Rain pounded against the top of the car. Rosco and Bozolli sat inside.

        “I don’t know about this shit anymore, man,” Bozolli said. “Shit’s too tame. We gotta step it up, ya know?”

        “You, fuckin’ step it up?” Rosco asked. “Fuckin’ death of you, man. You ain’t getting paid to fuckin’ lap your plate however you choose. C’mon, we got work to do.”

        The two men stepped out of the car into the downfall. They wore tattered overcoats. Rosco had on a brimmed hat. Bozolli blew smoke past the strands hanging over his eyes like a dog. His cold, blue eyes held thoughts that a guy like him shouldn’t be thinking.

        “I just don’t think we’re takin’ shit far as we can.”

        “Don’t be pullin’ wise shit now, man. We collect and we hit the road. You can have a few drinks after, find some fresh pussy, and shut your eyes for the night. Forget this steppin’-it-up shit. We’re doin’ alright, ain’t we? We’re hired muscle, so fuckin’ what? We get jobs. We deliver. No bullshit included. Thank you very much.”

        Rosco and Bozolli got out of the car and crossed the street into an old, ruined apartment building. They walked up the cracking stairs at a casual pace. Rosco rubbed his hands, keeping them from getting stiff. Bozolli kept his head down, looking at the worn parts of the floor. There were yellow shapes obscured that looked like faces.

        “You watch the Cub’s game last night?” Rosco asked.

        Bozolli lifted his eyes; a smudge of contemplation lingered. He shook it.

        “Nah.”

        “This fuckin’ guy.” Rosco pointed to Bozolli with his hand open. He sighed. “You ain’t touchin' the dope no more, right?”

        “Yea, it’s been a while. Dealer probably thinks I ate the fuckin’ big one.”

        “Hey, I’m proud of you, man. That shit’s for chumps. Let him think you’re dead.”

        They reached the fifth story and walked down the hall. Dim, yellow lights lit the stretch. They stopped at the last door. The light cast their shadows on the door in front of them.

        “Room 509. Mr. Vast, here we come.” Rosco knocked on the door. “Knock, knock, motherfucker.” Rosco cracked his head to the side.

        Bozolli flicked his hair back. He wore a snarl on his face.

        “I said ‘knock, knock, motherfucker’,” Rosco said. “Oh, maybe he ain’t home.” He smirked. “Fuckin’ impolite not to open for your guests.”

        Bozolli patted Rosco on the chest, took three steps back, and rushed the door. It crashed open. The darkness of the room flooded out and sucked in their shadows. Bozolli entered with Rosco following.

        “You see a light switch?” Rosco asked.

        Bozolli walked to the back of the room and stopped at a desk. A man sat slouched over in a chair. Bozolli grabbed him by his collar and lifted him to his height.

        “Ah, shit,” Bozolli said.

        “Here we go.” Rosco pulled a chain link and let it go. The light bulb swung in circles, lighting different parts of the room in an orbit.

        “He’s dead,” Bozolli said. Blood slid off the man’s throat.

        “What? That’s our job. Fuckin’ cocksucker can’t kill himself.”

        “Well, I don’t think he’s waking up anytime soon, Rosco.”

        Bozolli still held the man. Its limp head pulled downwards in a bob. He lifted the chin and beheld an arc of sliced flesh.

        “Ah, fuck,” Bozolli said.

        “How long you gonna hold him for. Jesus.”

        “Rosco, how many fucks have you known that’ve cut their own throats?” Bozolli traced the wound with his finger. “It don’t happen, man.”

        “Maybe he’s making up for low numbers. I don’t fuckin’ know. Just drop the son of a bitch and help me find something worth bringing back to Zioli – ‘fore we look like that cocksucker swimming in his own blood.”

        Bozolli dropped the man. The body sank, the limbs turned and rolled. Rosco pulled open a closet and papers fell down atop him.

        “Motherfucker.”

        Bozolli looked at the corpse.

        “Why’d you do it, man,” he asked it.

        He opened a long drawer in the man’s desk. A plastic bag of colored powder lay in his sight. It was over-packed and bulged with a plumpness that looked attractive to him. His eyes darted up. Rosco was upturning furniture. Bozolli licked his lips and fell into an ecstatic nostalgia of doing blow and getting the rush. He checked Rosco, snatched the bag, and shoved it in his pocket. He kicked the desk over with a grunt.

        “You finding anything, Bozolli?”

        “Nah, this fuck spent every dime he had. Ain’t nothing here.”

        “Yea, fuck this guy. I’m thirsty. Hey, you wanna grab a beer or something?”

        “I’ll meet up with ya. I need to take care of somethin' first.”

