he peered through wire rimmed glasses with heavily sedated eyes. Doc had been involved with illegal drugs for thirty years, with only marginal brushes with the law. This time around he was applying his chemistry skills to the manufacture of methamphetamine, a drug he himself would not use. He knew better from his old hippy days: ‘meth is death.’ It was a fantastic drug for creating slaves, just like Billy the drone next to him. Billy hadn’t learned much since birth and what he did know was usually wrong.
Doc wasn’t the origin of Billy’s limitations. He was just a cook for an organization that was cashing in on the explosion of methamphetamine use in the rural Midwest. He was paid well, never participated in distribution, and didn’t want to. He learned a long time ago not to ask questions and never to get bigger than the guy above him on the totem pole.
Billy pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and fired it up, hardly doing anything as a look out for their illegal operation.
Doc looked at Billy and felt a little bit sorry for him. He was a damn odd looking kid. He had an absent look about him, kind of goofy, compounded by the fact that he had a massively pronounced under bite; hence the unfortunate nickname of Bucket. Doc thought that when the kid had his mouth closed he looked almost like he was wearing the helmet of a suitof armor. Good Christ, I’ve seen it all now, he thought. It didn’t help any that Billy, or Bucket, had been hitting the pipe hard enough that he had started picking at his face. He had dozens of angry pock marks. Doc knew that once a user got to this stage anything could be rattling around in his melon. Doc fingered the electric stun gadget in his pocket, wondering whether it would be of any use at all if Billy got feisty.
So far, it was still easy to get all the cold medicine that they needed to cook the methamphetamine locally. They even trucked it in from Mexico. As far as Doc knew, it might not be 100% legal to bring packing boxes stuffed with ephedrine tablets across the border, but the beef for capture was a lot less than for bringing in the finished product. The rest of the chemicals needed for cooking were available from most hardware stores or chemical supply companies.
Just as Doc was contemplating the process he saw an old man in a John Deere hat driving up the road in a pickup truck, plain as day.
“Now who the hell is this?” he muttered. Everything was going fine and now here comes the nosy neighbor.
“Billy, you let me do the talking. Don’t do or say anything.” It was hard to tell if Billy got any of that; his vacuous stare didn’t reveal much in the way of recognition.
Doc stood up and walked over to the truck in a hurry to put the guy’s mind at ease and get rid of him.
“Morning! Out for a drive?” Doc knew better than to rush these things. A nice neighborly chat usually did the trick. Doc tossed out his hand like a traveling salesman, Virgil didn’t hesitate and returned the handshake, stepping out of his truck.
“Howdy, name’s Virgil Ward, I’m your neighbor,” Virgil said cordially, with a sideways glance at Billy.
“Oh don’t mind him. He’s my sister’s kid. Slow you know.” Doc gave Virgil his best conspiratorial look.
“I’ve got a few of them in my family too. You buy the old place then?”
“Well, we’re in the process. We have permission to check the place out.” The guy seemed to be buying it, Virgil thought.
Doc glanced over catching Billy meandering toward the shed where the last batch of meth was drying. Damn kid, now would be a nice time for the stun gun, bet the neighbor would love that, Doc thought ruefully.
“Billy, now you wait a minute, don’t go in there,” Doc pleaded noticing Virgil was walking over there too. Damn it. What did I do to deserve two idiots in the same day? He thought.
Just as Billy was opening the door, Virgil got close enough to smell the strong, solvent odor. He wrinkled his
Doc wasn’t the origin of Billy’s limitations. He was just a cook for an organization that was cashing in on the explosion of methamphetamine use in the rural Midwest. He was paid well, never participated in distribution, and didn’t want to. He learned a long time ago not to ask questions and never to get bigger than the guy above him on the totem pole.
Billy pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and fired it up, hardly doing anything as a look out for their illegal operation.
Doc looked at Billy and felt a little bit sorry for him. He was a damn odd looking kid. He had an absent look about him, kind of goofy, compounded by the fact that he had a massively pronounced under bite; hence the unfortunate nickname of Bucket. Doc thought that when the kid had his mouth closed he looked almost like he was wearing the helmet of a suitof armor. Good Christ, I’ve seen it all now, he thought. It didn’t help any that Billy, or Bucket, had been hitting the pipe hard enough that he had started picking at his face. He had dozens of angry pock marks. Doc knew that once a user got to this stage anything could be rattling around in his melon. Doc fingered the electric stun gadget in his pocket, wondering whether it would be of any use at all if Billy got feisty.
So far, it was still easy to get all the cold medicine that they needed to cook the methamphetamine locally. They even trucked it in from Mexico. As far as Doc knew, it might not be 100% legal to bring packing boxes stuffed with ephedrine tablets across the border, but the beef for capture was a lot less than for bringing in the finished product. The rest of the chemicals needed for cooking were available from most hardware stores or chemical supply companies.
Just as Doc was contemplating the process he saw an old man in a John Deere hat driving up the road in a pickup truck, plain as day.
“Now who the hell is this?” he muttered. Everything was going fine and now here comes the nosy neighbor.
“Billy, you let me do the talking. Don’t do or say anything.” It was hard to tell if Billy got any of that; his vacuous stare didn’t reveal much in the way of recognition.
Doc stood up and walked over to the truck in a hurry to put the guy’s mind at ease and get rid of him.
“Morning! Out for a drive?” Doc knew better than to rush these things. A nice neighborly chat usually did the trick. Doc tossed out his hand like a traveling salesman, Virgil didn’t hesitate and returned the handshake, stepping out of his truck.
“Howdy, name’s Virgil Ward, I’m your neighbor,” Virgil said cordially, with a sideways glance at Billy.
“Oh don’t mind him. He’s my sister’s kid. Slow you know.” Doc gave Virgil his best conspiratorial look.
“I’ve got a few of them in my family too. You buy the old place then?”
“Well, we’re in the process. We have permission to check the place out.” The guy seemed to be buying it, Virgil thought.
Doc glanced over catching Billy meandering toward the shed where the last batch of meth was drying. Damn kid, now would be a nice time for the stun gun, bet the neighbor would love that, Doc thought ruefully.
“Billy, now you wait a minute, don’t go in there,” Doc pleaded noticing Virgil was walking over there too. Damn it. What did I do to deserve two idiots in the same day? He thought.
Just as Billy was opening the door, Virgil got close enough to smell the strong, solvent odor. He wrinkled his
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