We were hanging out at Pete's place.

Tom was watching some dumb ass TV show.

The fridge was stuffed with beer -- cheap american crap that tasted like water from a clogged toilet. But what the hell? I needed to get the edge off, and getting a good drunk on would do the trick.

I discretely checked Pete's "special" compartment and my mood lifted. If I could scarf a teeny bit of Harry Jones by night's end, I'd be floating for hours. Pete's shit was always that good.

I snatched a beer off the shelf and cracked open the top. The whoosh of carbonation escaped. I took a swig and remembered why I was here. The exigencies of my day hadn't turn out as planned. But do they ever for addicts? The dissemination of information would be necessary, requiring the use of language, and therefore my mouth. I downed the rest of the beer and grabbed another. I could feel my jaw losening up.

The deal turned out to be more sophisticated than we'd expected. I suppose it didn't help that I made it more complicated by trying to close it while coming down from a speedball.

I started to speak up but Pete burst in the apartment through the front door. Like so often, he had the common sense to show up drunk. I was jealous. He must have been 4 beers ahead of me. Knowing him, it wasn't on cheap American fecal water.

"I thought you'd be in Atlanta?" he said, banging against the couch in a jocular way. Tom grunted, but I didn't know if it was from the bump or the simultaneous fountain of blood erupting from the hairy samurai villian on TV.

I sat down. "Brandeis has to look at the new contract. I'm not going into that alone."

Pete said nothing, but then again that was his way.

Now Tom was giggling.

I looked at the screen. An ashen-faced Chinese boy had tears streaming down his face. "Why is that funny?" I said. "Because it's a comedy, you dumb fuck." Tom kept giggling, focused on the screen.

The phone rang. I moved to get it, but Pete had already picked it up. He's always been quick for a drunk.
"Anti-Osmosis Corporation. This is Pete speaking. How can I help you?" he drawled into the phone. I could hear the answering voice very remotely: "Susan speaking. Pete cut the crap and get André on the phone!"
Pete gave me a girlish wink and handed me the phone.

"Susan? You've got everything sorted out?" I asked her. "Listen André you better lay low and do nothing the next couple of days. The mexicans have a loose gun and will be busy. They wont do business until the dusk clears." she said, with her rational voice. "Our window of opportunity will close within the next 24 hours. If we don't find a buyer within that timespan, we could all just lay down and stop breathing." I argued with her. I needed substantial information right now and not things I already knew. "André I can't help you right now. All my sources have dried up over the last couple of days. You get back to this little dysfunctional family of yours and keep quiet." she said and hang up the phone.

"Where is the gemütlichkeit?" I said aloud. I wondered how we got into this. No one acted scared, but things had never gone this far before. And I knew I was the only one who'd ever felt the breath of those scumbags on my neck. Not these Mexicans, but others like them. I felt contempt for our bubble of self-assurance, knowing what would happen to it if really tested. Was it time to get out?

"You've gotta watch part two, I'll just tell you two things: One: testicles. Two: a piece of string!" Pete's giggling was really getting on my nerves. He turned up the volume. Japanese synth pop with weepy strings.

But in the end, I never would get out. Inertia was too strong. Later I would remember this day. Our "dysfunctional family," before the unraveling. So what was the current situation? We were practically sitting on a truck load full of TASER ammunition, which should be worth 2,5 Million on the black market -- if we could cash it in. The truck with the sensitive material was parked across the street in front of Ms Doe's house. The former driver forgot to look the vehicle before he took off for a piss. Poor bastard should be in a lot of trouble by now. I smiled to myself trying to imagine what this poor guy looked like when he came back. First the relief then the long lasting pain.

However we didn't knew what was in the truck. We just wanted to get one to sell it to the mexicans, who right now didn't want it anymore. Susan then informed me about the cargo. She told me what it was and that its probably tagged with a tracking device. Back then I was still calm and wondered why she knew all this stuff. I often marveled what was more worrisome -- her past or my future. Right now I know exactly which one of us is doomed. I could already hear the FEDs knocking at our door.