Welcome home? This fucking dump is the last place I would call home. Jobe thought to himself. Broken windows, dirty lawn chairs used as furniture, and a horrible pile of pans and dishes covered in mold; probably been laying in that sink for at least a month, and look the ceilings and carpet are covered in the same fucking shit-fucking black mold at that, I am allergic to that fucking shit. I told myself I would never come back here, but desperate times call for desperate needs, right? God, this place is fucking nasty, it makes me want to vomit, at least that would smell better than this shit hole, but what else would a wannabe drug lord's home look like?
Marc walked towards Jobe in his unwashed blue track suit with an even dirtier wife beater underneath (it was probably white at one point, but now its a horrible shade of yellow with ketchup stains, only a shell of its former self), topped off with a few gold chains around his neck (just like every good “gangster” has). Jobe could also make out a vile stench coming from Marc, getting stronger and more disgusting with every step he took towards Jobe.
Jobe pondered to himself in half amusement with Marc's look; this fucking Russian, I guess this shit is what must be "cool" in the fuckin' motherland. If he was not so nervous, he might have even given a silent chuckle, but his nerves and muscles would not allow any range of emotions with the exception of anxiety, which was traveling through Jobe's veins like cold water.
"So, what brings you to my mansion?" Marc said with in a very heavy Russian accent. Mansion, right, Jobe thought to himself as he rolled his eyes.
"Are you here to get a shot of self medication?" Continued Marc, referring to the beast from Jobe's past, the reason he had sworn never to come back to this place,...heroin...a 3 and a half war he had finally won only a year ago.
Jobe was tempted to take Marc up on his offer, to escape this nightmare he was in, but then he thought, thought about his beautiful
"No", Jobe answered firmly, "but I do need some help."
"Help?" questioned Marc, "With what; what kind of shit have you gotten yourself into?"
"Don't worry about that, I just need some money." Jobe answered slightly agitated.
"Don't worry about it?" Marc began to laugh mockingly, "I am not in a fucking business to give out money, especially if I don't know what you are going to do with my money. I am not one of your fucking American banks. Now tell me, why do you need it and how much is 'some money'?
Jobe knew he had no choice, if he wanted the money he was going to have to tell his Russian contact his story.
"First of all I need $125,000 dollars." Jobe spat out, but Jobe knew Marc was not going to be able to muster up that kind of hard cash, but they both knew that all Marc had to do was make some calls to his higher contacts.
Marc though himself to be a feared and respected gangster, but in reality he was nothing but a lowly drug dealer working for some powerful people (the very people who’s help Jobe needed), and the only respect he got was from the crack head living in the alley near his house. Marc was part of an intricate group, in short…Marc worked for the Russian mafia; he was a foot soldier, but he was the only contact Jobe had to get the kind of money he needed.
"I will make the call." Marc said in a slow, clam, yet gloomy voice. It was the answer Jobe was looking for.
"Now, tell me why you need the money, but I have a feeling it might have something to do with that fucked up lip you have." Marc said in amusement.
Jobe was reminded of the steel toe boot that he had taken to his ribs, and the heavy punch to his face, the memory was so vivid it which made him momentarily sick, he felt an urge to vomit, just as he had felt on the night of his savage beating.
Jobe shook off the deep claws of his recent misfortunes, and began to recap the last week of his life, which by now felt like it had consumed all 28 years he had been on this Earth. Jobe began slowly, so as not to lose the attention of the idiot in front of him...
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