Random Fiction: “Purple”

Before I can put my fist to the beaten-up door, it swings open on screaching hinges, a set of pale hands clasping at the edge of the faded, battered hardwood as though for dear life. She’s twitching and breathing heavy as she slips into view, like a bitch in heat. If it weren’t for hanging onto the door, she’d probably have collapsed by now. Damn Junkie.

“Did you bring it? D-did you bring the purple?” Her voice shudders as she speaks, as though someone were holding her upside down and shaking each work out of her, like a bully getting the change out of school kids’ pockets. She takes one hand off of it’s solid oak support to reach for me, but starts sliding down instead, unable to hold herself up without both hands and her head bobs defeated to the door frame, coming to rest at about crotch height.

Right where it ought to be. I love my visits to these places, really. Some of the real hardcore purple adicts are just too amusing. At year 3962, or as we like to call it, 52AP, I’ve been in this business for nearly six years. You meet all kinds in this line of work: the fluffy-bunny users, gateway users, the small-time dealers, and these– the hardcore adicts. This house was full of the last on the list, save for one. Though, every other type seems to make it here eventually. Shit’s a million times stronger than meth, they say, and once you get your first high you just start to crave it. Junkies from day one.

“Yeah, I brought the purple. Double the original price though. Thy’re realy startin’ to crack down on security these days.” If these loons had any clue what I had to go through to get this shit through customs… If I hadn’t been lukcy and ended up with a crooket cop, I’d have been cavity searched in a heartbeat. And there’s just some places that a guy’s gotta draw the line for business. Get what I’m saying? Not like these guys care anyway. Addicts don’t give a shit how hard it is to sneak their drug of choice into the country.

The only real problem with American government these days is people like this: their basic needs are teken care of or them, and they aren’t really required to do shit to ocntribute to societry. That leaves people like me to work their asses off, and then some, just to get a little something extra under the government’s nose. I’m surprised it took so long to realize we culd make some decent profit on the Purple Ban of 3910 after WWIV.

“F-fine. How much? WHat’s double 2000 credits” She shakes and her hands quiver as she reaches through pockets, looking for the money they’ve collected. This is dirty money– I know they’ve got it doing shit I would cringe at, or selling their bodies to sick fucks with fetishes that make most of us seem like chaste saints.

“6000, miss.” That’s right. I’ll tel lthem lies as often as I can get away with it, even in their condition. It’s not like she’ll ever know the differents, or even miss the money anyway. They hardly sleep, and this one’s mind has melted away enough that she won’t remember this 2 minutes from now.. So what’s the difference?

I step over her and into the room as the rest of the junkies come crawling from the elsewhere in the house, hanging against the walls for support. Peeling wallpaper rustles as they head straight for me like a pack of starved, broken animals. Poor bastards, probably been a long time since any of them have eaten. Their bodies will eventually shut down, and each of them will fall into a heap of flesh and excriment. I’ve seen it. Ain’t pretty, but it’s a living. And a far better living than it used to be.

At first the business was just smuggling purple things. People would sneak in flowers, crayons, paints, any object that they could find small enough to fit into a pocket pretty descreetly. Now though, with all of the advances of science, someone has found out how to extract the essence of the color or some weird distilation shit like that. Much easier to carry a few vials of the liquid version over the borders than a couple hundred various objects. We bring it over as quiet as possible, and they drink it up like water.

Only, the scientists failed to mention that it wasn’t exactly meant for consumption. Turns out, it’s a pretty damn powerful hallucinagen, and incredibly addictive. An ounce of this shit could take out an army for a day. Needless to say, I’ve never tried it myself, and I don’t see it happening any time soon.

The way I hear it, first everything turns different shades of purple. After that, it’s different for everyone. I’ve heard everything from nightmares to bunnies and unicorns and back. We like to think of it as a niche market.

She pulls a wad of credits from somewhere in her baggy clothes, and waves it at me. “Where’s the new one?” I snatch it from her. “I have to supervise administration the first time.”

“H-hannah!” Her voice is raspy, and .she’s breathing harder. “C-come here!”

There’s a table in the corner, other than that no furniture in here. They probably sold it for Purple money. I set down a shot glass, and take a flask out of my pocket. Pour just enough to wet the bottom of the glass, not cover it. Like I said before, this is some strong shit. This ought to knock her on her ass for a day or two– especially if she’s a real first-timer.

I hear some soft footsteps coming up behind me, and as I turn I see this sweet little thing looking up at me with big, blue, bewildered eyes. Those kind of eyes are kryptonite to a guy like me. Always did have a thing for blue eyes…

“Are you sure you want to do this, honey?” Gotta try to look out for this kid, can’t be more than sixteen.

She shrugs petite little shoulders and cocks her head to the side. I can tell she’s trying her best to be coy.

“It’s just one hit, can’t be that bad. Besides, I already paid them.”

“Just one is what they all say.” It never turns out to be ‘just one’. Once this shit gets under your skin, you’re gone. In all the years I been running the market in this town, I never seen anyone take just one hit and be able to move on just like that. On the bright side, for me, if I just mind my own and let her have her way, a few months or a year from now this chick will be sucking me off or better for her next high.

