Your Friendly Neighborhood Criminal Read Online Free Page B

they’re growing the grass hydroponically. And, lastly, the air around a grow op frequently is redolent of a skunk-like aroma, the fine bouquet of ripening cannabis sativa.”
    I looked over at her and was impressed. She went on. “The cops tell us that there is even a nickname down in the lovely US of A for the grass from Winnipeg. They call it Winnipeg Wheelchair Weed because after one hoot you can’t walk.”
    “Bravo! I didn’t know that. But that house isn’t a grow op.”
    I stared out at the night and thought about how the building had looked. It was two stories high with blank brick walls covered in bold graffiti I could barely read. Graffiti that made me think of the warnings some poisonous snakes carried, black and red friend of Fred, or however it went for Coral snakes. ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ is what all those messages across the way boiled down to.
    “Grow ops are one thing, that place is something different.”
    Someone would have to do something about that place.
     
    Claire respected my silence all the way home, by which point I was both sulking and jonesing. That was a nasty and extremely selfish combo every doper recognizes as being their main state of being.
    Claire looked me over. “What are you thinking about?”
    “Crime.”
    “You’re sulking. Thinking about crime does not make you sulk; thinking about crime makes you wistful. So why are you sulking?”
    “I’m being wistful about drugs.”
    “Drugs?”
    “Drugs. Being a former user I think about them sometimes.”
    Claire didn’t miss a beat. “And you are thinking what regarding drugs?”
    I took a deep breath, “I’m thinking about need … ready? Meth, crank, go, zip, cristy, black ice, ice, amp, blue belly, batak, batu kilat, bato, batu, billywhizz, blue funk, boo-ya, boorit cebuano, jib, cankinstein, chachacha, cricri, cube, debbie-tina and crissy, doo-my-lau, fetch, gear, gonzalles, jab, jenny crank program, chalk, jasmine, junk, magic, nazi dope, pieta, quick, quill, project propellant, scante, scooby snax, sha-bang, motivation, spinny, tadow, teena, tish, ugly dust, yaga, yama, and zoom.”
    “Are you finished?”
    “Yep.”
    “Are you going to rationalize now that you’re fixating?”
    “What’s to rationalize? Incans chewed coca leaves to survive at high altitudes, the German army used crystal meth to reduce hunger, the British passed out Benzedrine for soldiers on night watches, the Japanese gave their soldiers speed on their way to rape the shit out of Nanking, and the Americans pump up their pilots with dexamphetamines on their way to blow up Canadians in Afghanistan. It’s all the rage; it’s the relentless onslaught of civilization! No point in stopping or slowing. It’s progress!”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “It’s only natural. Forget the brain damage, the psychosis, the weight loss, the panic attacks, the paranoia, the impotence, the facial sores, the bone rot, and the depression.”
    “Why forget it?”
    “’Cause it feels so good when you’re taking the shit. ’Cause you’re immortal, invulnerable, unstoppable when it’s in your bloodstream. ’Cause it’s the best shit in the world, ever.”
    “Uh-huh. Want some?”
    “Desperately.”
    “Too bad. You can’t have any.”
    The words hung there and I started to laugh and everything was better and we headed home.
    Inside my house Elena Ramirez, a Winnipeg cop, was sitting at the dining room table cleaning her service pistol on top of a thick pile of old newspapers. At her feet her son, Jacob, an angelic and evil baby, was wrestling with my son Fred, a slightly less angelic fifteen-month-old baby. I think Fred was winning and then Jacob bit him and Fred howled, “’Eater!” and clocked him in the side of the head.
    In the back of the house our dog Renfield began to make a godawful racket from where he was locked in the kitchen.
    Elena looked up when we came in and finished running the bore-cleaning brush through the disassembled barrel. “Glad to