the absolute pits ;P (walt/jack)

Benji always cowed at the eleventh hour, like the turning of the hour changed something in the very air. He'd go quiet and turn as white as a sheet, eyes vacant like he had seen the face of god. That's how it would start anyway, after a few minutes he'd start gasping for air like a fish washed up in the mud. Aled and I would try and shake him out of it, but he'd go so ragdoll that dad would call him possessed. Load of shite, that. Our little brother wasn't bewitched or nothing, he was just terrified of all the made-up things that our beloved and devout father had poured into his innocent little mind.

Stay in and lock your doors after the witching hour, for foul spirits linger in the air and seek for pure souls to taint. Well, here I am dad, standing in the moonlight, as corrupt and dirty as they fucking get. Wouldn't he be proud, if he knew where I was and what I was doing. He's a damn hypocrite, that's what he is. He'd berate me for this, but how is it any different to what he does in the church? We both supply something pointless to the weak and vulnerable, knowing that they'll be back for more when what little hope it gives them wears thin.

"Stand against that wall and light it." Walt suggests with little emotion in his unbroken voice. I stare down at him with lazy eyes, my mouth half open in something that is both a sigh and a yawn. He reminds me of Benji, although he is taller and more gaunt than my little brother, and has this strange psuedo-knowledge and street credibility that is completely unlike him in every way. I don't know, maybe it's just his age or his stupid suggestions that reminds me of little Benjamin so much.

Haven't seen him in nearly a year now. Hope he's okay. Aled will look after him. He has to, he's the man of the house now. He always was, really.

"It's fine, I got it." I say, holding back an array of malicious comments partly because he's just a kid and partly because I can't be bothered. I spark my lighter a few more times, shielding the flame with my other hand as I bring the cigarette down into the fire and igniting the tip. I puff a few times, sucking, and then taking back the smoke into my lungs. It sits heavy and stale, filling me with momentary purpose, and then leaving me cold as I exhale a cloud out from my cracked lips.

Dad always said I'd die young, scalded me for my bad habits. Don't really give a fuck though, I'd sooner die in my fifties than become a senile, dementia-ridden old man who's sitting in some hospice waiting to die. Live a long life, a happy life. His crisp voice still resonates inside my head, his tone always expectant. I can't say I've ever really seen my father happy, not really.

I pause, eyes moving back to the boy adjacent to me. I feel bad for him - like, how did he even get into working for this cartel. Does he have a choice? Was he kidnapped? What? What's the story? He doesn't exactly look the type to tell anyone, so I can only speculate. Still, his expression is distant, and I'm not a complete asshole.

"Do you want a smoke?" I take the packet out from my pocket and offer him one, "It's fine."

Peace offering, or y'know, whatever.

The rain doesn't show any signs of letting up, the torrid downpour plastering my thick hair to my forehead and dripping down over my eyelids. I look like a drowned rat, with a king-of-the-sewers bravado and a fierce hunger about me. I'm here, breaking the law, going against my fathers code of religiously bound ethics, generally being a shit human being, but for once I feel like I'm doing something other than stagnating. I'm not drifting anymore. My feet are anchored on this quay, in the here-and-now, and that's better than floating into obscurity.

"No." Walter says with as much life in his voice as a morgue resident, but then he seemingly remembers himself, "No thanks. They make me cough."

I almost smile, remembering when cigarettes and whiskey made me cough. My insides were so fresh and clean, of course it was going to try and reject the poison. At that age, your body does that. It does absolutely everything it can to tell you that these things are bad, but you see everyone else doing them, so you wait a while, and try again, and again, until your body accepts it, learns to like it, and then you're just like everybody else.

He seems too straight-edge to be working for a cartel, but circumstance has forced him here, and he's making the most of it. I sure as hell couldn't have done this aged thirteen(?), didn't have the know-how or the confidence. We're dealing with full-on drug addicts here, with little money and high paranoia. I'd have shit myself, but here he is, little Walt, unphased. Like this is a chore for him.

His impatience begins to show, and it's one I share.

"I don’t think they are coming." He deduces expertly, and I'm half tempted to suggest that he tries a career in forensic science or investigative policing as he is so sharp. I decide against using such heavy sarcasm on someone so vanilla. Might not be good for his underdeveloped conscience.

I hold my cigarette between my thumb and my index finger, bringing it slowly between my lips and letting the smoke hang, before I take it back in my lungs and let it char inside of me for a few seconds, contemplating existence, before I exhale it all along with my anxieties.

If they don't come, then that's just a waste. I flick ash downwards and watch it fall into some bird shit. Someone should take a picture of that and call it art - would sell good. I glance up at Walt, watching to see if he says or does anything or if I'm the one that needs to make a decision here.

I'm about to suggest we head back, but then I see a figure under the bridge, hunched over, emerging slowly. He looks young, about my age, frail as they get.

"Well, do your stuff junior." I say, my thumb resting on the safety of the glock.

I don't take my eyes off of the decrepit youth. His eyes look yellow and diseased, but that could just be the dim light of the underpass or my tiring vision. His skin is dry and flaky, and his mouth is open, like he is screaming silently. He clutches at his clothes like he is trying to pull them closer to himself, like he is cold no matter what he does.

The thumb of my dominant left hand hovers on the safety at my waist, whilst my weaker left flirts with the cigarette in my mouth, removing it from between my lips and flicking ash into the mud every ten seconds or so. My job is to make sure this all goes smoothly, and in the unlikely event that things go south, protect Walt. The boss said that it was important to keep the kid alive, something about his dead mother - I wasn't really listening. Must be pretty rough to be stuck in a drug den aged twelve(?) and have your mom die. Maybe the boss feels bad for him.

I don't really care, so long as I get paid.

I feel like the nicotine monster in my chest isn't hungry anymore, so I toss the cigarette to one side. The cravings will start eating at me again in half an hour. How many more packs before that becomes twenty minutes, and then ten? Ripred, I'm on a road to smoking myself to death and I'm not even twenty yet.

Still, beats living in this shithole.

"Hey Spooge." Walt approaches the decaying shell of a person with more confidence than I imagined, but I keep my hand on the gun nonetheless. Spooge? Why does that sound familiar? Maybe it was one of the names my dad used to shout at me when I was led on the sofa when he got back from mopping up at the college.

"You are late and in the wrong location. Do you need a map?" He informs him, and I smirk, admiring the kids ambition. He knows he's in control of this low-life. He holds the product, and this dude is nothing without it. Walt says jump, he asks how high.

But there is no begging for the drugs, there's no show of money or easy exchange. The figure lunges and grabs Walt's arm, yanking him towards him. A heat rushes up my back and down my arms, up my neck and I inhale involuntarily, hit by the shot of adrenaline.
"Holy fuck," I breathe, drawing the gun and stepping forwards.

"Take your hands off him asshole or I'll put you in the fucking river."

Something tells me this is going south, and fast, and that it's not going to be pretty. I've never fucking shot anyone before, I've never even shot a gun before. But he doesn't know that; right? I can feel myself sweating already, and my aim is a little shaky, but I try and rest the sights on the guys head, which is very close to Walters.

Fuck.