The Plot Thickens (like the sandwich)

There's no surer sign of an idiot then the lack of a trustworthy friend. That is what Nate thought as he burst through the door and slammed against the wall. He was panting in rapid succession and yet felt unable to speak. He was rendered immobile by dread.

He stood still. Sweat slithered across his scalp down to his cheeks. Breaths continued to race each other but more softly. Turning his eye to the door, he forced his left hand to shut it.

Was anyone coming? Had he gone too far this time? What was left to do now? These questions joined the breaths in the bombardment of his mind. The delusions nearly blinded him. And then he thought about one thing, or specifically, one person. Two people, actually.

He retched his head back and forth and stood straight. His fatigue disappearing he went into the kitchen and turned on the sink. He began running water through his hair with his hands, taking an occasional sip whenever his senses got through to him. When he was done, he went to the shower.

He had to wash the blood.

*

"Hello Billy." 

"Well, well. Kyle coming home late, with his sparkly hair in a mess. This is impossible." 

"Not as impossible as you leaving this room quietly and without a fuss. Care to prove me wrong?"

"I was rather hoping that you were in a better mood, but i'll work with it. So let's discuss your problems. And don't be shy because I'm good with people." 

Billy moved to the counter and found a glass and bottle of Yorkshire next to her. He uncorked it and filled it halfway. Kyle still had his eyes on him, his disbelief fading into annoyance.

"My problems are my own and I hope they remain anonymous. So if you think you know what my problem is, why don't you stop and spit."

As he corked the bottle, he glanced up at him and pursed his lips.

"Rude," he said bluntly and then assumed his relaxed smile.

"As a servant of justice and stalker of the damned, I am preparing for a meeting with a few federal agents to discuss some glaring problems with the reservoir. More specifically, what I have pertains to a group boys who were seen sprinting from the dry cleaning store to the other, much less animate, side of the scope. I just thought i'd drop in a pay a visit to the boy who will, until tomorrow afternoon, be known as a prototypical gentlemen and carnosaur of the perhaps the most addicting substance ever known to this city."

"Sounds like you've gone to the wrong house."

"That's what Ralph told me. Ralph says that I need to do less watching and more acting. Ralph is also the man that carelessly lost his gun while engorging a sandwich the size of a log. And it's a good thing that I didn't tell him I knew because otherwise I would be forced to find alternatives. So I think it's best I follow my intuition. It got me here, and now I'm asking you what yours is."

"Mine's telling me that you are diverting my attention from the point. Get to it."

"You recognize that the offshoots you were with had just swiped an exorbitant amount of methamphetamine, and fail to recognize the disservice they're doing to themselves, their loved ones, and the less than honest buyers. The latter of whom declined my requests not long ago after I refused to show identification."

Kyle shook his head and tapped his index finger on the counter while staring daggers at him. He chuckled and continued.

"As the aforementioned gentlemen you are, I believe you'd be most inclined, once you hear the story, to supply me with a good 200,000. And then i'll go find someone else to abash."

Kyle looked like he was preparing to shoot him in the face. He took a deep breath to counter the tension surging through him. He glanced at his reflection in the marble counter before looking back up at Billy.

"You can't blackmail me out of my money, Billy. I earned it from my income as an investor. Doesn't matter how I use it. Don't pretend you're any less surreptitious."

"Ah, so you admit it. You were there. Which means surely you must know who the buyer was. What say you spill the beans, or better yet, the icicles."

Kyle circled around the counter, prompting Billy to balk away slowly and move to the table. He took a seat, set his glass on the coasterless tabletop, and folded his hands. Kyle stopped.

"Why me? Why not go find any of the others to destroy?"

"Because you're loaded, silly boy. And if you give me what I want, we both walk away, you having learned a lesson your mom forgot to teach you, and me having become richer and grateful because of it."

"This won't end well for you. Or her."

Billy raised a brow considering this. He gaze went to the drink on the table. He took a swig and looked back at Kyle.

"Just tell me who it was, and all this will be over."

Kyle held his stare at Billy for a long pause. After that, he leaned against the counter and looked off through the window which bore a pitch black environment. He could only see himself in it.

*

QUINN BREAKS IN

The street was quiet. The midnight hour casted it's spell over the area and so the wind ceased. The roads carried the dregs of dirt, litter, and pieces of clothes from the day. The courtyard with a field of green had been burdened even worse but still retained its color. No one was there to observe the suburbs or enter the nearest store to undertake any additional sprees. The only lights hung now on the lampposts which despite its year long disregard, never blinked. They just beamed and hissed softly.

