SoSan Scumbags | One Shot

[slimeball supreme]

AN: Around 2019 this was gonna be the fanfic I wrote after Red Triangle instead of I Rode Mine. SoSan Scumbags was gonna be a few chapters of lowlifes; the story of Sepideh, a Jewish-Iranian meth addict, living in Venice/Vespucci with several other addicts mostly scraping by on small time robbery and hustling. In this case, she and fellow junkie Noah (in the opening chapter) were gonna rob an Apple store in Santa Monica and pawn/resell the locked devices before the buyers knew they weren't activated. I dropped it mainly because even though I really like the setting, it probably is better suited as something outside of fanfiction as a purely original text - something Rode Mine couldn't be because it is inherently about Johnny Klebitz. I don't want that writing and some of the gfx to go to waste though, so here it is

 

---

 

 

 

Sepideh bummed a cigarette, took a long drag, pulled a shaky breath and crumpled the thing to pieces. Buzzing street lamps bathing streets yellow, fresh pavement, street square adorned in neon and pastel painting the ground the very same. Turning late now, eight or eight-thirty, trees alight. Didn’t have long.

 

A car passed. Not the right one, wrong among many.

 

“He cool?”

 

Noah rubbed his hands together. Sep didn't know why he did. “Like ice.”

 

“That's cold.”

 

“Cooler than cool. Cool as cool can be.”

 

Prosperity Street Promenade was winding down, some pig on a cop-scooter buzzing by, tourists moving out as the clock ticked. Backs against the wall, backs away from the target, eyes on the road. Sedans and minivans, white folk with scowls.

 

Noah folded his arms, rail-thin, eyed piggy going by. “Y’know, Gabi knows him.”

 

“Gabi knows who?”

 

Eyes still on the cop. “The guy.”

 

“Oh. Could’ve been good to tell me that before.”

 

“So he’ll probably know the load. I don’t know.”

 

Sep laughed. “You think he’ll want a laptop? We get Gabi a fruitPad?”

 

Cop was gone now. “Nah. Just… he’ll be grateful we’re lending his friends a hand.” Noah dug back into his hoodie, pulled out the Redwood packet. “You want another? Do that thing where you crush it again?”

 

“What?”

 

“You think I didn’t see you do that?”

 

“I--”

 

“It’s f*cking weird. Why? Thing was lit, too, you just like that?”

 

“It doesn’t burn or anything.”

 

“You’re wearing gloves, no sh*t. Why are you wearing gloves? Crushing cigarettes? You know it’s, like, 77 degrees. That’s not glove weather. It’s never f*cking glove weather here. Someone’s gonna think we’re sketchy.”

 

Two junkies, shivering in spring, frantically searching the road, whispering to each other. “We’re pretty normal for Del Perro.”

 

Ha. “Like this town is a standard-bearer for normalcy.”

 

Two junkies, shivering in spring, frantically searching the road, whispering to each other. Carbon copies every few meters, another few, another few. They shoulder bumped happy-go-lucky tourists, muttered and murmured, cross eyed at the storefronts and the brand names.

 

Prosperity Street Promenade.

 

Another car passed. Not the right one.

 

“Check the clock,” Noah murmured. “How much time we got?”

 

He meant the Clock Tower, big building the two were facing, eyes front on a crowd dispersing by a café where some busker’d been playing bongos for 20 or so minutes, noise drowned out. Sep moved her gaze up, up, up - hard white numbers on the black clock poking out in the black sky. 8:43. Maybe.

 

“20 minutes.”

 

“What the f*ck is- ah!” Noah nearly jumped. “Ah! There he is. Look,” he pointed down the road. Car coming up. The right one. Silver Déclassé Merit, nothing out the ordinary.

 

“You sure?”

 

Noah ignored that. Car slowed into the bus lane. “What f*ckin’ took you?”

 

Driver, Manu, shrugged as the window mowed down, Latino looker with a jacket in the passenger seat as he leaned over, dinky mustache and almond eyes. “Traffic.”

 

“Traffic?”

 

“Traffic. Who’s she?” He looked at Sep, sized her up.

 

Noah grinned. “Sepideh, she's my girl.”

 

“Your girl?”

 

“Not like that, dipsh*t.” He leaned into the window, “She’ll be helping us out. Scoped it with me.”

 

Manu hadn't taken his look off Sep. Sep had hawk eyes. That's the first thing anyone noticed - always on you, always aware, predator on prey. Jet-black hair in a ponytail kinda on her shoulder. “That's Persian, right?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Manu’s lip corners, straight-as-arrows, turned up. “Not much to look at.”

 

“Go f*ck yourself, how about that?”

 

“Foxy.”

 

“What she just tell you?”

 

“Hey, I’m kidding. I'm kidding. I just f*ck around.” Beat. “We good?”

 

“Sure,” Sep said. “Whatever.”