        “Alright. Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

        Rosco and Bozolli raced down the stairs. They stood under an awning by the car. The rain didn’t let up. The streets were soaked; trash floated by and dropped down the gutters. Rosco slapped Bozolli on the back.

        “Give me a call, we’ll find some broads.”

        Bozolli nodded.

        “You wanna ride?”

        “Nah, I’ll walk.” Bozolli lifted his hand in a wave. His mind jumped to the powder in his pocket.

        He jogged over to the subway entrance and descended the stairs. He held the bag in his pocket, gripping it firmly, liking the way it felt in his hand. Picking up his speed, he brushed by people, avoiding faces. He entered the men’s room and headed to a sink for the mirror. The piss yellow light of the room was bright. His eyes adjusted with his returned dominion. He fought the anxiety coursing through his body.

        Bozolli walked into an open stall and latched it. He carefully took out the plastic bag and held it to his eyes. The powder was a potent, dark red. It looked as if old Mr. Vast had cut his throat over the coke. He opened the bag, dabbed it with his pinky, and brought it to his tongue. Sulfur laced it with a sting. He lifted his eyebrows and his upper lip in contempt.

        “I fuckin’ dig.”

        Bozolli reached for his wallet. He slid a razorblade out.

        “Good to see you, old friend,” he said to the blade.

        He poured the powder onto the toilet paper dispenser. A large pile of the red sat in a clump. With practiced skill, he spread the powder into six lines – the perfect length, the perfect width. Bozolli smiled for the first time in a while. He slid the razorblade back into his wallet and took out a dollar bill. He pinched an end and rolled it. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he bent down for the line. Bozolli held his left nostril closed and inhaled a line smoothly. He tilted his head back and inhaled again.

        “Man, that shit’s pure.”

        He licked his pinky and lifted some powder to his gums. Nodding his head, he put George Washington down for another line. Deep inhales followed. Music crept into his mind, an industrial beat of pistons shooting in and out, in queue with his breath. The drip hit him. His eyes sparked. Water dripped from his hair into his mouth. Sweet, dirty rain soaked into his tongue. He nodded his head harder to the music. He held the other nostril closed and snorted a line. The sulfur-like, bitter taste hit the back of his throat.

        Bozolli drove his fist into the stall’s side. It dented and sent a ripple of pain through his fist. He banged his head to the industrial sounds.

        “Hey, fuckin’ watch it, buddy!” A man said from the stall over.

        Bozolli did the last three lines in quick succession. He fumbled the bag of powder open and tossed more of the hellish dust onto the toilet dispenser case. His shoulders and torso were now in the rhythm of the hypnotic sounds. At lightning speed, he crafted the lines, dashing the razorblade side-to-side, extracting the fine powder.

        Inhaling and sniffing the dust, the drip became more noticeable. The numbing feeling raced through his throat. He bit his thumb and swished the chalky powder around his mouth. Laughter hit him, tears rolled down his cheeks and slid into his mouth. An iron-like saltiness hit his taste buds. He leaned over and did three more lines, and stared up to the ceiling, still inhaling. He closed the plastic bag and stuck it in his jacket pocket.

        With his throbbing fist, he punched down the stall door with a ferocity he hadn’t felt before. He inhaled hard and stretched the muscles in his neck, straining them out. He screamed a growl and flexed his hands, tensing his whole body.

        “Fuckin’ nut,” a man at the sink said.

        Bozolli grabbed his throat and threw him into the tile wall, pinning him. Bozolli’s inhaling was hard and consistent; the music pulsed deafening loud in his ears.

        “Get the fuck – off me, you fuck. I’ll – kill ya, you son of a bitch.” The man gasped for air.

        Bozolli cupped the man’s upper-row of teeth with his left hand and the lower-row with his right. He shook violently with sweat pouring off his face in rushes. The salty taste flooded his throat, liquid and wet; it rolled over his tongue, down his throat. Bozolli roared. He ripped the man’s mouth apart.

        Gagging and coughing, drool and spit flew from his mouth in gobs. A short man with a newspaper entered the bathroom, saw Bozolli, and ran out with saucer-like eyes. Bozolli pulled harder on both sides and a final scream flooded out of the man’s mouth. His jaw cracked and disconnected. Blood streamed out. The man’s eyes rolled back into his head.

        Bozolli rocked back-and-forth, inhaling and exhaling hard. He spit phlegm and looked down, surprised to see blood. He rushed over to the mirror and viewed his reflection. Splattered red covered his face. The salty taste of it was thick in his mouth. He ran in a scurried fall out the bathroom, down the hall, up the stairs, and back into the rain’s downfall.

        Bozolli breathed hard and let the rain wash over his face. He looked up at the moon. The craters formed a shape that he swore was the devil himself.