Trusting the devil with a taste of your treasure

December 18, 2023June 8, 2024 L.T. HanlonLeave a comment

Chet looks on as Garner shows a bag of meth to Danny.

Chet led Garner out of the dim bar, pushing through the back door into an alley. They approached an old Ford F-150, its paint faded and chipped.

Behind the wheel sat Danny Maddox, whose face twisted into a smirk when he recognized Garner.

“Well, well, if it ain’t Garner Nash,” Danny drawled, his voice dripping with mock surprise. “Running back to me here on the outside. Still wanna be my bitch, is that it, boy?”

Garner’s jaw clenched, but he kept his cool. “People change, Danny. Circumstances change.”

Danny snorted. “The only thing that’s probably changed is the size of your shithole.”

Garner produced a small plastic bag from his pocket. “I’ve got something that might interest you,” he said.

Danny eyed the bag, his skepticism clear. He snatched it, flicked it open, and stuck a finger inside. Bringing it to his mouth, he tasted the contents — and his eyes lit up with approval.

“Not bad, Nash. Not bad at all,” he conceded, a hint of respect creeping into his voice. “Meet me at my place. We can talk business there.”

Garner nodded, a plan forming in his mind.

“And Nash,” Danny added, his gaze shifting to Chet, “leave that loser right here. This is between you and me.”

“You’re gonna trust that snake?” Chet asked as they watched Danny drive off down the icy alley.

“Sometimes you gotta dance with the devil to get out of hell,” Garner said.

Looking for help to sell death in small doses

December 17, 2023June 8, 2024 L.T. HanlonLeave a comment

A younger man and an older man sit a dimly lighted bar, discussing a shady deal.

Garner Nash rolled into Rock Springs with the Honda’s engine humming a low, tired tune. The neon lights of K Street flickered in the night, casting long shadows that danced across his face. He parked outside a dingy bar, its half-lit sign proclaiming “Utamoh & Thumo Club.”

Inside, the air was thick with tension and the clatter of pool balls. Garner scanned the room, his eyes landing on Chet Skrim, sitting at the bar and signaling for another beer. Chet was a nasty piece of work who’d used Garner in prison — and despite the risks, Garner planned to use Chet now.

“Chet Skrim, as I live and breathe,” Garner said, sliding onto the stool opposite him.

Chet’s eyes narrowed. “Garner Nash. Never thought I’d see your face on the outside.”

“I’m a free bird now with a proposition. And merchandise. Top quality.”

Chet eyed him, skepticism etched in every line of his face. “What kind of merchandise?”

“Crystal,” Garner whispered, glancing around. “Fell into my lap like a gift from the gods.”

“I might know a guy. He’s not going to be easy to convince, though.”

“I can be very persuasive,” Garner said with a smirk.

“All right. I’ll introduce you. I want a significant fee for brokering this.”

“Of course,” Garner said.

“And another thing,” Chet said. “If this goes south, you’re on your own. You got that?”

“Crystal clear.”

Chet made the call. “He’ll meet us out back in 20 minutes for a taste.”

Perps toss hundreds of fentanyl pills onto Wyoming highway

December 10, 2023June 8, 2024 L.T. HanlonLeave a comment

A scruffy young man kneels along snowy Highway 28 in Wyoming and looks at fentanyl pills and crustal meth packets that a passing motorist threw out the window.

Garner Nash never imagined his day would turn out so good.

There he was on State Highway 28, thumb outstretched, hoping for a ride from the freezing nowhere he found himself in. Memo to self, Garner thought: Next time a truck driver wants a blowjob, give him one to avoid getting kicked out in weather like this.

Way up the highway near South Pass, Garner saw a car approaching fast. Before he could make eye contact with the driver, the car roared into view, its passenger-side window open.

Hundreds of pills flew from the car, peppering Garner like buckshot and skittering across the asphalt.

And then the car already seemed miles away.

As Garner scooped up the pills and stuffed them in his backpack, he saw dozens of tiny plastic packets and got them, too. He jumped into a ditch and crouched behind some brush, watching as Wyoming Highway Patrol cruisers flashed by in pursuit.

When engines and sirens faded in the distance, Garner took a moment to examine his booty and recognized fentanyl pills interspersed with packets of crystal meth.

He couldn’t stay on the road. With cautious steps, Garner emerged from his hiding place, his mind buzzing with possibilities. He stumbled upon an unguarded ranch where an old Mercury M-100 pickup sat. It was old and rusted, but it was his ticket to safety.

Garner’s hands shook as he hot-wired the truck — something he’d learned from a fellow drifter. The engine sputtered to life, and he was off, driving down an unmarked gravel road.

A nagging voice whispered of risks, of dangers lurking in the shadows of this newfound path. Yet, Garner pushed these thoughts aside. For now, he was on the road to easy money.

About an hour later, he swapped the M-100 for a Honda Civic in Lander and headed for Rock Springs. A guy he used to fuck in prison could tell him where to sell this shit.