The Life Of A Crack-Cocaine Dealer Is An Oft-Beleaguered One
Dear readers, I am afraid that for the past few days, I have been positively off the hizzy with resentment and rage. I am normally quite satisfied with my chosen profession of dealing finer-than-normal grades of crack-cocaine to the various inhabitants of Center City, Philadelphia, but it is hard to keep face when one feels so horribly underappreciated.
Allow me to explain. On Thursday, I had just spent an exhaustive four hours seeking out a particular client of mine, Taniqua Willis. Ms. Willis and I have never experienced sexual relations, which is odd because I consider this to be an important business tool for the majority of my female clients, and occasionally for the more desperate males. Nonetheless, she is a good, consistent client, and consequently I was entertaining the notion that she would be interested in sampling a new shipment of crack-cocaine that I had received the night prior.
Eventually, I did find Ms. Willis, who was expelling some sort of mixture of vomit and blood into a drainage grate in the street. As you can imagine, I was expecting a warm reception, perhaps doubly so due to the effort I put into locating her.
"Taniqua, you old bitch!" I said in a jovial manner as I approached. "You simply must try this superb new ware I have recently acquired."
"Bug off, 51 Cent!" she shrieked hoarsely at me. "Y'all can't come buggin' 'round me while I be bein' sick."
"Shut up, ho," I said patiently. "I should think that your sickness would be an even greater encouragement to my presence, as this delightful crack-cocaine I have here will significantly life your spirits, so that you may return once more to the hustling corner from whence you came!"
But my words fell on deaf ears, as Taniqua had collapsed face-first onto the drain. I glumly removed the $5 she had in her purse and left, wondering if perhaps my services were being taken for granted.
Luckily, my mood soon greatly improved, for I saw that the time was 4:45 A.M., which is exactly the time that I normally meet Samuel Fuck in front of the abandoned shipping warehouse where he currently resides. Mr. Fuck is an excellent customer of mine, and I knew I could count on him to be enthusiastic about my presence, even if that fucking ho Taniqua was not.
The first warning sign, however, came when Samuel did not show up at the designated time. I waited for at least twenty minutes and then dosed off, awakening after an unknown amount of time to discover Mr. Fuck rummaging through my coat in an effort to steal my wares!
"Samuel, you scoundrel!" I shouted, springing to my feet and knocking him over. "Not only are you late and attempting to rob me, but you've also disturbed me from a very lovely dream I was having, in which I was the clerk of a fine European store specializing in selling elegant polished glass eggs!"
"I need it bad, Cent," Samuel whimpered, tugging at my coat like a disgraceful animal or drug addict. "You done turned me on to your shit, and I ain't got no money or job to pay for none."
I could not believe his audacity! "Why the devil is your lack of employment my problem, Samuel? And as for any addictive qualities found in my product, you of all people should know that they're for novelty purposes only! Damnation, man!"
Sadly, even after I solved Mr. Fuck's problem by terminating him with a cap to the brain, I did not feel better. I fear, gentle reader, that this city is taking me for all I am worth. I attempt to provide a reasonably-priced method of enjoyment at a reasonable cost to one's health, and how am I repaid? With strife and fuckery, that's how! Egads, sometimes I feel as if New York City is more suitable to your dear old friend 51 Cent.
Enough of my lamenting for one day, however. I bid you farewell, and be good to one another, and stay out of each other's bizness and shit.
