Heroin Chronicles Read Free Page B

“Back off!” They stopped advancing.
    â€œJou a fockin’ dead man,” the biggest of them said. “Jou shot my focking cousin. You fockin’ dead man.”
    The Russian kept the gun on them, glancing down to the bloody shoebox, then over to the door, as if weighing his options. Tania thought he might be crazy enough to try and grab the box and outrun the dealers. Suddenly the Russian’s hand stopped shaking and a strange calm seemed to settle over him.
    â€œNo,” he said, firmly. “ You’re a fucking dead man.”
    He opened fire, setting off a series of deafening cracks as bullets flew around the room. One caught the big man in the chest, another hit the mustache in the groin, a third blasted the goatee in the stomach. All three hit the ground. The two who were still alive were screaming and cursing in Spanish. The Russian stood over them and used his last two bullets to put them out of their misery. He tucked the gun in his waistband and went over to the table. He grabbed the dealers’ guns and then retrieved the bloodstained shoebox. Almost as an afterthought he paused on his way out and told Joe and Tania to get on their feet. They did not get up. The Russian looked at them with a curious expression on his face.
    â€œWe didn’t see nothing, man,” Joe said. “Look, we just wanna get the fuck outta here and go get high, that’s all. We ain’t going to the fucking cops or telling anyone we were here. Okay?”
    The Russian nodded slowly. Then he pulled one of the dealers’ guns and fired four times. The first two bullets hit Joe in the stomach. The third hit Tania in the chest. The fourth went wild, ricocheting around the room. He fired again, but there was the click of an empty chamber. Joe and Tania lay over each other, a pile of tangled limbs and hot, fresh blood. With that, the Russian fled down the stairs.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Tania said.
    â€œWhat’re you sorry about?”
    â€œPeeing. I peed in my fuckin’ pants, can’t you smell it? It’s probably on your upholstery. I’m so … ugh .”
    â€œDon’t sweat it.”
    They were in Joe’s car, heading back to Hollywood. Smoking cigarettes with still-trembling fingers. It wasn’t shock or fear that made their hands shake. Instead it was something that felt like the aftermath of a particularly strong orgasm.
    â€œWhat the fuck do you think just happened?”
    Joe looked over to Tania. She stared off into space, but didn’t answer. She just carried on smoking, and looking down impassively at the gaping, bloody hole in her shirt. She shook her head slowly.
    â€œI mean,” Joe said in a voice that was a mixture of horror and wonder, “I mean just look at me!”
    She looked over and her eyes widened, as if she were seeing the devastation for the first time. With one hand still on the wheel, Joe lifted his bloody shirt. His stomach was ripped open, his jeans soaked with deep black blood. Something that looked like a purple, flayed snake lolled obscenely out of the moist hole. It lay glistening on his lap. She shook her head dreamily.
    â€œTania … did we die ?”
    Tania half closed her eyes and let her head rest lazily against the passenger window, as they turned down Wilcox Avenue.
    â€œI don’t know. All I know is that it felt …” She drifted off, a wan smile playing on her lips.
    â€œAmazing?” Joe whispered.
    â€œYeah. It felt fucking amazing .”
    As soon as they made it back to her room at the Gilbert Hotel, they got high. It was a run-down box with threadbare brown carpeting and a broken television bolted to the wall. When they stumbled in past the front desk, Joe holding his guts in with his forearm, the old Bangladeshi man behind the Plexiglas window with the NO GUESTS NO EXCEPTIONS sign pasted to it didn’t look up from his newspaper.
    Tania locked the door behind them while Joe