plan in mind, about six minutes later I skidded into the parking lot at the Guest Motel and immediately regretted it.

3:01 a.m. The place itself was a God-forsaken shit-hole, just like the whole section of town. Building maintenance was not a priority for whoever owned the dump. Not at all. The fucking place sat there, falling apart a little bit at a time. Crumbling, cracking, half-broken, dirty, musty, worn-off paint, fucked-up concrete. Litter everywhere. A few broken windows. A building like that should never be allowed to exist, not anywhere. And that’s not even counting the condition of the room. The bugs. The stains. The dried cum and crusty blood on the bed. The foul stench in the shitter. The mold and cockroaches in the shower.

Despite the clock ticking past 3 a.m., there were still more than three dozen young niggers hanging around in the motel parking lot. Smoking weed, drinking purple shit, throwin’ up gang signs. The managers of the motel, if there were any, must have thought if they said anything the pack would turn violent. And the cops probably wouldn’t help.

Probably not wrong.

They were having some sort of an impromptu get together, like a block party, except at the motel. They were bumpin’ some rap shit on their car stereos. I had no idea what was playing, I would never listen to that on purpose. But it was loud. Their beefy bitches were twerking their asses off, drinking cheap or stolen liquor out of plastic cups, running their traps.

Loud as all hell.

I don’t know how anyone could stand it. The noise. The smell.

No more than thirty seconds after I parked, a violent brawl broke out. One of the bitches said something to one of the niggers. Something he didn’t like. Before I knew it, all the females in the pack were grabbing each other by their nappy-ass weaves. All hell broke loose, wigs strewn everywhere. Weaves, whatever you want to call them. Female pattern baldness on public display. So bizarre.

Not satisfied with the de-wigging, they tore at each other’s crop tops and their fat, sloppy black teats were flopping all over the place. The shrieking and hooting and hollering and screaming was ear-piercing. A bunch of them filmed the fight on smart phones, but I didn’t see any of the blacks trying to de-escalate or break it up.

I sat in the car for a minute. Took a swig of Beam and a couple drags.

I was far enough away from the blacks to make my way into the motel’s office and take care of the room.

I’m not exaggerating when I point out the front desk of the Guest Motel was staffed by a couple more Pajeets, just like the shit-hole in Waco. I got the whole gas station thing, but I guess they were running the dive motels too. Late stage stuff. I hope.

I got my key. I steered clear of the blacks, driving around back to my room so I could do the now-familiar shuttle runs in and out of the room, bringing in my cargo container and hustling back out to grab Beam and smokes, plus the laptop and other random shit I thought I might want, like the hammer. Flipped the dead bolt behind me, it felt good to have a few hours out of the car, even in a shit-hole.

Inside, I did the usual. Lit a Red, sipped some Beam. I flipped the motel television on, a shitty tube TV that had to be twenty-five years old. A black appeared on the first channel, so I flipped to another. Took me ten seconds to figure out the movie character on the second channel was a gay, a poop-chuter.

Click.

I turned that shit off. Tired of that crap, that’s why I never bother. Fucked around on my phone for a while. X, Tinder, BitTorrent. Got a Signal chat from an ex, not a bad one, but didn’t respond.

What’s the point? That one’s in Phoenix.

I was fucking around with some downloads when my phone rang.

Evvy’s phone calling again. The cartel. I hate the fucking cartel.

Tired of their shit, I picked up and spoke immediately. ‘Listen carefully, you son of a bitch. You want to keep calling this number, okay. I guess you can do that. But I’m just letting you know you’re fucking with the wrong guy.’

‘You know you’re gonna geet a bad day Jay Boss Dawson? You theenk you’re cool.’

‘Whatever you’re after, it’s got nothin’ to do with me, Paco.’

‘We-e know you got dee drone. You can’t run forever, Boss Dawson.’

‘Who says I’m even running from you fucks?’

‘We-e tracked your phone in Muskogee. We-ee’ll geet your new location soon.’

‘You think you’re the only mother fucker with a gun?’

‘You wee-ll reegret steeling from dee cartel. You’ll see.’

