Friday, 3 June 2016

The Pickup

‘Get in!', he demanded.

Simon had had a long day and was entering a longer night. He’d already driven to and from the city seven times and it was only a measly 10:18pm. His latest customers had just stumbled on past his silver Mercedes, despite the specific details given over the phone.

‘I’m on the street, round the corner, sat in a silver Mercedes.’ 

He couldn’t have been clearer! The Boss always said that Simon took the roundabout way. He needed to be more direct but he really couldn’t see how he could make it simpler!

Just before this almost-but-not-quite aggressive declaration at his wandering customers, Britney’s iconic 2003 hit 'Toxic’ began to play. Simon looked at his phone to see an unsaved number glowing on the slightly cracked screen. After some exchanging of keywords (he’d chosen to avoid full sentences, under the assumption that this would make him more efficient) Simon had another job already lined up. The Boss was really keeping him busy tonight!

So, off Simon sped to catch up with the two drunk Fraggles that were now stood in the middle of the street, one of them pulling out a phone, presumably to call him up and query his location.

The boy clambered into the backseat and the girl took the front seat, spewing some inebriated nonsense about the car being aloof.

'How ‘aloof’ could it be?’ thought Simon, it was literally the only car parked on the road.

As the girl, with bright pink hair and an accent only found amongst those subject to the most elite of educations, fumbled through her purse, Simon thought about his future. He thought about the beach house he’d buy in Miami with his imaginary Latina girlfriend that just wanted to please him. He thought about the stacks of money they used as sun loungers, as they had so much they had simply no other logical use for them. He dreamt about the panic room which lead into the huge armoury hidden in his basement, stocked with semi-automatic riffles, hand guns and grenades, a much needed feature to aid in his protection against the relentless friends of the Boss after her murder at Simon's hands. His lips contorted into what, for lack of a better term, one could call a smile -- he had gone to his happy place.

The wad of cash in the girl's hand yanked Simon from his Cuban-cigar-smoke-daze. He swiftly reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small baggie containing a white powder. The change over was swift and Simon was surprised. He’d clearly misjudged the girl as new at this. Then again, those private school kids always had more money than sense, he thought. Also, with bright pink hair, what was to be expected?

‘Is it good shit?’ she inquired.

‘The best’, Simon replied, repressing his desire to tell the girl how ridiculous the question sounded when delivered in the Queen’s English.

Simon, lost in his own thoughts, again (maybe this is what the Boss meant about him not being simple enough?), didn’t notice that the girl had placed the baggie into her purse and proceeded to immediately believe she lost it.

‘Oh shit! Harry, check if it’s in there!’, she screeched, throwing her purse at the boy in the back.

Harry, who had been silent till now, replied in an equally articulate manner, ‘is what in here?’

‘Jesus’, Simon thought, eager to rid himself of these annoyances.

As Simon was executing the greatest eye-roll of his entire 26 years, the back door swung open. Turning round in a flash, Simon saw the bobble head of a man twice the age of the customers he already had in his car and, judging by his slurred ‘y’alright mate’, was twice as drunk as them too.

‘Hold on mate! These guys are customers too!’, he replied, desperate to already fix the volatile situation looming.

Harry had clocked on to the what he and his friend were sat in this strangers' car for and with a, ‘oh, yeah, it’s here’, confirmed the transaction had taken place.

The two Eton Mess’ fell out of the car to a choir of, ‘sorry about that mate, cheers man, cheers!’ It was all frightfully English of them.

One door shut as the other stayed open to let in the ageing bobblehead who, diving across the threshold, lay like one of Jack’s French girls across the entire back seat. 

Simon was most definitely in for a long night.