Blackout

5) Adjournment

OWEN LUX WESLEY

Mason Dupont was a drug addict.

Lynn—presumably—had no idea of what her stoner of a brother was doing. He was doing terrible in college with a GPA of 1.3. and began doing hardcore drugs like heroin and cocaine a few short months back. He later began dealing and hadn't been caught yet. Upon finding this out, thanks to Beau, I found the whole situation incredibly amusing. And because of my amusement, I was currently standing in front of the devil himself, planning something that would most likely come back and bite me in the ass.

With hunched shoulders and my hands in my pockets, I parted my lips to speak to the nineteen year old. "You're Mason, right?" I was no longer speaking in my original British accent—I altered it to something that sounded like a slurred Scottish accent. I supposed it wasn't one of my best attempts at altering my voice, but it was the best I could think of on the spot. Now, I just had to stick to it.

"Who's asking?" Familiar brown eyes stared suspiciously into mine. It was intriguing how his eyes were almost like an exact replica of Lynn's.

I ignored the stench of body odor that wafted up my nostrils and leaned close. "I heard you're selling stuff." I told him. He reeked of someone that hadn't bathed in months. It was repulsing.

"How much money do you got?" Mason wasn't staring at me suspiciously anymore, but he still looked apprehensive. It was all I needed.

"No, no, I'm not buying," I emphasized, clasping my hand on his shoulder. He just barely flinched at the contact, looked at my hand with an indecipherable look in his hazy eyes before returning his gaze to mine. "I've got this friend that has a huge load of yayo. We need some more sellers and I heard that you're the best person in Rye to get the job done quickly."

His eyes widened at the mention of yayo. "How much is your friend willing to pay?"

I removed my hand from his shoulder and shoved it in my pocket, looking around. "He has twelve ounces—a thousand bucks per ounce—and you get fifty of all earnings." Six thousand dollars.

"How do I know if you're not lying?" By his eager words, I knew that Mason was going to say yes, (Who would decline six thousand dollars?) but I still had to convince him just a bit more so he didn't rat me out before the plan was finished. Drug addicts were paranoid little children.

I rummaged through my pockets and quickly motioned for a handshake. He easily caught my drift, confidently returning the handshake, and shoved what I gave him into his own pocket. A gram of yayo. "Test it out tonight," I told him. "The first is for free. I really hope you'll consider, Mason." I grabbed his shoulder again and squeezed it. "There's a lot more where that came from." I was already walking away before Mason could say anything else and I grinned once I finally had a moment to myself.

The yayo I gave Mason was a combination of half yayo and half ricin powder. Beau introduced it to me a few years ago after a major drug cartel industry his father partnered with sold him a very rare amount of Ricin. It was basically a protein extracted from castor beans that could be made into anything—powder, oil, mist, water—you name it, it could be made. Since Mason was presumably going to sniff the powder, once the stuff hits his lungs, it'll cause him to have trouble breathing instantly. He'll cough after snorting it, as the effects are immediate, and he would then brush it off as the common cold. But as the hours progress, it would soon become a tremendous effort to inhale and exhale without his lungs wheezing and his muscles straining in protest. He would have a fever so tenacious that would later escalate into intense nausea and frequent blackouts. His lungs would collapse and he would be dead within thirty-six hours.