50: The Dealer

The prompt was to write about a town that lost its supply of... well, you'll see.  (By the way, it's not poetry, though it might look like it.)

Hey, you!

Yeah, you!

Come here.

Are you a cop? No? Good.

You want a little action? You want a little stuff?

Yeah, the white stuff. Shh. Not so loud. Keep it down. You never know who's listening.

I can get you the brown stuff too, even rocks. Raw, processed, however you want.


Hey, you!

Yeah, you!

Come here.

Are you a cop? No? Good.

You want a little action? You want a little stuff?

Yeah, the white stuff. Shh. Not so loud. Keep it down. You never know who's listening.

I can get you the brown stuff too, even rocks. Raw, processed, however you want.

It's the real stuff, none of that fake stuff the Blues and the Pinks and the Yellows try to sell you. And it's not that HFCS stuff either

I can get it for you by the cup, or by the bag, or whatever you want.

It's good stuff too. Give you a real kick.

So, we got a deal? We got a deal, right?

Yeah?

OK, so how much sugar to do you want?

[Dear Stand-Up Comedian (or perhaps Really Funny Friend of Mine) who did a short bit that inspired this piece, please accept my sincere apologies for not remembering who you are. -THR]

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.