Blood Money or Drug Money by James Allen (2011)
You know, it’s hard to live a life where everyone judges, and yet no one seems to care. And I guess I’m sorry for what I did and what’s happened to you. But hell, we all need to make money. And if I knew that what I sold ya would have put you here, like this, I wouldn’t have sold it to ya! But drug running is a dangerous business and drug taking is a deadly one. And I guess for me, I’d rather be involved in something dangerous instead of deadly. But without you, I wouldn’t have a business. I mean we had the perfect relationship, you needed heroin to escape and I needed somebody to sell to. We were made for each other. And I don’t know if I just got lucky, or my nose just never liked the stuff, or whatever it was. I just know that I never got into it, and you did. And I remember, when you and I were kids, you’d always say you’d live longer then me cuz you were just a couple of years younger then me and yet somehow a few years smarter. Then you would say that when I died I would be old and wrinkled, and you would be old, but looking good. And I wish I could say you were right. I wish that I died first and that I was old and wrinkled before you died, young and untouched by age. Because probably unlike you, I remembered when we were little and we used to say that we’d never get into drugs, and that they were stupid and that we would be too busy with the girls. And I guess we were dead wrong. Unfortunately on all three accounts. Especially the part about the girls anyway. Because both of us got into drugs, just in two different ways. See, when you found out how numb they could make you, and I found out how much money they could bring into my bank account, we knew we were right for the business. And when we both found out, no girl, or no girl that we ever dreamed of anyway, wanted to be with guys like us that were involved in the things that we were involved in. But we didn’t care by then. Hell I had a first class date with the bills I had stashed away in my house, just like your nose had an orgasmic relationship with all the dope that flew up it. And all I can really say is, look where our first class dates have gotten us. I mean its put you in the ground, and has given me enough money to buy all of our old neighborhood. I mean, I would never buy our old neighborhood anyway. But still. And even though it may seem like I am prospering more then you ever did, I am not. I am sitting here, alone, at your wake. And all I had to really say was “hey I’m sorry, I guess we all gotta make money.” Jesus, there must be something wrong with me. Maybe its all this fucking money I’ve been making. I feel like its polluted my heart, and made it next to impossible to feel. But that doesn’t matter, as long as I get my next big sale in, right? I mean, I guess I treated you more as a customer instead of a friend. I guess you’re not the only one who became an addict. A doctor may not say so, but I know so. I need to sell it to be happy. I need to sell it to keep living, cause god knows it’s too late for you, and it’s too late for me to change my ways. This is all I know how to do, and I think, it’s all I really want to do. Just like all you really wanted to do was just disappear into the heroin that corrupted your veins. And you got what you wanted, you won. I’m not going to win the same way you did though. At least I hope I’m not going to. But then again how long do I have until dealing goes from dangerous to deadly? I mean, hell I’m at the top. Wanted by many, and liked by very few. Even the people I supply with the dope don’t like me very much. So really how long do I have? Not long at all really…But how the hell am I supposed to get out, if this is all I know how to do? And how long do I have until I have no one, and I end up alone? Or have I already? There won’t be anyone at my wake, or my funeral. And I’ve lost you, the only person that still mattered. And I am beginning to realize I am going to die alone, with the money I’ve made, because this goddamn drug money, has polluted my veins.