Elijah
[Int+streetwise: how the Hell did I do this?]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 9, 9, 9) ( success x 3 )
Elijah
[and int+computers, because that's how things do. How do I DarkNet?]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 6, 7) ( success x 3 ) [WP]
Elijah
There is a problem with using prescription drugs recreationally. The problem is one that teenage boys don't' typically think about when they are bored and raiding their parents' medicine cabinets and going to parties and taking a hand full of whatever someone gave you and hoping that you will wake up because something that you took didn't combine well with itself (pill parties are weird, a young Elijah had concluded, but he went anyway because sometimes there was molly and sweet tarts and vicodin and hydrocodone and it all came together in some strangely fantastic fashion). But there was a problem with taking prescription drugs in a recreational sense.
That problem was one that a now no-longer-sixteen year old Elijah Poirot was experiencing right now- you build up a tolerance for that shit. When you end up in a situation where you will actually need to take them for their intended purpose, you need to take a shit ton because what does the job suddenly doesn't do the job anymore. He'd exhausted his supplies, ran out to the point that he knew his doctor wasn't going to refill it because he knew damned good and well that someone would think he was abusing them or selling them. Maybe a little of the former, but Elijah seemed to realize that he didn't like feeling like death every time he laughed or rolled over or any number of innocuous actions that Elijah had determined fucking hurt when you weren't adequately medicated and hadn't figured out how to use magic to turn off your nerve endings.
Yeah, because that sounded like a fucking fantastic idea.
So he had done some searching. Mostly by figuring out what the original etiquette was for finding someone who was going to provide a service to you. He did a little digging, a little blahblah- as it turns out, when you are in some pretty decent pain you get pretty damn industrious. The request was simple enough, probably sounding just desperate enough that Elijah was pretty sure he might have come across as a jonesing addicted person. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but it made it really fucking hard to get someone to meet you when you sound like you'd suck any ol' dick for a hit. Not bueno.
Not enough time for bit coins, will make up for inconvenience with 20% markup.
It was decent enough. And thus, bargains were set. So Jenn drove him to the park in her rental, dropped him off at a place, and was pretty damn explicit: if I don't see you in an hour I'm calling the cops.
So, he had to wait. It was the most he'd been dressed in awhile. Athletic pants, black shirt, pullover hoodie (because he was pretty sure if he moved wrong something might leak and some part of him really, really, really was disturbed by the idea that he could be leaky.) and tennis shoes. Which, by the way, were tied. But fuck tying your shoes. Despite his best attempts, Elijah looked like shit. Mostly because he still had a fair bit of bruising courtesy of being tossed around the inside of a camry and jesus fuck how did he not break his neck?
So, without further ado, there was a young man on a park bench. Because that was a thing.
Samir
[roll 1/2: did he pull off his little tracking effect without botching the fuck out of it?]
Dice: 2 d10 TN3 (1, 5) ( success x 1 )
Samir
[roll 2/2: does he realize that mr. poirot isn't a sleeper?]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 5, 5, 8, 10) ( success x 2 )
Samir
One of the ways fate has looked out for Elijah this day is by not introducing him to a person who would exchange oral sex for medication anyway. They don't get into that during the initial phase of their transaction anyway. He sounds desperate and if his desperation leaks through he can count himself lucky that the person on the other side of the computer screen isn't out to exploit the condition in which he finds himself.
If Jenn doesn't see him in an hour she's calling the police.
Sam tends to operate under the assumption that if he doesn't hand off whatever he's come to hand off to the person to whom he's supposed to hand it off within fifteen minutes that he's in very real danger of having to run from law enforcement that hour. The fact that he doesn't like to stray too far from his home because he has a serious mental illness helps.
So here they are. A young man who has dressed like an Eastern European gangster is sitting on a park bench. Another young man who dresses like a punk-bohemian college kid is approaching said park bench.