The cell line went dead, the silence heavy.

Ditch the phone, Boss. Smash it. You gotta be done with it. Vigilance and resolve. Become untraceable. A ghost.

The guy’s accent sounded so stupid I couldn’t even take him too seriously, even right after he threatened to kill me. I smiled, laughing at the guy and his dumb accent.

Even though he was pretty damn convincing about his threat.

He sounded confident. Riding high. Quite sure he could get away with anything in the United States, he just took it for granted that he could piss on us, shit on us, do whatever-in-the-hell he wanted. All he had to do, he figured, was be aggressive and violent.

Didn’t anticipate any push-back on that, probably because he had never gotten any.

He didn’t have any respect for the people living here… the people sticking it out under the corrupt government, weathering the open border decline. Trying to live their lives out with a little decency.

I guess it was a long time comin’ though. Maybe he’s right? Nobody has punished them yet. A bust here and there? That’s nothing. These guys get away with almost everything they do. So… We’ll have to see what happens.

Yeah, let’s see what happens.

I climbed into the bug-infested bed, with the blood on the pillowcase and the smell of stale pussy, spent cum. Ghetto pimps squeezing fifteen or twenty bucks out of some sorry-ass johns fucking their nasty whore, one after another.

Most disgusting shit I’ve ever seen in my life. Or close to it.

3:15. Managed some sleep, maybe twenty minutes.

4:32. Fucked around on my phone.

5:26. Tossing and turning.

6:09 Gave up on sleep.

That was a dumb idea in the first place. Should have just kept it moving. Who can sleep in a fucked up rat-hole like that? With the fucking cartels on their trail? Place was worse than the dives in Muskogee and Waco, not even close. I grabbed a half-full bottle of Beam and a pack of Reds and went over to the shitty particle board table, another Chinese special. Took the plastic bag of coke out of my shirt pocket.

Swigged the beam, lit up a Red.

Then, I organized two lines. Uncut cocaine right to the brain. It’s time to get into the Ledger and see what’s what.

 

Saint Louis, Missouri

Wednesday, August 9, 2023

6:33 a.m.

That fuckin’ Ledger cable extension slid into the USB port as easily as I entered this or that mamacita after a long night at Reyna’s. It passed information too. No problem. I navigated to the display page and downloaded Ledger Live via the prompt.

I sent a text to LunaRider: ‘Boss on burner can I call you MF?’

He called me without texting back.

‘Was wondering what happened to you, Jay Boss. What’d’ya got?’

‘Oh, shit. Just had some crazy stuff go down and had to get on the road. All set up now. I’m glad you’re awake. I’m plugged in.’

‘You remember how to do this, bro. Just go to Ledger Live desktop, install it, and enter the PIN when you’re prompted. That was the PIN in the notebook, right?’

‘Hold on, man. Already got it installed, Rider, but I don’t see where to enter the PIN.’

I muddled around for a couple minutes and I was in. Easier than I remember.

‘Alright, I’m in… Holy shit, man.’

‘What?’

‘There’s nothing on here.’

‘That makes no sense.’

Thirty seconds of silence passed.

‘Hey, I just thought of something. They’re probably using Monero. That doesn’t show on Ledger Live. You got to go to the Monero GUI.’

It took half an hour for LunaRider to guide me through the process of getting what I needed. When the Monero GUI loaded, I attached the Ledger with the PIN.

‘Oh Fuck!’

‘What now?’ asked LunaRider.

‘How much is Monero worth?’

‘Like a hundred forty bucks each. Give or take, market’s been a fucking roller coaster.’

‘Damn, bro.’

‘They got a fuck-ton of Monero on here. Bro! We’re fucking rich… again.’

‘Are you serious? That’s fuckin’ wild, Boss!’ Jackson yelled. ‘Good for fucking you, back from the dead. You goin’ back to the Caribbean?’

‘Hey, Jackson?’ I said, ignoring his question.

‘What’s up?’

‘Can you save documents on a Ledger?’