 

Noah broke it off, “You got the sh*t?”

 

He nudged his head back a little, eyes moved to the backseat. Two trash bags, two sunglasses. They didn't need any more. Manu wasn't sure, went for the glove box, but Noah stopped him. “40, 50 seconds. That's all we need.” Manu just blinked.

 

“I see you guys walkin’ out with a cop escort,” he said, “we never met.”

 

Sep grabbed her gear. “Gladly.”

 

Two sauntered off and bled into the crowd as it bled out to the street, dispersing, late night shoppers moving out the stores, shutters closing if the Promenade had any. All big box, an Alphabetz, the Zip; Sep didn’t come out here, not her scene, Del Perro was all tourist and no substance, streets paved with brick-and-mortar grey and air tinted with high-fructose.

 

Worst of all?

 

Bum gack cost triple up here than crosstown. f*ck that.

 

When security cameras are on you, and in shopper central they are on you, you gotta keep surgical - duo pulled hoods as soon as they were in proper light, just two people in blue-and-grey hoodies in the afternoon. Nothing to see here, guard with a neck tat gazing out the blue beyond. Late night shoppers.

 

That’s ‘till they found the target.

 

Mall Fruit stores are world renowned for three fundamental details: the pretty glass walls, the big logo blasting out white light onto the street, and the above-all fact that there literally aren’t any doors. They don’t shut, you can’t lock ‘em, just walk on in and examine. Open air. Expensive phones just lying on tables, slackjaw shoppers gliding around and tap-tap-tapping.

 

What the hell did they think was gonna happen?

 

Sep got a glimpse inside, half empty, dork Fruit Poindexters in the blue polos kinda roaming around, clique of a few little girls and their mother, nondescript civilians sitting or standing or talking or button pressing. Preoccupied, wouldn’t take long. Stark walls and sterile floors and detergent stench.

 

Sep stopped at the right side of the doorway, Noah moved a little further to the left, scoped a few out himself. He nodded at Sep.

 

Sep nodded back. Go time.

 

She made a dash for her side, Noah worked his, swipe a phone, swipe a phone, yank ‘em hard enough they stretch out and snap off. Into the bag.

 

Five seconds. Alarm goes off. Few of the girls squealed, went under one of the tables, everyone else just stared. That’s another five or so, another few phones and another few laptops deep in the trash bag.

 

A few? Nevermind. An entire table of laptops. Bag half full.

 

Noah nearly slid to Sep’s side, snatched some tablets, nearly tripped on the wires rinky-dink as they fell down the floor, bumped into some Asian dude with earbuds and slipped on the lino.

 

Less than a second, they traded glances. They had to f*cking get. Shoppers kept staring like they didn’t believe it was happening. Employees kept staring like they didn't believe it was happening.

 

Noah made an easy exit with the bag grasped in his arms like a newborn, Sep had it harder - some guy’d found himself a good samaritan, stepped in the doorway, 6’4” motherf*cker in a down jacket.

 

Sep shouldered him into the door.

 

He tumbled. Hit his head hard on the floor. Sep nearly did too.

 

Scrambled to her feet, worn sneakers screeching, didn’t have time to dust herself off as alarms blared. Pedestrians outside, few left, just kept ogling. 

 

Two junkies, trash bags full of laptops, alarms going manic, making a goddamn run for it.

 

Neck tat’d been gawking at f*ck-all beforehand but you wouldn't be blamed for thinking he was alert, shouting who-knows-what, swears and curses beyond, muscleman with a handlebar and a security badge. Loco.

 

Noah just pushed two hands out. He tumbled, another crunch, teeth shattering on a pot plant.

 

Sep had the common courtesy to jump over him instead of giving another blow, a decision she didn't regret. She glanced behind her, eyes met with about a horde of security men in Gruppe Sechs hats and fists in the air on her tail. Baying for blood, snarling, dogs off the leash.

 

Feet kept plowing the pavement.

 

Sep side-stepped some moron, “Watch the f*ck out,” nearly got toppled by the stampede of jackboots gnashing, colors blurring, neons and asphalt, silver Declasse in arms reach. Windows rolled down, Manu watching with intent, fingers rapping the steering wheel though hell if Sep could make it out. 

 

Clock was ticking.

 

Noah lept.

 

Motherf*cker straight up dove into the backseat. Slammed his head on glass, eyes dizzy but just laughing his head off. Sep wasn’t gonna take that risk, yanking the door open, frenzied as all f*ck, Manu tapping his feet on the floor and his fingers on wheel as his phone timer tapped to the dash ticked away.

 

“Go, motherf*cker, let’s f*cking go!”

 

Manu slammed the gas, car lurched like hell as pigs just about started rapping on the windows, tyres screeching and pedestrians agape as the thing narrowly breezed past another sedan and sped the hell off.