(Metaphor for pain!)

The footsteps that approached from the east road where those of a young woman's sneakers. She crossed the road between two cars without looking both ways. Despite the shadows obscuring her face, she wore a baseball cap down. In her hand was a leather duffel bag, the sort that's used by passengers, or burglars.

Reaching the other side of the road, she passed the parking meters on her left until she came to the curb. The library was in front of her, the great glass one with six foot tall marble piece that from a fixed perspective, forms a Yin and Yang. From here, it looked just like two leaves. Form beneath her cap she regarded it with narrowed eyes, and then turned.

The ramp descended onto less fortunate asphalt which accented her steps. She didn't look back and strode toward the next building. It's marsh green, gold, and black walls appeared to reach more than three stories. The sign in front of it was barely legible without its neon aid, but she did not need to look up at it to recognize the place. Rather than the main entrance she veered left and came along the side of the building.

There was the silver door. Unlocked as expected. She was about to go forward when she paused. Lifting her cap she looked back up to the avenue. No one was there. No sound was made except for the abrupt buzz above her. She winced when her eyes met the blazing lamppost, which was ringing with an uncharacteristic moan. It was not the soft whirr from earlier, it was more discordant. More unsatisfied.

She would have scoffed but she lacked energy. No energy and yet anxious.

Inside it was dark. Cinderblock shelves stocked with bags and boxes of unknown origin and content. It was even darker than outside. It was impossible to see the door to the proceeding room or light switch from here so she held one arm out in front of her. Her other held the duffel bag closer. She squinted as best she could as if that would make matters brighter. at the end of on shelf she turned and took three steps before turning into another lane of shelves. This one she attempted to identify, but with the darkness ever more prevalent here then it was on the road, it was to no avail.

Eventually, she found the drywall door and beside it the knob light switch. She turned it counter-clockewise, the lights remaining inactive for the first ninety degrees. She screwed the knob even faster and the lights snapped on, so she quickly dialed back. The intensity waned until the point where she could not make it any darker, lest she be forced to sit in the darkness.

Finding a swivel chair on a desk at the farthest end of the shelves, she nodded to herself. It would do. She dropped the duffel bag which grunted with a mixture of metal and polyester wrinkles. The desk had a small stack of papers, a mortised container of pencils, some notepads, and a macbook laptop at the forefront. There was a container beneath, but it was also locked. The notepads drew her attention and she scrutinized each one, looking for something. Her lips curled as she finished the last and rapped her finger on the desk. No password.

She wanted to smash the computer where it was. Without it, she had no way to access security and find the footage. If she could just strangle Kyle and force him to spit the truth out, but he'd probably let her shoot him before he gave anything away. His painless persona was something that always attracted her to him. How should have known it would bite her back one day. How she wanted him to bite her again. To even have a normal conversation with him.

She shook herself free of her ruminations and struggled to decide. She could stay here for the night and sneak out before opening hours.She skipped back to the door one last time, checking the lock to make sure she was safe. But it wouldn't matter the next day. She'd have to duck out for half an hour and grab lunch at Burger King and then come back when he was finished at his desk. Whatever he was doing.

Alternatively, she could also go back to Ms. Thornburg and get an even better sleep. She might not know about her yet and she'd keep a secret, assuming of course Kyle wasn't there. Or perhaps she should simply return to her car, taking a box with her to pass the time.

The thought prompted her to examine the shelf. The boxes were latched, except for the one with the hammer and wrenches. But the bags proved to be in fact not bags, but glasses. Identical unlabeled mugs and cups that stretched from one end of the shelf to the other.

Coming to the shelf across from the path, she saw more boxes that were also unmarked despite varying color. It was strange, for these many boxes, none of them seemed to be labeled. Sloth or smart?

It didn't matter, she wasn't here for this.

Giving up, she cursed, more audibly than she should have, and snatched her duffel bag. She ran to the light and switched it off. She hurried back the memorized route in such haste she collided with a shelf. Panicked rushed through her as she reached out her hands and then froze. The cinderblocks held so unwaveringly she did not need to hold it in place. She heaved a sigh and opened the door and shut it behind her.

She did not see the camera blink above her.

*

NATE AND HAROLD INTRODUCTION

REVEALS HAROLD CAUTIOUS CHARACTER

"So, let me understand this. You saw that plane fly overhead dropping those bombs?"

From the opposite chair, Harold nodded with a tight mouth.

"So you meant what you said when abandoned your post?"