‘Not really, man. There’s a little bit of storage on there and there might be a way to save a text file, but I don’t know an interface to do that. I don’t really think so. At least not without some research. Why?’

‘I was hoping they saved some shit on here. I mean, the crypto is great or whatever but I was hoping for some data. For some leads to fuck with these guys.’

‘Why’d you wanna fuck with the cartel, Boss?’

‘Because they are assholes.’

I was dejected. I can’t believe there’s no Negra Rosa shit on here. Names, phone numbers… meat on the bones.

‘You said there was a notebook? Look in there.’

‘I did. Empty pages, man. Just an inscription on the front cover.’

I reached back into the cargo container and fished out the notebook. I fanned through it again. Blank pages. Fuck this.

On a whim, I flipped all the pages over and looked at the back cover. More writing. How the fuck did I not see this before?

‘Fuck, there’s something written on the inside of the back cover.’

Vickie Valor

$150 K

‘For real? Anything good?’

‘It’s a name and a dollar amount. Vickie Valor? Are you kidding? Sounds like a comic book character. Or a porn star. I don’t know, man. Let me think about it. I’ll get back in touch. Hey, before I go, send me your Monero wallet, bro.’

‘You don’t have to do that, J-Boss.’

‘I know. Just send it. Text or my old Boss Gmail. I still got that shit. Actually, text it on the burner.’

Rider was quiet for a few seconds.

‘Oh, fuck… Boss… I just thought of something. You’ve gotta get all that Monero off that wallet, man. If they realize they fucked up and lost the Ledger, but they got the seed phrase written down somewhere, they probably find a way to take that shit back from you. I’m surprised they didn’t do that already, man. Just send it all off that Ledger to a different wallet. Make a new one. Send it to yourself. Do it now.’

‘I got a lot going on, man. Can I just send it to you? Keep half of it and send half back to me when I ask for it. If I survive this shit. Besides, I might need more help, and this way I won’t feel bad. I mean that. I can ask you to do shit. But… yeah… I’m not out of the woods yet. These mother fuckers are trying to hunt me down. They’re calling my phone all the time.’

‘You haven’t got rid of your phone yet? Come on Boss, what the fuck are you thinking.’

‘I mean, fuck, give me a break. I just found the mother fucker like two days ago. Send me the fucking wallet.’

‘You know me, man. As long as you’re sure, Boss. I’ll keep it safe.’

‘Yeah, man. If we don’t do it that way either they’ll get it back or I’ll fuck it up and lose it. I’m not kidding, I’m scrambling right now, everything I own is in my car. Send me your wallet and I’ll send it right now. I trust you, man. We’ve been through shit together.’

‘Alright, man. I won’t touch your half. But I still think half is too generous.’

‘It is what the fuck it is. It works for me, man.’

I sipped my Beam and ripped a heater while taking care of the transaction with LunaRider. All in all, I sent him 20,000 Monero, half for him and half to hold for me. I had no doubt he’d send the 10,000 coins back when I asked. If I lived to ask for it. He was one of the good guys.

I enjoyed the Beam while the Marlboro’s smoke spiraled skyward like a funeral pyre. I soaked it in.

The Monero. The lady named in the notebook. And the amount written next to her name… what did it mean?

That shit is going to have to wait. Get the fuck out of this motel first. This place is not safe.

7:29 a.m. Another line of coke and I was on the move again. I left the empty bottle of Beam and packs of Marlboro Reds strewn across the room. I thought about pissing in the corner but decided against it. Fuck this place, man. This shit is inhuman. Put both phones in my back pocket and lifted the cargo pack out the front door, looking left and right as I exited my room. Too early for the blacks, they’re in bed. No sign of the fucking cartel. Time to ride.

The unforgiving August sun beat down on me as I walked the short stretch out to the car, the humidity’s embrace suffocating and relentless. I stashed a fresh bottle of Beam upfront after I secured the rest of my shit in the trunk. I needed some Beam to get over that motel, and some coffee after that to wake the fuck up. Each step toward the Malibu seemed growing easier and easier as my limbs loosened up. One foot in front of the other.

