Guadalupe (2)
#3 of Guadalupe (aka the Lumber Rave)
Part 2 - In which Maxwell questions his motives, observes the scum and the sleazebags and plans the outcome of his future... while continuously maintaining his patience.
2.
The rave remained steady with limited interruption.
For now, at least.
A typical average evening spent in a strung-out God-forsaken hellhole like this one. A pocket filled with horrific gut-churning dragon-smack that could make anyone in their own right mind extremely nervous. Max just wanted to get this damn fake-ass narcotics exchange over with, kill the little wimp if necessary, dispose of the old prick's carcass and leave this hideously abysmal place, dilapidated and tarnished from years of past operation, now rendered into a mock Sodom and Gomorrah nestled deep within the heart of Oregon's forest-tattered range. More than anything, Max desperately wanted to leave and run away as far as possible, never to return again for any reason, especially a drug exchange.
The acrid scent in the air reminded Max of late-night drunken romps through the streets of Tijuana, sipping authentic Mexican tequila straight from the bottle, gargling the agave worm then excitedly throwing the empty glass bottle down upon a cobblestone alleyway, shattering it to high holy heaven, woozy and inebriated beyond any sort of reasonable sane comfort, screaming in drunken hysterics at underage prostitutes, begging them for a free suck-and-fuck, apt to ride another mechanical bull before the sun came up over the distant red-scorched horizon. However, Max was a frighteningly strong drunk who could hold his ground better than most UFC middle-weight champions could ever dream of. The slightly organic and raw scent of mildewy wood seeped into his black wet-tipped nostrils, mixed with a stale odor of dry rot, perspiration and freshly burnt ganja.
Oh-ho-ho yes, toke that wacky tobaccy right on up, party dogs! Not as if there isn't plenty to go around, especially in a rambunctious gathering of vaudeville-styled smut-peddlers located smack-dab in the heart of the gloriously weird Pacific Northwest. Can I get an "Aaaaa-men", bruthas and sistas? Thought not. God, these druggie fucks are annoying. Where is this bastard, anyways?
What kept getting beneath Max's skin was that ever-so-slight hint of decay beneath the sweltering, hovering mass of marijuana smoke, fresh vomit, potent musk and aging cedar wood. Where was that scent coming from? The putrid humidity and that unmistakable cloying scent of festering rot in the air reminded Max of a flame-blasted morgue, renovated and re-established into a junkie pad, frayed to its bony foundations from heat exposure and littered with plastic tainted syringes, dirty burnt silver spoons and charred roaches.
Max saw that many of the human's fingers were tar-stained and sticky with THC residue, most likely issuing a politely demanding invitation to a swift contracting of mononucleosis. Max wondered if there wasn't a sort of human bonfire commencing somewhere out of sight from within the warehouse... maybe on the rooftops. Perhaps right outside, in the back of the building. He wasn't in any hurry to find out though. The only hurry he found himself in was the kind that demanded he be somewhere else and free of the bundle of pure in his jacket pocket.
The rave, a half-assed representation of a disembodied Las Vegas showroom, hosted naked vixen women dancing erotically in timber-storing cages suspended roughly ten feet above the dance floor. Human girls danced on poles suspended in walkway rafters hung high above everyone else, guard-rails illuminated with flashing strobes and black-lights. These caused all visible neon-pastels and a slew of whites, from teeth and corneas to blank tee-shirts and bright lining trim upon spats, to glow eerily.
Males from both spectrums of the species scale threw condoms and folded hundred-dollar bills (aka Benjamins) at the gorgeous, scantly clad females. The gentlemen, anthro and human alike, fondled at their stealth erections, smoked their Cuban cigars and Irish cloves and menthol cigarettes and weed joints and crack pipes. Hell, some even openly utilized broken light bulbs for the definitive purpose of ascertaining a quality meth high that would last through the majority of the night and into next week, perhaps. There was no shame in whipping out a monstrous bubbler-bong before this crowd, not when they'd be apt to utilize rusted pickaxes to break up rocks in a frenzied junkie's delirium to be smoked.
In a nutshell, this rave was officially rocking and rolling with no end in sight. A forlorn place where no mother would ever in her right mind dare set foot, not even under obligation of a signed and sealed contract from Satan.
This was also the perfect location to make a late-night drug exchange. No witnesses to fear overbearing impromptu glances, since damn-near all of Max's potential nearby witnesses were buzzed to a point of incredulous stupidity. What little bit of awareness these radical insomniacs could fathom wouldn't even come close to phasing them well enough to be taken into consideration of a testimony in front of a judge and jury. Max could cut the head off the bartender right now with a dull plastic butter knife and all they'd say they saw were a million blazing colors all flashing together at once over a blood-spattered hybrid. Beautiful, man, beautiful; if not a little terrifying.
