If Marc Emery is the Prince of Pot, I'm the King! (upinsmoke) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-08-28 23:52:00 |
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Entry tags: | heroin, marijuana |
Who: Marijuana and Heroin. Bit of Dave at the beginning, even smaller amount of Wes.
What: The aftermath of this meeting.
Where: The Highway.
When: Late Sunday night.
Warnings: R for violence, gore, drug use, angst.
Meetings like this were always tense. They were meeting in a park in the Bronx; a rather sad-looking park with rusty swing chains, faded paint on the play structures that weren't covered with graffiti, broken glass from the beer of teenagers spread around among the grass. Dave at his right and Wes at his left, a lower guard leaning up against the car, Marijuana straightened up when the new rivals approached. One man in the middle; big and yet lean with the hardened look that just screamed 'violent criminal'. One man on his right, a scrawny junkie who looked rather like a rat and just as mean. One man on the left, a bodyguard type even bigger than Wes, who was eying him warily. But it started off innocently, the two bosses exchanging pleasantries before the question of tribute came up. Marijuana wasn't about to let some upstart, no matter how dangerous he looked, to move in on his territory and customers without first getting him to pay tribute and then planning his downfall. When the rival refused to pay, Marijuana's brow furrowed and he was about to open his mouth to retort rather rudely when the rat-like junkie drew a gun and trained it on Dave while the man in the middle trained his gun on Wes. They seemed to want free reign to deal wherever they pleased, they wanted 'Marc' out of the way, but Marijuana wasn't thinking too much about business as he threw himself in front of Dave just as various guns went off. The rival bodyguard's head exploded in a shower of bones and brains as Wes got his Glock up in time and but Marijuana fell back against Dave, a bullet ripping into the god's abdomen. Arm shaking, Marijuana managed to draw his own gun, but in the hail of fire that was exchanged, he took two more bullets to the stomach. Another bullet lodged in his hip, one in his thigh and one shattered his knee. But within five seconds, other two men were dead, pumped full of bullets from Wes', Dave's and Marijuana's guns and Dave was lowering Marijuana to the ground, Wes staring down at his boss, his charge, in pure horror.
Marijuana had his hands pressed over his stomach, blood trickling down from the corners of his lips and his eyes began to close slowly before Dave, trembling and close to tears, slapped him hard across the cheek. Marijuana's eyes flew open, alert and in pain, and the instinctual growl that welled up from his throat in response to Dave's rough treatment died down as wave after wave of pain swept over him. The drive home was a blur for all three of them. Dave, unwilling to let Marijuana attempt to take out the bullets in the car, had taken his boss' switchblade and Wes, ignoring a bullet graze on his shoulder, did his best to stop the bleeding. It wasn't long before they made it back to the Highway, Dave speeding like mad and unable to stop the tears from flowing freely as they screeched to a halt in the Highway parking lot. Marijuana almost lost consciousness at the explosion of pain that came as Dave lifted him out of the back seat, his hands still weakly pressed against holes in his stomach, but he managed to stay awake because he could feel Heroin above him and that was the most important thing at the moment. Heroin, his Heroin, his painkiller. Laughing morosely at that very thought, he tried to wriggle out of Dave's arms to walk inside himself but Dave just clung to him tighter, knowing that Marijuana had utterly no chance of being able to walk. Quick as a flash, Wes had the back door unlocked and open, Dave was darting inside and carrying Marijuana up the stairs. "Hazel? Hazel!" Dave called out, voice strained and desperate as Marijuana shifted again, groaned in pain and growled up at Dave, glaring through the agony. "Put me down." Dave shook his head, shifted Marijuana in his arms again, drawing a strangled almost-scream from his boss, before opening the door to the apartment. "Heroin?" Dave called out again as Marijuana continued to press his hands over his stomach and tilted his head back against Dave's shoulder to look up at the ceiling. This pain cancelled out the pain he caused by existing, by dealing himself and the hard drugs, and as Marijuana felt and heard Heroin leave the bedroom, Dave waiting by the door so as to not intrude on the apartment that he used to share with the god, Marijuana's eyelids fluttered.
But blood was seeping out around his fingertips and even though he just wanted to sleep, Marijuana, as overcome with pain as he was, knew it would be best for him to stay awake. Dying was not on his list of favourite experiences.