The latter young man has what looks like a cellphone in one hand and is tapping at is as he walks. The day was warm but the evening is proving cooler and he is wearing a black leather jacket overtop a cotton tunic. His long black hair is knotted at the nape of his neck and his eyes twitch up from the screen more often than they rest upon it.
Then he gets a feeling under his skin like a storm is coming right at him. Anyone who happened to be looking at him at that moment would see his face go from distracted to ... fuck me sideways.
But he's a professional. Damn it. He takes a deep breath and lets those thoughts melt away and pushes the breath back out. Puts his phone away.
His hands are in his pockets as he approaches the bench and sits down next to Elijah.
"Dude," he says like they've known each other forever and not like they're meeting for the first time, "you look like shit."
Elijah
It's always fortunate to do business with people who aren't going to trade sex for services. That is something he's learned early on in his career as a person who bought things that were probably illegal: if someone is willing to just bang you for whatever you're looking for, chances are these are the kinds of people who you don't want to work with.
He looks to the side. Is slow to turn but he's got a damn grin on his face, like he should be fucking proud of the fact that he's alive because he should be proud of the fact that he's alive. He's still got all his teeth, and they're straight and white and flossed because god dammit flossing is important and it doesn't matter if you hurt. You're going to floss your god damned teeth you weren't raised by swamp people, Elijah.
"Yeah," he says, almost laughs but his voice is the kind of strained that tries to sound casual, "I blew a tire going sixty five out by Morrison. Took out a guard rail, rolled the car- it fucking sucked."
he does laugh at that, doesn't even say owww even though he really wants to say owww because somehow that makes things better. Suddenly, it is incredibly surprising that he has all his teeth.
Samir
"Uh..."
Of all the moments in his life when he has regretted his lack of foresight or common sense this does not breach the top ten. So long as he does not have a knife flashed in front of his face or more people coming out of the shadows than he thought to look for before he walked into a room he can count himself as having learned something about leaving his hovel to peddle his wares.
That doesn't mean he is comfortable talking to someone who may or may not be already somewhat impaired by the time he shows up to close a sale. One would have to be crazier than he is to feel secure in a moment like that and he's well aware of the fact that his thoughts and behaviors aren't fucking normal. Physical security hasn't ever been his concern anyway. It's the fact that if he pays too much attention or cares too much he'll lose the rest of his afternoon to trying to help someone who is probably beyond his help anyway.
Inner conflict. Augh. Fuck. Why.
He goes by slakhani on the Internet. No point hiding his identity. It takes too much effort for Sleepers to remember his face or his name and even in instances where someone has taken a screen shot or printed out interactions with him the fucker doesn't seem to exist anywhere than in the moment.
slakhani is articulate and follows the rules of English grammar. This guy though:
"Did you, ah..." He clears his throat. "I mean, I'm sure you did, you wouldn't be sitting here if you didn't, but just for my own... I don't know, edification, you, did..." He looks down at his hands to find them knit between his knees. Shuffles his feet like they aren't secure enough on the promenade and counts the number of times his thumbs shuffle themselves around before looking up and finishing his sentence. "You did receive some sort of medical attention. When this happened. Right?"
Congratulations Elijah you found the most well-connected socially-anxious drug dealer on the Darknet. Good job.
Elijah
By the time that this is al said and done, Elijah will have a story that goes about the same way that it does when he meets any number of people who are providing these sorts of services. I met a guy and I got some stuff, and every other question about said exchange is met with an eh. Either he's so vapid he doesn't think to keep track of these things or he's such a practiced liar that he rolls with what he has to work with and plays with the perception. It's not hard to believe that Elijah would forget about business associates upon completing their business, but we digress. We aren't here to talk about Elijah being empty-headed or cunning or anything of that sort.
We're here to talk about a sale.
He looks at the guy, tries to offer him something reassuring. Lifts a hand for a moment as if this was the universal no sweat, bro motion. He will forget about this person when they leave, but he'll probably remember that it went well. Ten out of ten. Will buy again. "Yeah," he says, "went to the ER, got stitches. Totaled my friend's car- if I didn't look like shit I'm pretty sure she would kill me."
