Requiem for a Dream Read Free Page A

of coffee and a fuckin
baboon has to sit next to me. Shit! He sipped his coffee and looked
at the gun in the holster wondering what would happen if he suddenly
yanked the gun out and started shooting, pow, pow, and blow the
mother fuckers head right the fuck off then toss a bill on the
counter and tell the chick to keep the change and stroll out or maybe
just ease the gun out and then hand it to the cop and ask him if it
was his, I just found it on the floor and I thought maybe you
misplaced your gun, or what would really be a gasser would be to
sneak the fuckin thing out and mail it to the commissioner with a
little note how a couple a guys got burned with it and maybe he
should take better care a his toys . . . yeah, that would be a gasser
and he looked at the huge son of a bitch sitting next to him as he
fat mouthed with the chick behind the counter and laughed his big
black ass off and Harry chuckled to himself and wondered what the cop
would think if he knew that his life was in Harrys hands and then
Harry noticed the size of the hand holding the coffee cup and
realized that it was bigger than a fuckin basketball and he stuffed
the rest of the doughnut in his mouth and swished it down with the
coffee and strolled out of the coffee shop, slowly, still feeling
that mountain of a fuzz behind him, as Tyrone bebopped his way down
the subway steps.
    Tyrones pad wasnt much more than a room with a sink.
They sat around the small table, their works in a glass, the water
tinged pink with blood, their heads hanging loose from their necks,
their hands hanging loose from their wrists, their fingers barely
holding their cigarettes. Occasionally a finger probed a nostril.
Their voices came low and weak from their throats. Sheeit, thats some
boss scag baby. I mean dyn a mite. Yeah man, its really somethin
else. Harrys cigarette burned his fingers and he dropped it, Shit,
then slowly bent over and looked at it for a minute, his hand hanging
over it, then finally picked it up, looked at it, then gradually
worked a fresh cigarette out of his pack and into his mouth and lit
it with the old one, dropped the butt in the ashtray, then licked the
burned spot on his fingers. He stared at the tip of his shoes for a
moment, then another . . . they looked good, sort of soft the way
they—a huge roach attracted his attention as it belligerently
marched by, and by the time he thought of trying to step on it it
disappeared under the molding. Just as well, that sonofabitch mighta
put a hole in my shoe. He tugged his arm up and then his hand and
took a drag of his cigarette. Harry took another long drag on his
cigarette and inhaled it slowly and deeply, tasting each particle of
smoke and savoring the way it seemed to titillate his tonsils and
throat, krist it tasted good. There was something about smack that
made a cigarette taste so fuckin good. Ya know what we oughtta do
man? Huh? We oughtta get a piece a this shit and cut it and off half
of it, ya dig? Yeah baby, this stuffs good enough to cut in half and
still get you wasted. Yeah, we'd just take a taste for ourselves and
off the rest. We could double our money. Easy. Thas right baby. An
then we buys a couple a pieces an we got somethin else goin man. It
sure  would be righteous baby. All we gotta do is cool it with
the shit, you know, just a taste once in a while but no heavy
shit—Right on baby—just enough to stay straight an we'd have a
fuckin bundle in no time. You bet your sweet ass. Those bucks would
just be pilin up till we was ass deep in braid Jim. Thats right man,
and we wouldnt fuck it up like those other assholes. We wont get
strung out and blow it. We'd be cool and take care a business and in
no time we'd get a pound of pure and just sit back and count the
bread. No hustlin the fuckin streets. You goddamn right mutha fucka.
We get it right from the eyetalians and cut it our ownselves and get
us some runy nosed dope fiens to hustle it for us an we jus sit back
countin them bucks and