Garner trudged back to his car, the cold gnawing at his bones. The night air, heavy with the threat of winter, made each step feel like wading through sludge. Reaching the trunk, he popped it open to reveal the neatly stacked packages of crystal meth, their presence a stark reminder of the path he now walked.

With a grunt, he hefted them into his arms, the weight of his decision pressing down on him as much as the physical burden. As he made his way back to the trailer, each footfall echoed with his past mistakes.

The stale air inside the trailer embraced him like an old, unwelcome friend. Danny’s eyes followed his every move, sharp and calculating. Garner placed the packages on the rickety table, its surface stained with memories, spilled drinks, and cigarette burns.

“Here’s the shit,” he said.

Danny’s lips curled into a smirk, an expression that never boded well. He held up a family-size box of Lucky Charms, the absurdity of the cereal box juxtaposed against the grim setting. He tossed it to Garner, who caught it with a frown. Inside, the unmistakable rustle of paper signaled the promised fifty grand.

“Always knew you had a flair for the dramatic,” Garner said.

Danny’s gravelly chuckle was old tires on a rough road. “Life’s a show, Nash, and we’re all clowns in the circus.”

The moment hung between them, a fragile truce in a long-fought war. Then Danny’s gaze sharpened. “There’s one more thing, Nash. For old-time’s sake. You know you want it.”

Garner’s stomach knotted. Danny’s tone left little room for ambiguity. This was not a request; it was a demand.

Danny loaded more crystal into the small glass pipe, flicked the lighter, and extended it. The grains shimmered teasingly. Garner’s hand shook as he accepted it and took a deep breath.

Then Danny was upon him, his grip ironclad, pulling Garner into the bedroom. He kissed Garner with surprising gentleness before hurling the younger man onto the soiled mattress.

The meth fired circuits in Garner that triggered a memory dump — night terrors in prison, a gang rape he told guards was consensual, and weird shit like Avogadro’s number from that high school physics class he flunked.

Garner’s mind galloped, caught in desperation, resignation, and a maniacal urge for this bully to wreck his hole. You chose this game, a voice screamed in his brain. Take it like a man.

In the doorway, Danny peeled off his shirt, reached into his jeans pocket, and threw a tiny brown bottle of liquid on the bed. He unfastened his thick, black belt and yanked it free of his Wranglers, slapped it against the doorframe.

“Don’t eyeball me like that, bitch,” he said. “It’s the same as in the joint. Shit on my cock or blood on my shiv.”

Text and photo copyright © 2023 L.T. Hanlon. All content in this post is fiction.

Garner arrived at Danny’s trailer, the dilapidation of the place a stark reminder of the grim world he’d re-entered. With its peeling paint and broken windows, the trailer squatted on its haunches like a decrepit beast. Inside, the air was thick with stale cigarettes and neglect.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Garner said, eyes scanning the filthy interior.

Danny, lounging on a worn-out sofa that first tasted ass when Jackie Kennedy wore pink pillbox hats, just sneered. “Don’t need to be fancy to do business, Nash. You should know that.”

Their small talk was terse, laden with the weight of a past neither man cared to revisit. As abrasive as ever, Danny seemed to take pleasure in jabbing at old wounds.

After a few minutes, Danny’s attention turned to the matter at hand. “Let’s see if this crystal is as sweet as you claim,” he said, a malicious gleam in his eyes.

Garner handed over a sample, his fingers steady despite the turmoil. Danny piped and lit it with the expertise of a connoisseur, his nod of approval sending a wave of relief through Garner.

“Damn, Nash, you weren’t kidding. This is good stuff,” Danny admitted, a rare note of respect in his voice. “Fifty grand sound fair to you?”

Garner nodded, a semblance of a plan taking shape in his mind. “Sounds fair. I’ll bring the rest tomorrow.”

Danny’s smirk returned, as sharp as a knife’s edge. “Don’t play me for a fool, Nash. I know you. The stuff’s in your car’s trunk. You think I’m a fuckin’ retread?”

Garner’s heart sank. He’d underestimated Danny’s cunning.

“Go get it, now,” Danny ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Garner stepped out into the cold night. This was a dangerous game, and he was walking a razor-thin line.

Text and photo copyright © 2023 L.T. Hanlon. All content in this post is fiction.