"Well," Harold began with a wince, "When it vanished behind the trees across from the lake, that's when the rest of the platoon started going ape-shit. You can imagine how I, skinny as I was, was the worst of all. Didn't even have time to get back to get back to my tent. The whole place had become fucking 9/11. We weren't even soldiers anymore. Just boys. My captain was panicked, but he kept us in order."

Nate smiled at the absurdity. He used to whenever Harold recounted a story from his days of service. They were always stupidly chaotic or just dismally boring. Depended on his mood. But he probably wouldn't have now had Harold told this story before and he had known what followed.

"He shouted at the top of his lungs, louder than the alarms, and everyone in the radius stopped and came back. Can you even imagine how fucking big that guy's pipes were? It was biblical. I mean we still were scared shitless, but listened. After he ordered us to grab the ammo and get to the boats, use the lake' canopy as cover while we speed back to base. But I didn't get back to my tent. Nah, I went straight for the boats and helped cast off."

Nate nodded from his armchair. "So how long before you and the others got to safety?"

This time it, Harold grunted with regret. "We were about head downriver when our encampment went to hell. Once I steeled myself enough, I suggested we go downriver as it had much better cover and we'd be safer. He said that Charlie would get us too easily, and if he hadn't said it such confidence, I might've asked why they would bother coming so close when they had bombers. So we sped along the lake for so long I couldn't stop itching my neck. Mostly cause I hadn't shaved in weeks, but then as we round the bend, I see us come along the coast behind a enemy's outpost. And that's when I knew."

Harold heaved a heavy sigh and Nate could see something was bothering him, and then suddenly the tragedy hit him. He was caught between borderline anger and bewilderment. "What kind of fucked up asshole does that to his men?"

His host chuckled as if he asked the same question over and over. "Didn't take us long to figure out what he had in store for us. Maybe he thought we'd be slaughtered anyhow. Might as well do it while taking down the enemy. Course, that's not how I saw it. I wouldn't run if no one else would."

"So what happened then? Did you run?"

"Fuck no. Me, Johnny, and five others were captured, thrown into a cage and the rest...Shit. More you think about it, more you realize it wasn't bravery, it was just stupidity. The whole war was a game of black and white. Kill or be killed. Victory or death. No self preservation. Helps to know that they were wrong, because otherwise this country would be a helluva lot happier."

The words of a man burdened by his country, in more ways than one, registered harshly in Nate. Any other guest would have tried to comfort him, but he knew Harold well enough that the best medicine was diversion. This of course was difficult because Harold, especially after all these years, was not a man you could manipulate. Any person who thought otherwise wouldn't get forgivness.

"So, you were in a cage. Did you see animals." It wasn't his best attempt, but truth be told, the question intrigued him.

"Just a pit of snakes. Made some of us fight over it on a bridge. Got my work cut out for me, cause I had to fight the captain. Nearly got me too."

"Why'd they pick you of all to fight him."

"Because I was protecting Johnny. That hippy who had that nice girl back home. Obviously I was a lot more of a snowflake at 18. But if I could just hold it off, keep him hopeful for even one more day, I'd do it. He had people waiting for him back there. All I had was a drunk faggot and rehab."

Nate unconsciously chuckled, and then quickly checked himself. Harold watched him with a small grin, the type that let him know he still held his respect.

"Course it didn't feel like I had nothing. Standing over those slithering bastards whjile fighting to stay alive. Just when he held me over the edge, I yanked a loose plank from beneath he bridge and stabbed him. It went all the way through his kneecap and he barely raised his fist. He was my captain. I didn't know why I kicked him in that pit. Selfishness to keep my life. Fear that he'd keep fighting. Anger, for being here. Nowaday's I think it was just fear."

Amidst the harrowing tale, Nate found his nails sinking into the armchair with agitation.

"Next morning, the bombers come and I take the opportunity to bust out of that cage. As Johnny and I led the others out, he looked at me with this face that just said, 'wtf Harold'. I thought it was just relief, but maybe it was admiration. I never thought that I'd suddenly have this self-respect. I'll never forget the walk back to base, everyone kept looking at me like I was Jesus or something."

He let out a sigh in a mixture of pride and sorrow. For a moment he looked like he was looking at a sweet child. Nate never knew how to respond. Harold rarely let his guard down, even around him, but moments like these made him question if he really was the rusted shell of a man people called him. Whatever the reason, Nate felt grateful to witness such a wonder.

After a sniff, Harold raised his head to Nate and relaxed.

"Wait, you saved everyone and got back safely. So why the hell didn't they reward you. I mean, you guys, choice or no choice, fought until the end. You could've at least been sent home?"

