Knuckle Society 3

3. Street Pharmacist

Street Pharmacist studied the coiled length of barbed wire next to Da Jew’s foot. "Fuck that," Street said. "That’s not what I’m about. "I’m all about bong hits and powerbombs. I don’t even climb a fence if it’s got barbed wire on top."

Da Jew rubbed a hand across his bald pate Morse-coded with paper thin dashes and scab dots from last week’s hardcore match. Hell, all the matches were hardcore. He wore a butterfly bandage on the gash above his left eye where a shard of fluorescent bulb embedded itself.

"You’re almost as bad as Lemonhead, you know that? You won’t let me break bulbs over your melon head. Least you can do is let Terrorist wrap you up in barbed wire before he does his 9-11 finishing move on you."

"I don’t want to hear that shit. I tole you the shit inside those bulbs are cancerous."

"Dammit, Street, just hold your breath like the rest of us. It’s only cancerous if it gets in your lungs. All right, look, fuck the bulbs. Give the barbed wire a try. No one ever caught cancer from barbed wire. Most of the barbs won’t even break the skin."

"Those barbs are rusty."

"So what? When’s the last time you had your Tetanus shot?"

"Dude, it’s been like ten years ago."

"Perfect. Those things are good for like fifteen years."

Street Pharmacist weighed his options. "I want the belt. The Wicked Voodoo Master belt."

"No fuckin way. Jack Doobie’s got a lock on that belt for the next two months."

"C’mon. I gotta get something out of this. What about the Supreme Ninja belt?"

"Freeko ain’t giving that shit up. Not after getting his head rammed through my garage, getting tacks stomped into his face and his balls set on fire."

"So I’m putting my body on the line for nothing?"

"I told you; once we get the website up and running, and once we make copies of the X-Jay-Dub tapes and once we start selling copies of the events, you’ll practically be famous. Everyone will want to buy their dope from THE Street Pharmacist, purveyor of the power bong. And you know we’ll kick a few X-Jay-Dub dollars your way."

Street continued mulling. Da Jew was as shrewd as his namesake. Street knew he’d rather buy his dope from a famous wrestler before he’d buy a sack off some back alley Mexican like that DeJesus cocksucker Doobie set him up with. Seven pounds of moldy weed not worth selling to fucking high school kids. And no sign of DeJesus once Street cracked open the second pound and found the white spores proliferating throughout the withered bulbs.

He didn’t want to think about it, though, didn’t want to consider the money he owed, the money he lost gambling on a supplier he didn’t even know, didn’t want to imagine what the Romero brothers were up to, right now. Locked away in a hole in the ground, looking at serious fucking time.

Nope, thinking about that would only wreck his high. Thinking about a XJW championship belt on the other hand... Think of all the dimebags he could move with the Ultimate Blunt Killer belt hanging off his shoulder. Hell yeah, that might make up for the seven pounds of worthless unkind bud stacked on his kitchen table.

Street glanced at Jack Doobie, setting along the fence the plywood boards spray painted with such slogans as POLISH MAFIA, FUCK EVERYONE, and the Screaming Shits motto LIGHT THAT SHIT UP. He couldn’t see Doobie purposefully setting him up to get burned. Nobody felt worse about Street taking the five thousand dollar hit than Doobie. He was Polish Mafia. A Jughead. A Friend From Birth. Five thousand dollars couldn’t buy away that kind of friendship. He just didn’t know DeJesus as well as he thought he did. He fucked up. Street fucked up. The Romero brothers getting busted by the Feds had everyone acting dodgy. It wasn’t the end of the world. Not like it was the end of the world for Corey and Gregory Romero.

He glanced at his younger brother, Freeko. Lemonhead had him cornered up, whining and bitching. Frankenskank stood in a neutral corner of the yard, waiting for her jackass boyfriend to finish airing out his pussy.

She glanced up from her shoe tops. Her dark eyes met his bloodshot eyes. She smiled, flirtatiously perhaps. It was difficult to tell. Her chipped front teeth threw him off. Regardless, he tipped his dragon bong in salute.

Feasibly attractive, he thought. Wouldn’t kick her outta bed for spilling bong water on the sheets.

Then he imagined Frankenskank’s reaction to seeing him wrapped in barbed wire, gorilla pressing the Terrorist’s bitch ass. Likely it would involved moisture around her vaginal area, something obviously missing from her relationship with Lemonhead. He glanced back at her in time to see her exchange flirtatious smiles with Coal Train.

"I’ll do it," Street said. "Let’s just get this shit over with. I’m a business man. Time is money."