He considers saying less, saying more. What was appropriate and wasn't, "I was a dumb shit in my teens and telling your doctors I built up a tolerance when I was in high school so you need to give me more of this stuff doesn't ever end well."
Samir
"I guess it depends on your definition of 'well.'"
This isn't an intervention or a lecture though. It's a drug deal. Samir is banking on the fact that most law-abiding citizens are home in bed or enjoying the company of their families and the last few dregs of the weekend and not out trawling neighborhood parks looking to narc on a couple of twenty-somethings for... what. Talking about a car crash in public? They aren't doing anything illegal.
From a distance anyway.
Up close Samir has no interest in rescuing this guy from the path he's on. It's none of his business. He's here because he needs money and because this is what he does and the kid needed it Yesterday so it's not like he could just mail the shit to him.
He doesn't want to argue semantics so he clears his throat. Of all the drug dealers Elijah could have contacted this particular drug dealer is attractive and at least marginally capable of carrying on a conversation. But he also wants to be shut of this fast as he can.
"Well, hey, listen, I got you those tickets, so..."
Because that'll throw off anyone watching them. He pulls out a white postal envelope folded to fit into his jacket pocket. Pills are heavier than paper. The pills in question weigh down one half of the envelope and Elijah can feel the weight of them when the other man presses them into his palm.
Elijah
[Manip+sub: these are totally tickets]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 6, 6, 7, 7, 7) ( success x 5 )
Grace
[Awareness!]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 6, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )
Grace
Elijah left earlier, in massive amounts of pain, with Jenn, to go 'do a thing'. Grace doesn't generally stop people from doing 'things' but it had her curious, right? Why on earth would he be going out to the park like that?
And Elijah has a track record of making poor decisions. Let's just say, she just wants to be around in case he's about to make poor decision number 359. Poor kid is in no condition to... whatever it is he's doing.
So, it's time for Grace to swoop in. She feels like that -- a great swooping thing. But thankfully, she's not incurring huge amounts of paradox by swooping in on actual wings. She has a bike. Bikes are cool. And if he was lying about the park, she'll get some exercise. It's win-win, really.
As she goes, she finds that hint of somebody she knows, and follows it. Elijah is a twisting, riotous thing. And where has she noted that bit of... something else? Something sharp?
Bicycle tires meet grass, because she doesn't care about keeping to the path.
Elijah
Elijah makes a sound that sounds almost like relief, yes relief. There is a mention of tickets and he runs a hand through his hair, digs through his pocket to pull out his wallet. He goes through, seems to be making sure he checked the right pocket but the way he talks, the way that he pockets things effortlessly and doesn't run off once he has it makes the air seem casual. Samir addressed him like they knew each other. This might be business, but appearance was everything.
So, Elijah goes with it. His picture is as relaxed as one can be when they are in pain, his tone conversational and convivial as though this was just a thing that they did as friends. The way he behaved, this wasn't strange and damn anyone who believed it was. They were very obviously defective.
"Thank fucking god," he laughed, pulled out requisite cash plus twenty percent- as he'd agreed- and offered it to the guy, "losing my debit card has been a bitch and you know how Flogging Molly sells out. You're a saint."
Now. They both knew that Elijah was buying drugs. They both knew that this was the agreed upon purpose. Elijah's particular performance was… well.. impressive enough that even Mr. Poirot wasn't entirely certain that he hadn't purchased Flogging Molly tickets.
Samir
Shit dude: Mr. Lakhani almost has to take back the envelope to check and make sure he hadn't put the wrong merchandise in the envelope but for the fact he doesn't deal in scalped tickets. He's all for bankrupting the upper echelons of the economy but that market is too much fucking work.
So the most he can do is follow Elijah's lead and not give away the fact that he did in fact just sell this kid a ridiculous amount of opioids.