I shake that thought out of my head, just as I see her blink those blue eyes again. She tosses dark jagged bangs from her face with a sharp motion of her head, and hair slides away leaving her left shoulder and neck bare now. I happen to like bare shoulders too, in case it was hard to grasp why I’d be paying attention. Spaghetti-strapped tops like the one she’s wearing now are enough to drive a guy like me nuts –and she’s got this pale milky skin that makes me think of icing sugar. I can feel my mouth begin to water.

“Look, I’m not just telling you this as some bullshit crap to try to protect you or anything. It’s your life, and you make your own damn choices. You just need to know that this one hit will not be the last hit. It never is. You’re gonna end up just like Boney-Ass over there,” I point to the sack of shit still making her way over to the table. “If you understand that, and you’re still fine with it, then go right ahead.”

I slid the shot glass over to her. Hannah, pretty name too.

She looks at it, her hand trailing trimmed nails along the very edge of the table; but she doesn’t grab it. Don’t pick it up, kid. She looks back to me with those eyes. They’re wide now, scared.

“Get me out of here.”

I don’t need to be told twice.


Flash Fiction: “Philosophic Intercourse”


“But to give of yourself in any way: monetarily, emotionally, or spiritually only provides an opportunity for the giver to be hurt. It all depends on the intent and moral character of the receiver. It’s roulette.” The student worried it’s bottom lip with anxious teeth, the youthful face contorted with confusion.

“Child, it also offers opportunity for both the receiver and the giver to benefit. Every gift has great potential, and one ought not deny potential for the triviality of fear.” Teacher gave a patient smile before continuing, “personify the change you wish to introduce into the world.”

Student reflected for a few moments. “Selflessness, to teach a selfish world to give? Love, to teach a hateful world to care? And smile, to teach the sad world of joy?”

Flash Fiction: “Interrogation, cont.”

He felt the man’s nose snap under his fist. The grinding feel of bone shards beneath the cartilage is impossible to mistake. As he drew his hand back, Andrew almost winced. He had split the skin over his knuckles ten minutes prior.

As he moved, the scent of her surrounded him again, pushing everything else from his thoughts. He smiled, coincidentally, just as the prisoner looked back up at him. A smile like that on the face of the guy beating the shit out of you is enough to unnerve just about anyone.

The man shuddered with pain and fear. Finally broken, he started talking. Nathan Cromwell, their subject for over a year, finally connected to a shipment of weapons on it’s way to a terrorist organization. Andrew wasn’t paying much attention. Everything was being recorded, anyway, so he let his mind drift while the bastard rattled on.

He and Cass had played their interrogation game for nearly a year now. It had started as a joke one day after he’d finally told her some of what he did for the Army; strictly non-classified.

“I work in intel. A lot of interrogations, questioning, and research.” He had glanced at her, gauging her reaction.

She’d giggled at him, “You don’t look tough enough to interrogate anyone.”

“I have some very effective methods.” He remembered every detail.

Her hair had smelled like peaches and chamomile when he’d shoved her up against the refrigerator. His lips had hovered, almost grazing hers as her faltering voice asked for a demonstration. She was blushing.

He had made her scream that evening for hours. Her voice cascaded around him as he’d touched and stroked and tickled. He recalled her thighs pressed so tightly against his ears, that at some point, even those wild vocal overtures were silenced. Only when she’d collapsed shuddering on the floor, unable to move and struggling for breath, had he finally penetrated.

“Well done, SSG.”

His mind whipped back to reality, and he reached out to shake his CO’s waiting hand.

Flash Fiction: ‘Interrogation’

“What is your name?” He adjusted the position of his fingers and probed deeper.

“Cassandra Ballard,” she cried out, her voice both shrill and hoarse. She gasped for breath as he paused for a moment, shuddering under his smirk.

“Are you associated with any terrorist organizations?” The motion of his hand resumed much rougher as he spoke. She screamed.

“No!” She struggled to catch her breath. This had been going on for hours.

The rasp of her panting was cut by a loud electronic ringtone.

“SSG. Hamby,” he answered the phone briskly. “Interrogating a prisoner, sir,” he chuckled for a moment, but that stopped abruptly.

She was glad to get a minute of rest as his hushed tone droned in her ears. She braced herself when she heard him set the phone back on the bedside table.

“I have to go in.”

She turned toward him, with a disappointed pout. “But I was about to give a confession.”

“I know, babe. But you know the General wouldn’t call this late if it wasn’t urgent,” he said with a heavy sigh as he rose from the bed. He was irritated, this always seemed to happen right when things were getting good. He leaned down and gave his still-shaking fiance a tender kiss before he got dressed.

“You’re not going to shower?” She could barely manage more than a whisper.

“If they’re going to drag me out of bed at this hour, they may as well know exactly what I got pulled away from.” He knew he smelled strongly of sweat and sex, and what he really needed was that smell to remind him of her. It would make it easier to distance himself from what he was about to do.

By the time he’d finished lacing up his boots, Cassandra had passed out. He gave her naked body one last long look before he closed the bedroom door behind him.