Max was - no, had still been - waiting to meet an active real-deal dope hound from Belize or Brazil or one of the many numerous Central American locales (damned if he could remember which one) to exchange a major score of the White Boy, about eight kilos worth, under false pretenses. In light of a poor economy, one must always be ready to make affirmative strides to get by, no matter how risky or obscure those affirmative actions may be. No threat too great could stop Max from ensuring a hefty payoff and nobody would dream of halting his modestly (if not ignorantly) established plans.
As much as the shep-coon absolutely despised the unhealthy and severely destructive powdered horseshit and all the trouble it ever caused him upon his own family during his excessively traumatic childhood, Max wasn't a complete idiot to be made unaware of the snow-filled contraband's net worth on the underground market, which he now kept bundled up tightly. Max knew the moderately-sized nylon balloon crammed heftily with powdered sugary-white scag he toted in his inner-leftmost denim jacket pocket would yield a briefcase filled with enough moolah to afford suitable traveling fare for a quick getaway, perhaps a little percentage of the earnings would be made towards the services of a nice quality prostitute or two - female or male, since it made no difference to him either way. He'd gladly pay a hooker to fuck him... only if he survived this harrowing ordeal.
No! Get your fucking head out of the gutter! Think straight, goddammit!
Maxwell intended to head up north towards Canada or a remote location in Alaska after this final deal had been initiated and undertaken, the informant made an example of and his superior killed. The cash and scag would both be confiscated and turned over to his own superiors and all his worst problems would be magically solved overnight. How far would Max go afterwards? That would be decided years from now; as it stood, he kept future plans on hold while focusing on the present state of affairs that circulated around his very being.
No doubt, a drug exchange was the key element for the evening and all the possibilities as to how it could go so very wrong were spiraling maniacally through his wandering mind. Max tried to stay focused, ignoring the nervous tic that grew and festered from within his guts, suggesting that whatever happened, his idea may not have been entirely approving after all. He hoped he could disappear from this place as soon as humanly possible - at least before the ball dropped permanently.
Max witnessed a rather fashionable young human teenage couple from across the bar snorting cocaine from the crooks of each other's wrists.
Okay, so here I am, all alone without back-up in this feverish shitty dive-rave, waiting for some random prick whom I've never seen before tonight, pocket stuffed full of grade-A heroin and this group doesn't look all too forgiving towards trespassing outsiders. Just where in the holy hell is this goddam prick anyways? I've been here well over a couple hours now and I'm beginning to feel a little TOO anxious, unless he makes further haste... If only Max had a magic eight-ball nearby, he'd tilt and shake the novelty onyx sphere to reveal whether he'd make the score or not; the said results?
Very Doubtful.
Right about that moment, Maxwell could've sworn he felt a goose trot over his grave somewhere out of sight... the feeling was uncanny beyond a doubt. It frightened him a little, enough to turn his blood cold, as if in the throes of a gnarly-painful stomach cramp. Nobody noticed, or so he'd hoped.
As he glanced away from the young Sid and Nancy wanna-bes down at the opposing end of the bar, Maxwell took another sip of his lukewarm wheat ale. Terrible-tasting beer always turned a tide for the worse when left out to expire immeasurably after a prolonged period of waiting. Between the dank piss-N-vinegar taste and curdling warmth of this bitter llama urine, Max promised himself next time that he would consider ordering a wine cooler or a hard cider (neither of which this particular rave carried anyways), maybe even a vodka shot or two. At least the finer top-shelf cocktails never lost their recognizable perk, especially when it came down to making crucial business exchanges. Evidently this concept seemed far more interesting to engage in than proceeding head-first into an exchange of such magnitude with a cranium full of dope, veins coursing with toxic brown venom, one good eye bulging with a freakishly dilated pupil, heart rate as disjointed as a tweaker circus troupe's trapeze act.
Max took another sip of his crummy barley-contaminated stomach-churning beverage and continued to sit and wait patiently for an obviously distinguishable low-key drug informant from some obscure Central American locale in a shitty junkie-infested rave within a lumber mill storage warehouse located in the middle of God-knows-where-and-how. Max couldn't be any more content with himself, or the curdling gases brewing from within his belly.
Max grew even more weary with nervous tics, outwardly shivering. He checked his cellphone continuously, keeping tabs on the current time, all the while becoming more and more restless. How much longer would he have to wait, he wondered.
