The bar was lit dimly; the constant hustle and bustle of a Friday night was a tradition here. Crowds of dock workers and industrial labourers were pouring in after a hard day’s work. The smell of fish, oil and piss was common in the air. Junk’s arms were slouched on the mahogany bar; covered in glasses of cheap pisswater and lager.
He’d been working in Portland’s regular waterhole; the fish bucket for quite a few years. Before then he had nothing. No home, no friends and definitely no one to watch his back. Danny, the owner, had saved him from a gun to head a while back. From there, Danny hooked him up with a nice room, a good salary, and some sort of life.
He’d been fostered throughout his teenage life, most of the families disowning him for showing ‘Unethical adult like tendencies.’ He was snorting SPANK; ‘Yes sir, on all accounts, I’m addicted to the stuff.’
Life had moved on. He had a steady job, steady life. Yet he couldn’t tear himself away from SPANK. It was like powdered sex, but since the Colombians weren’t around anymore, it was hard to come by. Junk would spend his days and nights working and his late nights snorting remnants of cut SPANK, which his salary was mostly spent on.
Danny was the owner here, he was a SPANK dealer on the side, always using the alleyway behind the club to make out transactions; Junk was usually on the buying end. Business had been slow lately, every now and again he’d say ‘Something big’s going to turn up’ or ‘I have a buyer coming soon’.
Friday was just another dull night, or so Junk had thought. Danny walked in with a big smile on his old Italian face, he walked past Junk with a familiar nod. We’ve got a buyer! Ding ding! He walked straight up to the alleyway door and waited.
Junk hadn’t had SPANK in a few days and was coming down hard; eventually his addiction had kicked in. Somebody had SPANK nearby or was on their way with a big amount. He should have stopped himself then and there, but he didn’t and this is how it all went to sh*t.