Sweat soaked through my clothes again, mingling with the Missouri grit. The aftermath of my Marlboro Reds hung in the Malibu’s interior, and I lit up to get rid of the staleness. The world around me didn’t exist, I was lost in my thoughts.

I exhaled the first drag. Liberation. Trepidation. A bunch of feelings, all at the same time.

8:01 a.m. I drove northwest to the Walmart, guided by my phone. Parked around back, by the loading docks. My spot was a little bit out of the way. I wasn’t sure if this was still an entirely black area — it had a better look and feel, so I don’t think it was all black — but I still made sure to lock the doors and checked to make sure the trunk was closed securely. Before I did that, I grabbed a stack of cash out of the cargo container and stuck it in my coat pocket. Bump of coke and I was good to go, walking around to the front of the Walmart.

8:22 a.m. I watched traffic drive through the Walmart for twenty minutes before spotting the perfect target. An old woman, driving with a fucking eyepatch on, in a gold 2006 Honda Civic.

That’s it. That’s the one.

I tracked the old bag to her parking spot and was standing aside the car, ready as she opened the door.

‘I’m going to need to buy your car, ma’am.’

‘The hell you are, sonny. I’ve been having that car for damn near twenty years.’

‘I don’t care, lady. It’s coming with me. There’s a Chevy Malibu around the corner that you can have. Parked under a tree. I just need a minute to put my shit in the Honda. You can get the Chevy after you shop, I’ll leave the keys under the floor mat, driver side.’

She looked at me side-eyed, so I continued.

‘It’s worth twice as much as your old piece of shit Honda.’

The old coot fucking took a swing at me when I called her car a piece of shit. Tried to clip me on the nose. Missed, of course. I pick and old lady with a Honda and she’s a Goddamn firecracker.

‘Don’t be such a cunt,’ I hissed, pulling about five thousand dollars out of my coat pocket. ‘This is on top of the Chevy. It’s a good fucking deal for you, lady. But you can’t re-register the car. Just drive it like that, you’ll be fine. Now take the fucking money.’

‘But I like my Honda. These things run forever!’ the old bitch complained.

I lifted my jacket aside so the old lady could get a look at my Sig with her good eye.

‘Look, you shouldn’t even be driving with a fucking eye patch.’

‘I can see just fine outta this eye,’ she said, motioning wildly.

‘Not even sure it’s legal!’

‘I told you—’

‘Okay, never fucking mind. I’m giving you a better car and five thousand dollars. I’m a good guy. I’m not robbing you. I just need to trade cars. I swear to God if you don’t trade me I will pistol whip you right here and now. I don’t give a fuck if you have one eye and are two thousand years old.’

The lady’s face still looked defiant, but she shut the fuck up and took the cash.

‘A green Chevy?’ she said.

‘Around the back, under a tree. It’s a green Malibu. Good car, only about five years old. Smells like smoke but I can’t really do nothin’ about that so you’ll just have to live with it. Or get it cleaned or something. The smell of smoke ain’t gonna kill you, you look like you made it through the ringer and came out the other side.’

‘Hmmph.’

‘Just take the Chevy and the money and be happy. Now go do your shopping, your car will be there when you get out.’

‘Fuckin’ grandma, what a bitch,’ I muttered under my breath.

With her eye fixed on the path ahead, she moved along, heading to do her Walmart shopping.

We actually smiled at each other as she walked off, I think she finally recognized that I didn’t fuck her over. Whatever. Don’t care. I got a new car, untraceable, as long as that bitch doesn’t go whining to the cops. But why would she? It really is a better car, plus cash. We’ll have to see what happens.

The Walmart parking lot turned out to be a theater of serendipity.

New car, time to find a bar.

I loaded into the old lady’s Honda, fired up the little engine and sped around back of the Walmart. Had to floor the thing just to get some action. I transferred all my shit out of the Malibu, stashed the key under the floormat. Back in the Honda, I smashed the pedal to the floor again to get out of the parking lot. The tires smoked and squealed.

Fuck it, time to ride.

Track my license place now you cartel faggots! See how far it gets you.