The thing about narcotic addiction is you chase and chase and chase that upper limit that'll put you over your tolerance level and one day you hit the point where your body just can't process the amount of shit you're pumping into it anymore or you get a bad batch or it's stronger than you're used to and then you just don't wake up the next day.
The thing about feeding another person's narcotic addiction is you don't ask fucking questions. The specifics and the rationale are none of your business.
So Sam passes off the envelope and Elijah passes back the cash and they both pocket their agreed-upon amounts of each and that's where Sam washes his metaphorical hands.
"Heh," he says. He is not a saint. Appearances though. Appearances. He swipes his hand over his hairline to pull a few worked-free strands back off his temples. "Everything sells out at Red Rock. It's..." He is nowhere near as good a liar as his customer is. He's sweating bullets right now. "... the view or... something. Shit doesn't sell out like this in L.A."
And unlike plenty of other drug dealers he doesn't want to hang out or get to know the guy whose habit he just fed. He has to go home and jerk off three or four times or clean underneath the refrigerator even though he did that this morning or check to make sure all the windows are locked and blacked out or whatever the fuck it is he does with his nights. Dude has a schedule to keep. Monday is nigh.
So is Grace.
"I gotta motor. Enjoy the show, eh?"
Grace
Grace sees her friend, and also someone else, someone ejecting himself from the scene. Someone vaguely familiar. She can't quite recall him, though, what with the newness of their meeting and his tendency to vanish from memory. He's somebody else's problem.
Elijah, though...
"Elijah. What's up?" she says, smiles as she walks her bike up to the bench. "I didn't think you'd be going out to the fucking park yet."
Elijah
"Thanks again, man," said with a smile, with that confidence and awareness that the transaction was complete and now was the time that they parted ways. It wasn't a big deal. He soon enough turned his attentions-ever-so-slowly to Grace. He's sober, which is a plus (no it's not, it's not a fucking pleasure to be sober, he wants to take four of whatever the Hell he just bought and call it an evening, but you can't eat Flogging Molly tickets even if they aren't tickets).
"I know! i kinda thought I should check in but I'm so far behind for becoming the mayor for the park I didn't even bother," he said with a grin, "I needed to be somewhere, push the limits. Wake up with concrete patterns on my face instead of ink, ya know?"
And it was true. He has woken up with half-smudged ink on his cheeks more than his fair share of times until today.
Grace
"No, I don't know. Elijah, you are beat to death and you know it," Grace says, rolls her eyes. "I'm going to make sure you don't wake up with concrete patterns on your face, if that's okay with you?"
She steps off the bike, leans it up against the bench.
"You don't actually want to fall asleep in this park, dude. Vampires and other shit, man. Just no."
Samir
[Thanks for the scene, yo!]
Elijah
"Are you gonna get me back to Jenn's rental?" he asks curiosity. He's sober. He's incredibly sober, all things said, and while it has made him decidedly sharper it has also made him keep his attention on the things in front of him (Grace) instead of other things (like holy fuck did she just say vampires?)
"I'm cool with you being helpful, you generally don't let bad things happen to me."
A beat.
"Speaking of, where did the tequila go?"
Grace
"If you can find the tequila, you can have the tequila. I figure it should take you until you're not quite so ouchy."
Yes, Grace hid the tequila. Or at least, placed it somewhere nigh inaccessible. She knows Elijah.
"Come on, let's get you out of here, okay? Somewhere with some food? I can make waffles."
Elijah
He offers her an arm, but it doesn't linger too long because he knows that it is GRace nad she prooobably isn't going to take it but he does offer none the less. Shoots her a smile that is a little disarming because he's well armed in his arsenal of social skills.
"Can we have waffles?"
Grace
Grace takes his arm. Hell, he's been so ouchy lately, he might need someone to lean on every now and then. She has her personal bubble, but there are reasons to burst bubbles.
So, Elijah on one arm, pushing her bike along with the other, this is how it goes.
"We totally can."
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