 

Noah stuck his head out the window clapping his hands like a chimp, making gorilla noises and giggling like a moron. The security men barked into radios.

 

Car sped down Del Perro Boulevard and curved off a court, got civvies diving out of the way, car making tracks. Nearly mowing down parking attendants in orange vests and soccer shirts and just zig-zagging; street, alley, street, alley. Sep was sweating, looked in the mirror and saw red-and-blues blazing a while behind them.

 

She promised herself to never look in the mirror again.

 

Skrrrt, past a Benefactor dealership onto another court full of parked cars on San Andreas Avenue, nearly knocked some cafe tables down and got some families screaming. “I can’t f*cking get busted,” Manu was swearing, no, shouting, “I’m on f*cking parole. I get busted I’m f*cked, I’m f*cked--”

 

“Any of us get busted we’re f*cked,” Sep shot back “We just stole 30 grand worth a’ f*cking iFruits.” Closer inspection was correctamundo - opened garbage back showing phones on top of phones on top of phones.

 

That shut Manu up. Got Noah howling again.

 

“Any f*cking more cars?!”

 

“Always cars idiot!”

 

“COP CAR! Cop car, idiot, cop cars!”

 

“They cop cars? Or they security cars?”

 

“Shut the f*ck up and check the goddamn rear!”

 

Car reeled onto the highway, into traffic, Sep grinned and checked the rear and checked the dozens of sedans and SUVs and minivans spinning together into gridlock quilt.

 

No more cops.

 

f*cking idiots.

 

“Shouldn't have been this easy.”

 

“What, Sep, they gone?”

 

Noah now, “Sep, they f*cking gone?!”

 

Sep turned, threw her head back and let out a deep breath, chuckled. “Pig tail gone screwed.”

 

“What?”

 

“They’re f*cking gone, Manu.”

 

“Manu?”

 

“Yeah, Noah?”

 

“What now?”

 

Manu said nothing. Kept driving down Del Perro Freeway, kept driving further and further eastward, out beachtown and past Theriault ‘til he met an offramp and hit the corner back west onto Mixta Boulevard. Zig zagging. 

 

“Manu?”

 

Hit the brakes.

 

Stopped in the parking lot at a Yum-Yum Market.

 

Groaned loud. Release, like he was letting something out and that something came out like hot breath and spit. Head down, head down on the wheel, just lost in this thought and muttering.

 

“God, that was dumb.”

 

“You’re dumb.”

 

“Don’t take it personal, lady, but f*ck. That was brazen. You’re lucky the guards over there only run every other month otherwise--”

 

“I ran my whole life.”

 

“No time for f*cking movie sh*t like that.” Another breath. “Noah.”

 

“What?”

 

“How much cash in that bag?”

 

“I don’t know. Enough. Thousands. We sell this off, we put it on Craplist or f*cking pawn it or whatever, we’re in it.”

 

“You gonna give me something now?”

 

Blink.

 

“What? We gave you f*cking down payment.”

 

“Down payment.”

 

“We don’t have money yet. We need to sell these things first. They do something with the phones or whatever so we can’t give it to you neither ‘til we crack the f*cking thing. Right, Sep?”

 

“Right.”

 

Shook his head. “So Gabi gets his cut?”

 

Sepideh, “Gabi gives us ice he gets his cut and you’ll get your cut too--”

 

“I wasn’t asking you, lady. I was asking twinkle-toes here. Noah. My money.”

 

Frustrated now, “Manu, we talked about this.”

 

“This car’s hot now. APB. I gotta go through alleys to drop this off halfway through town, f*cking Dorset or something, wipe my prints off the wheel and you folks too before skidaddling and letting oink-oink-oinkers tag this thing to some chick from the Midwest who died two years ago.”

 

“Patience, vato,” Sepideh wiped her brow. “You tell Gabriel it went smooth and he’ll give us our sh*t and you’ll get the rest. For now, heat. You speak English?”

 

“You’re Iranian.”

 

“It’s not race, it’s f*cking comp-re-hen-shun.”

 

Manu blinked.

 

“Get out the car.”

 

“What?”

 

Noah, “We need to get back to Vespucci--”

 

“Get out of my car.”

 

Glared. Glared hard but at the road.

 

Noah obliged. Sep, reluctant, glaring too, followed.

 

“We need to get back to Vespucci.”

 

“I need to get to Dorset,” hit drive. “Take the f*cking bus. Goddamn junkies.”

 

“Come on Manuel--”

 

Drove off.

 

Left ‘em in dust and smoke.

 

Left ‘em stranded near night with the street light buzzing and the cars going slow out the lot with kids in the backseat.

 

“He’s a delicate soul,” Noah said.

 

“He’s a prick,” Sep said back.

 

---

 

Dorset - Wilshire

Pico - Mixta

Sawtelle - Theriault

Yum Yum - Trader Joe’s

Edited January 19, 2021 by slimeball supreme