Harold shook his head. "Nah. We had to sneak back, sometimes swim, or way to base. When we did, we were just put into another asshole's service. Johnny said we were gonna get medals, but I didn't believe him....till we did. Ha."

As he laughed, he pointed up to the mantlepiece, where a green white striped medal lay inside a glass case. The writing beneath it was too far for Nate to see without his glasses, but it sure commanded respect and heroism. Two words that the army would never associate with him today.

"Shame those mean little now." Nate nodded, "but I suppose the world just has better things to do than look back at real heroics."

"Yeah," Harold said with a relaxed smirk. He was obviously finished recollecting. "But that's just what the world will settle for now. Too busy with celebrities, television. They have no fucking clue what heroics are. They're just relaying the messages that the rich want to get across. Equality, socialism, the latest Bitcoin ripoff. One cultural mood-swing to another. Everything's a fucking joke now, nobody takes anything seriously."

Nate nods, "Least we're getting rich off their stupidity. I of course prefer a more enlightened world, but we know that's never going to happen. The politicians and capitalists are settling, why not the remaining best sit at the top."

"Gotta keep in mind they'll only remain stupid so long as they feel smart. Make them think they're clever, nobody's gonna even care what you ask. It's how I got here after all."

Nate never asked Harold how he got into this business. There were all sorts of shitty stories he conjured, but they were rendered fantasies without any proof. Besides the medal and a few photos, there was no material tells as to his journey. Nate seldom asked any personal questions with him, and even when Harold wrapped himself in his past and looked as gentle and harmless as his grandad, Nate knew one wrong poke and the snake would bite.

This of course made the matter of his visit here even more uncomfortable. he had some unfortunate news, and though he was never one to sugar coat things, him having to tell Harold made the temptation bubble. Looking at the clock it was around 4:30. Now was as good a time as any.

Leaning forward, hands entwined, he said, "Harold, sir. There's something I wanted to talk to you about."

Harold rubbed his nose and raised his head in anticipation. Just before he could speak, one of his men burst into the room. He was wearing a leather jacket and his head was shaved. He was also panting.

"Sir! It's the girl! She's got Kyle!"

*

QUINN AND KYLE MEET

Kyle shut the top of the tank and jumped to the floor. He took a breath and walked past the tanks until he came to the grey pressure gauge that hung on a pole. It was a few digits lower than it was supposed to and he turned it until the hand pointed just between 15000 and 20000. Then he stepped back a moment and checked himself.

The temperature outside had risen a good thirty degrees overnight, and in that heat, he would have to intensify the pressure on the meth tanks to counter the humidity. The precursor was also adjusted so the product would not waste while in storage. But he was certain he missed something. He scanned the room, eying all the equipment, silently thinking 'yes' each time he affirmed he accounted for the factor. He was never careless, and nothing eve stopped him from it.

"What's cooking?"

Kyle nearly gave himself whiplash as he swung around to face the owner of the sardonic voice. A red haired girl was leaning on the rim of his desk, facing the tanks and drumming her fingers aimlessly on the table. He nearly rolled his eyes, but instead began taking his gloves off near the swivel chair.

"Why are you here, Quinn? Does Harold want the next batch?" He asked, not looking. Kyle had a his grisly scented voice that seemed uncharacteristic for his age, and even more so, his modest yet well kept appearance.

She pursed her lips, "It's always get this. Cook that. You should know he's always anxious that you're not meeting his quota. But I'm just here because I wanted to give you the news."

precusor

h

Background:

-Kyle cooks the drug

-Harold employs him and Quinn

-The Bordeaux is the bar that Harold owns and operates from (launders money)

Plot (Chronology):

Jayce commits crime

Kyle tries to protect Quinn

Jayce and Shannon expose her

Quinn goes awol and sneaks into the room to attack

Jayce Ludwig: Lead

Kyle: Second man who helps Jayce and deals in drugs

Harold: The cartel head

Shannon: Jayce's friend who is attempting to guide him away

Quinn: Kyle's cartel friend who is put at odds with what is right

Mr. Riordan: Associate of Harold and Quinn's father

Ms. Thornburg: Kyle's mother

Billy: Investigator who makes a deal and tries to weasel a profit from it through Kyle

Ralph: The officer

Kyle didn't do this, Jayce did

Quinn

"How the hell did your sick cunt brain come up with this."

"Well, Ralph has a better filter than you," she said sarcastically, "A man named Winston once told me to never let a good crisis go to waste. I believe this is the type of wisdom people often choose to ignore, or forget.