5

*CLANG* There I go again.....it seems every time I have something important to do I have to go and black out. Jobe was not all that surprised about the perplexed state he awoke in. His liquor binges tend to put him in these situations. Was he dreaming? Had all he just thought of been a dream? Since when did Marc work for the russian mafia? Time had become very distorted since his drinking binges became an everyday occurrence, he wasn't quite sure what was real anymore. From what he could make out his room was dark....Oh no....not again...I hope I made it home without Marc realizing it. Jobe, distraught, tired, and in desperate need of a shower, got up and looked around not really realizing what he had gotten himself into. And then it set in.....the cold, damp floor was unfamiliar....and Jobe did not recall his bed being so stiff, he fooled around on the bed and picked up his glasses....I hate being fucking blind without these things....the picture began to clear and suddenly Jobe realized he was no where near home, what he once thought were walls were merely bars intricately placed keeping him in like a caged animal....he had somehow ended up in a jail cell.
"HELLO?", Jobe yelled through the bars, pleading desperately for an answer.
"Pipe down over there! Some of us are actually trying to sleep pal."
"I'm sorry but can you please tell me where I am?", Jobe was desperate for answers.
"How the hell do you not where you are boy? You're in the finest penitentiary the state has to offer, South Harmon Penitentiary. Welcome to hell." The ominous voice let out a cackle that only a true southern hick could make. Thousands of thoughts came flowing through his head like a dam giving way. How the hell did I end up here and how the hell am I gonna be able to stay with Elizabeth after this. She's already put up with so much shit from me and this was my last chance.....Jobe's unsteady hand told him it was time for a smoke and he felt through his pockets for that cold, metal case of goodness....His pockets gave way to nothing but lint and an old receipt...Fuck me! They took my cigarettes?!...How could things get any worse..

4

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 Elizabeth.
Elizabeth stuck with him through his fight with heroin, and he knew he could not put her through that again, she meant too much to him.
"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...

3.

Flashback, 10 hours previous.
Marc. What a fucking prick. He pours another shot and downs it with out even a grimace on his face. Half a liter of bourbon sits empty on his desk. Memories flash from earlier in the day. Some good.. Some bad. Sitting in an empty parking lot with Elizabeth around midday. Someday I’ll marry you and take you away from this hellhole. Laughter blurring into desperate pleading. Skip ahead. The sharp sting in the ribs, caused by a steel tipped boot slamming just below his heart. Just give me another day. Please. Laying on the cold tile with a small trickle of red coming from his mouth. One day. . One Fucking day. . Jobe, How are you going to pull this off. Think. The shot glass falls to the ground with a resounding thud. Jesus, I know we’re not on the best of terms. . but please, help me out with this one. I’m in too deep to run away and too guilty to hide. Two more shots until thoughts stand still. Troubled sleep and restless dreams. Elizabeth. . . I’m sorry. . The sun radiates through the holes in his vinyl tarp where a window once was. Shining directly in his bloodshot eyes. Oh No, he thinks to himself. . I’m fucking late. . .