I swear, if this son-of-a-fuckin-whore doesn't arrive soon I'll just rip this fucking balloon wide open in front of all these crazy-assed junkies and sprinkle them with it instead. At least THIS crowd wouldn't let any of this number four go to waste, pushing and shoving their way through, snorting it off the floor if it meant getting that quality fix. Hell, they'd be willing to sniff this shit off the rim of a dirty toilet seat or from those dancing hookers' sweaty tits. What a bunch of dirty bastards these goddam junkies are... oh man, seriously, where is this motherfucker anyways?!
He knew his purpose well enough to begin with; his obligations which guided him into this humongous yet somehow elusive hidden rave had been his own personal choice. He'd always possessed a willing regard for substantial business conducting, free of discrepancies and unfair trading procedures. Maxwell hadn't come to ogle over the voluptuous vixens (which wouldn't be too bad of an idea since the place was chock full of them), swaying their curvy hourglass-curved hips to the guttural throbbing of deep bass tones enveloped within the racy techno music, blaring unnaturally loud, especially for an illegal rave. Max watched all the young girls of mixed species dance their asses off with growing interest, watched as they stirred up raging hormones, omitting a torrential flood of body heat, stifling the interior of the entire warehouse.
Practically every male figure present on the dance floor was, in one way or another, seminally aroused. All the males were pitching erect tent-poles beneath their tight-fitting black leather jeans, indiscriminately climaxing in silence to the bodacious goddesses swaying and swinging to the groove before their very sex-starved eyes. Gorgeous young vixens adorned with reddish-orange-white fur and shimmering chestnut brown hair, passionately offering up servings of lust intertwined in delectably close proximity, stirring the promise of volcanic heated copulation upon the massive flashing colorful dance floor. The men ate every moment of it up with teeth exposed, energetic wide eyes, lips wet with strong drink and nasal cavities caked to the brim with cocaine.
The temptation had been all too much to adhere. Max couldn't be distracted by the ongoing dope-fueled gaiety of the all-nighters themselves. He, unlike the others in this place, had business to attend to; strictly important, preliminary drug-exchanging business; no outside assistance and no additional support from Oregon state's local law enforcement. Especially not if Max had meant to seriously harm the late-upon-arrival prick shortly thereafter and kill his rat bastard boss. This balloon-bag of hard drugs he was packing out of sight and out of mind from everyone else simply wouldn't sell itself.
An imaginative visualization suddenly gave Max a chuckle. He saw the bag of heroin grow small cellophane limbs and hop out of his deep denim coat pocket then walk across the bar countertop, bartering with other patrons, hoping to be sold to the highest bidder. Pick your price, any price! The going's always good when you're in Rave-town central HQ! Don't forget your complimentary blowjob after you've cooked up and shot off sum'o'dis'ere ol' sweet-as-sugary-shit sweetness! Oh and please, do enjoy your stay in the meantime! Don't forget to wear suntan lotion!
Amusing thought no doubt, Max considered silently,but distracting nonetheless. He scratched at an itch upon his scruffy dog-man cheek then yanked out a cigarette that he'd tucked between his right ear and temple earlier. The plan itself was quite simple to begin with: find and identify informant. Gently woo this person over in any way possible - perhaps issuing a quickie blowjob? That would do the trick if this mystery assailant just so happened to be a male. Or cunnilingus since I really have no clue whether I'll be meeting a male or female, or anything else for that matter. If my informant happens to be a hermaphrodite, I'll just hand over the drugs, no problemo.
_ Max saw himself paralyzing the lucky bitch-rich patron of the evening with a sensationally sexual aftermath then threatening them with his sizeable hand-cannon, taking both the goods and the money, snuffing out the messenger and his fat whore of a boss, then relocating to Vancouver or Ontario; nobody would suspect Max of escaping to such a unique getaway destination. If Gus asked, he'd admit to having endured an existential crisis and needing to relocate for a short while. His overall hate of the bitter cold and disapproval of wintery mountainous locations would serve as a perfectly formidable solution to an otherwise unsuccessful plan. The very last damn place he'd find himself in a million years would also be the place his most notorious enemies wouldn't even dream of looking. He'd be willing to grin and bear it if it meant steering clear of any unwanted attention from the local authorities. He could also establish a legendary epic _FUCK YOU to the competing families setting up the exchange if he inadvertently killed one of their own while dealing.
The plan seemed all too perfect for comfort, but then again beggars can't be choosers. Things could go wrong, deaths could happen, shit could blow up or malfunction, hearts could be broken and lives could change, perhaps forever.
These things were all apt to go so wrong, but they wouldn't. No, they wouldn't. Not without Maxwell around to suggest otherwise. But for how long? Max thought feverishly of the overall outcome.
Meanwhile, his patience wore even thinner still.