Tina was out on business. Responding to calls from clients. She was at the University, at the City Campus. She knew the area well. It was, after all, a great place to sell drugs. And so for many reasons. For one thing, it was a huge college campus. Mammoth in size, actually, and as such, it was packed with young students. And as young students, many of them were drug users. Also, for another thing, another aspect of the appeal, there weren’t any police at the University — University Police, yeah — but those weren’t the same as City Police.
The University Police were of mainly just officers yet-to-be, the officers still in training — meaning, essentially, they weren’t so great at police work. Sure, they’d drove cars, wore tan suits and had gold badges — and yeah, they were more than sufficient in handling the work they were called for — perfectly adept in, say, breaking up parties, issuing parking tickets, patrolling empty classrooms, the benignly mundane — but no, they would not be so ideal in situations, such as, say, armed robbery inside a liquor store, high speed chases on the skyway, things like that, the things all-too-real. That stuff was reserved for city cops. There had been since always, a prudently firm-held division in the authority between city cops and the University Police. There were reasons, why when someone was raped at a frat party, if it was reported, it was the City Police who were called on, and not the other guys, always closer to the scene of the crime.
Tina was not afraid of the University Police. She hardly even minded them. And Tina respected the City Police — but not because she admired them. Tina was, by definition a criminal, and she knew that much, quite well. She respected the city cops because she feared them. Tina had been arrested in the past, she’d been to jail, she knew exactly what they were all about and so, yeah, she respected them.
When Tina arrived at the University, she waited outside, near the front doors, at the entrance of the South Campus Metro Station — her most frequently used location for meeting with clients. She would switch the spots up regularly, once a certain amount of time was passed — to ensure she’d not become a fixture in the environment — it was all about keeping a low profile. Tina would wait there near the doorways, and sit on the benches, wearing Timberland boots and a long, trenching goose-feather jacket. Her clients would always know exactly what to look for — Tina would send those details by text in the moments before any transaction.
Thomas, Tina’s client, that day, was a business student from Ohio. He was looking for speed. Speed was the hottest seller on campus — the hottest seller that was, after weed. Weed was always the hottest seller, anywhere. Tina never sold weed — James would never grow any. But Thomas wanted speed to help him study. Speed, as a drug, was much the same as adderall in that way — the biggest difference between them in that sense, was that speed was illegal, and adderall was schedule II — meaning a controlled substance — requiring a physician’s prescription and therefore, was unattainable to Thomas and absent in the aid of his desire for enhanced study.
Tina always had plenty of speed — James knew how to make it. He learned about the chemical compositions in amphetamine, among other drugs, through intensive study of just various Wikipedia articles — learning all things page-by-page, following all and any relevant matters from link-to-link. It was quite the undertaking, but from one subject, he’d learn multiple. And with much trial and error, he had finally produced his very first batch of a legitimate speed. Since then, he was producing speed in his kitchen at a tremendous rate. James was probably only one of just few in Buffalo who knew how to make speed — that was, scientists, professional chemists, and pharmacists probably, all put aside — but James was definitely the only person actually making it. Anytime speed was purchased on the streets in Buffalo, it was rootable to James. James had made all of it. Tina sold most of it. And associates would sell the rest.
Author, blogger, painter, poet, schizophrenic, vitamin salesman. There's a shadow person living in my head is something I believe. Fiction. Digital art. Smalltime jobs. I do all these things. Bad biology is a lie. God is a robot. View all posts by Luke Meyer