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.

While checking out the sad selection of brew, I discretely checked Pete's "special" compartment in the freezer. His inventory drew an immediate reaction: my blood pressure hit the floor and my mood instantly 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 with a snap to my step 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 then 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 four beers ahead of me. Knowing him, it wasn't on cheap American fecal water.

"I thought you were in Atlanta", Pete said, banging against the couch in a jocular way.

Tom grunted, but it was hard to tell if the genesis of the grunt was from Pete's bump or the fountain of blood erupting from the hairy samurai villian on TV.

I sat down. "Brandeis has to look at the new contract. 'Til then, I'm out."

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

Tom fell into giggling at the TV. I looked at the screen. An ashen-faced Chinese boy had tears streaming down his face.

"Why is that funny?" I asked.

"Because it's a comedy, you dumb fuck." Tom kept giggling, unable to turn away from the screen, even when the phone rang.

In an instant, Pete snatched the receiver off the hook. Pete's always been quick for a drunk. "Anti-Osmosis Corporation, this Pete speakin'. How may I direct your call?"

It always amazed me how smooth Pete could be, even tanked up. I guess that's why he was able to swing owning his house and cobbling together deals that seemed doomed from the onset but that usually played and payed out well.

"André? " Pete's head tracked my way and he gave me a curious smile. " Why yes ma'am, he is here. One moment please."

Pete gave me a girlish wink and handed me the phone.

"Pete knows, doesn't he?" I instantly recognized the female voice. It was Susan.

"Knows what", I asked, then looked over to Tom who was still glued to the TV. "Just a second," I said into the phone. "Tom could you get me a beer? Please?"

Tom didn't move or act as if he heard me. So I did what any abnormal person would do: I pitched my empty beer bottle at his head, hitting his noggin with major league percision. Tom fell to the floor howling. "What the fuck! Why did you do that?"

"Don't be a whiner. I said, please. Can you get me a beer please? Look: I'm on the phone."

Tom looked to Pete and Pete looked to me with the phone against my ear. "André 's got a point," Pete said. Those simple words sealed the deal. Tom finally got off his ass and headed into the kitchen.

From the phone I heard Susan say "You can be such a dick."

"I know. I can't help it."

"Pete must know you've fucked up. If I were you, I'd get out of there and lay low the next few days."

"Would you now?" I took the beer handed to me by Tom. I was surprised he even had the decency to pop the top before handing it over.

Susan droned on: "The mexicans won't do business until the dust clears."

The melodrama was thick in her voice. But if I told her so, she'd probably translate "how melodrmatic" into "what a twat". That would get me nowhere. I let her go on.

"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 lie down and stop breathing."

I pictured just that. All of us on the floor of Pete's living room with brand new tennis shoes. Pete would be passing out rubber bands, plastic shopping bags, and 10 tablets apiece of phenobarbital. Barber's famous Adagio would be on the sound system. But I couldn't quite picture the phenobarbital chaser. Brandy or Cognac might work. But something bit more celebratory would be better. Champagne, perhaps. Yes: Chapagne. After downing the 10 tabs of phenobarbital, we could have a nice glass of the Grand Dame, and then we would move on to hugging and shaking hands, saying good-bye, and covering our heads with the plastic bags, and finally fitting the rubber bands around our necks before reclining into a restful sleep. Minutes afterwards we could prove Susan right as we moved on to oblivion.

"I'm just trying to help," she said.

I appreciated her concern, but there was no way she could help me. Not now. ""Thanks. I'll call you later," I said. Then I hung up and finished my beer.

"Where is the gemütlichkeit?" I said too loudly. Tom actually looked up from the TV at me. "Have you looked up your ass lately?" he asked. I guess I deserved that response. I wondered how I had gotten us into this. No one acted scared, then again, why should they? They had no idea. Unless Susan was right. Maybe Pete did know.

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

I thought it was time to get the sensitive material out of this neighborhood. It wasn't the right spot to park a truck load with a black market value of 2.5 Million of taser ammunition. Later I would remember this day. Our "dysfunctional family," before the unraveling.

______________________________________________-
I would consider the following NOTES to stretch out and be used...somewhere......unless you're just writing a synopsis....

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.

Pete took a deep gulp of his beer, which rendering the can useless, because it was empty. He crushed the can, tossed it behind the coach and looked at me: "You gonna stand there all night? Relax and order the little porn producer inside your head to stop. Susan ditched you! Day dreaming wont help!"
He was right: "Why don't we try out the merchandise before we sell it? There's plenty of ammunition and I've never actually saw a taser in action." Tom and Pete looked at each other smiling. A second later we were on our way to the truck. I delayed for a moment and snatched some cocain before leaving. Susan was forgotten and my mood lifted instantly.