Fucking Ernesto, who's that prick, Binky is?

Randy's words echo too loudly in the deserted streets.

The cheap vodka that we've been passing back and forth between the four of us, slurs his words.

I bring the bottle to my lips for appearance's sake, but don't take a drink.

With Randy's temper up, and Mike too willing to do his bidding,

I've led us through the discarded bits of the city, the side of town that's so run down that

there's not even a crack house. Even junkies and pushers have standards, I guess. Well, I say,

and pass the bottle to Caleb. I'm guessing he thinks he's the guy with the drugs,

and he didn't take kindly to your divestment of the product.

The four of us have known each other since we were kids,

growing up on the wrong side of the tracks,

and hustling for money since we were in diapers.

The best gig we ever had was with Ernesto.

We were go-betweens for the dealers and the buyers.

That way, Ernesto's guys never got pinched holding the product.

The worst we'd get was a slap on the wrist, and maybe some time in juvie.

Of course, this close to 18 now, we're not worth nearly as much as we used to be.

Hence Randy's brilliant idea to take some of Ernesto's stash and move it himself.

Or so he says, his story doesn't match the fresh track marks dotted on his arms.

Fuck off, Jordy.

Mike squares up and advances toward me.

Think you're that smart guy just because you got a couple of A's before we dropped out?

...