So You Used to Be Human - Book 3 (Original Version)

Chapter 2: Being Human

Claude was, of course, the best criminal I had ever met.

Most of the people I knew with criminal inclinations tended to be a more casual kind, dabbling in dealing drugs like a little bit of weed, cocaine or pills. None of them were hardcore unless they got sent away to jail and came back broken and turned into actual criminals. I don't think I ever once saw a weapon when I was dealing with them. So my perception of criminals and hardened felons came from whatever I saw on television. Even Julio (the dealer who shot me in the head that one time, oh the hilarity) who was the most hardcore dealer I knew, it wasn't like he was a criminal mastermind, so my exposure to the seedier side was still most like everyone's else's.

The guys we were meeting were nothing like the criminals I've known. They were a hell of a lot more dangerous and had been in state prisons, not just county lock-up. Claude and I had met them before for that other job I can't talk about, and it had been complicated enough that seeing them again just made me go over all nervous.

"I just want to remind you that I suck at being a vampire."

"Cool it Bob. Why is this even relevant?"

"Because if something goes wrong, I'm not going to be any good at getting us out of it."

"Don't worry: these guys are sweethearts."

"They're 'sweethearts' who happen not to like me very much."

Once you get out of your comfort zone, it's hard to go back, especially when you're used to more casual crime. Most of the deals I've even been involved with had been conducted in the living room of the dealer's house and there more often than not tended to be a couple of people hanging around smoking or drinking. More times than not, you'd buy your pot, smoke a bowl and head home or you'd be going home pot-less, but well-fed on pizza and beer. It was casual, and it was kind of cool especially when you had some nice weed to ease the evening into a blissful relaxation. I missed those days a little come to think of it because there was a different kind of social behavior among potheads, a type of unquestioning acceptance unless you happened to be a complete asshole, and it made the drugs not a lonely experience at all. Toking up by yourself in your empty apartment is depressing you know, but toking up among your temporary revolving door of pot-friends was much better. It said that you belonged somewhere even if for a short while, because reality check: they tended not to smoke with assholes, so yeah buddy, you're okay, I'm okay, everybody's cool, now pass the bowl.

We were in the back room of a shitty bar in the shitty part of town, the kind of shitty bar that makes you realize that as shitty as your life had seemed, it was really sheltered and not as shitty as it could have been. When you had sunk as low as I had and been as broke as I had been at times, it's kind of shocking to learn that there were still several layers still left to sink. The bar didn't have a sign out front, so you had to know that it was there, and they liked it just that way. It was a place where bad people went to drink among other bad people, and outsiders were easy to spot. Somehow, my brand new suit made me a shining beacon, a definite outsider, someone who didn't belong and what's theta word I'm looking for again? Oh yeah: target. It made me a target.

"What's he doing here?" the big guy (I forgot his name) wanted to know, and he somehow managed not ever to look at me, yet gave off this strong vibe of about-to-fuck-you-up, the "you" meaning "me".

Such blatant and naked hostility. Ugh. Maybe it was the suit.

"Horace. Dave." Claude was unperturbed. "You guys know Bob."

Dave turned to look at me now, and I think he'd decided to stop being nice and just beat me up, to hell with Claude.

"He's the one that fucked up the deal last time. We had to end up dealing with the Persians, and they fucked us good."