by DJ the dope dealer in space #41

Every single problem I had last month can be blamed on one thing --Thanksgiving. If it weren't for everyone being all caught up in the spirit of giving thanks for all the good things we got and all the troubles we don't, I'd have been concentrating on keeping troubles offa my doorstep.

I guess I can blame that fucking little mooch Bobby Dupree from Buzzards for all my problems, too. He's the one that sicked the cops on me in the first place to take the heat off his ownself. And after I turned him onto some shit from my own personal stash when he was broke and jonesing. That’s gratitude for you.

I thought it was kinda weird when that mangy little tweeker showed up on my doorstep, all smiles and flashy-cash everywhere, two days after he got picked up for being under the influence. Bobby never has no money and he's always jonesing. The day before Thanksgiving, Bobby shows up on my doorstep with a fistful of cash, wanting to buy a shitpile of tweek from me. He said he'd break out and make up for all the times he mooched from me. In hindsight, I probably should have at least asked him where he got the cash.

I mean, really, why the fuck would someone who's been scoring free shit suddenly want to make things right? There's two types of people in this world, givers and takers. Takers don't suddenly start giving shit away. EVER. The only way you can get a taker to give up ANYTHING is by bludgeoning the piss out of him first. So that should have been clue one that something was up.

Then, there was the cash. It didn't have anything as obvious as PROPERTY OF POLICE DEPARTMENT rubber-stamped on every bill in red ink, but every last bill in Bobby's greasy fist had a little blue X marker-penned on the back, in the bottom-right corner. I didn't ask about it, and Bobby didn't say nothing.

The Elvis book should have been another dead giveaway. Bobby ain't no fucking Elvis fan, but he was sitting there on my couch with a huge book of Elvis photos and memorabilia. I think it might have been put out by Time-Life Books. Anyways, I think there was a expensive digital audio recorder hid in that Elvis book, 'cause somehow the cops ended up with a extremely audible recording of the entire dope deal.

The recording starts out with Bobby stating how much he appreciates all the dope I laid on him when he was jonesing and didn't have no cash on him. He stated he wanted to buy a whole pound of shit, and he was gonna break out and smoke a whole bunch of it with me. He even promised he'd leave me a few rocks for later. I fell for it and sold him the pound. Bobby loaded the glass pipe and fired it up and handed it to me.

Bobby didn't want to hang around long after that. I figured he was just antsy from all that shit we smoked. Before he left, Bobby stuffed the rest of his shit up his jacket sleeve and boogied out the front door.

Soon as Bobby left, I peeped out my side window and seen him standing by a tree about 50 yards up the driveway. He was talking to a couple of clean-looking guys I never seen before. Bobby pulled the remainder of that pound I just sold him out of his jacket sleeve and handed it to the two guys in the driveway.

One of the guys then walked to a Ford Crown Victoria parked nearby and retrieved a small white plastic box. He opened that big bag of shit and placed a small amount into the box. Turns out what was in the plastic box was a test kit for methamphetamines. That high-quality shit I sold to Bobby tested presumptive positive, of course.

That Crown Victoria should have clued me in that them way-too-clean guys was undercover cops. After a big ruckus which I ain't gonna go into right now, I ended up cuffed and caged and hauled in for booking and processing. Now I'm sitting in a cage and Bobby's running free. It ain't fair. You just can't trust tweekers, I tell you.

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