Crime and Corruption

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 1

Tristan stands in line outside the clinic waiting for it to open. It is 5 a.m. and the sun is just beginning to make its appearance in the early morning sky. Cold and tired, he becomes more irritated as the minutes tick by. His car was on Empty and he had no money for gas. Fortunately (or not), there was a bus stop nearby. Tristan never thought that he would have to stoop so low as to take public transportation. Now he was desperate. What else could he do? Over the past two years, he has accepted the fact that he would have to endure many more lows in his quest for his highs.

Cluster headaches, a sympathetic physician, and a lack of willpower were the recipe for Tristan to develop a hardcore addiction to prescription pain medication. Slowly, his habit drained his savings and the accounts of his many girlfriends. He latched on to his father for a while but was immediately cut off when the Old Man learned of his habit. Apparently, his father was a little upset when he had to pull some strings at the police station the night Tristan was pinched for buying drugs behind a gas station. Daddy had to throw around some cash along with a few threats in order to keep things quiet. The entire ordeal was irritating and even a little humiliating to say the least. His father told him then that he would be out for good if he did not clean up his act. This is part of the reason why he is here.

Mom was a little easier. With her sweet, nurturing, and blindly enabling personality, he was able to milk her for some cash for quite a while. That is until he messed things up with her too. Tristan remembered the day he came home high and cussed out his mother in front of her friends, threw up on the patio, and put an exclamation point on his grand entrance by taking a shit in the pool. The poor woman had to make up a story about him being depressed since he recently broke up with his girlfriend in a feeble attempt to justify his behavior. Again, it was just a little embarrassing for his folks.

He had become the proverbial spoiled brat rich kid, due partly to the grossly inadequate parenting by Roy and his wife. As a child, Tristan could do no wrong in their eyes, and all he had to do was ask for something and he would get it. Actually, he often got more than he would ask for. Tristan quickly recognized his privileged status and routinely used it to his advantage. It was easy to do when your folks work so hard at trying to be your friend! The problem is that when you get whatever you want whenever you want, with little to no effort on your part, you become bored… extremely bored. Then you have to find things to do that make your life more interesting, like taking up smoking around age twelve, experiment with alcohol by age fifteen, and eventually devote yourself to drugs soon after. All this helped to shape Tristan into the inconsiderate, manipulative, slothful, apathetic monster that he is today. He had become a complete bastard, armed with a malignant attitude and a deadly sense of entitlement.

Tristan, with his medium build and piercing blue eyes, often hid his straight, unkempt hair beneath a faded baseball cap. Despite his current situation, he insisted on flashy jewelry and fashionable attire otherwise. He had only been a patient at The Clinic for about a month now. One of his suppliers told him about it. Methadone seemed to be the way to go. Undoubtedly, it was much cheaper than his habit: $20 a dose three times each week was much better than his $250-a-day fix. This is the other reason he is here. The problem is that he can only dose three times a week (usually Monday, Wednesday, and Friday), which can make for a particularly uncomfortable weekend. He often has to chip to avoid any withdrawal symptoms.

Tristan learned about withdrawal the hard way his first day at The Clinic. The starting dose was obviously too low for such a seasoned professional as himself and he was faced with two days of sweating, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, cramping, and tremors. His goal was to stick with it long enough so that he could get take home privileges. This meant that he could carry a metal lock box to and from the clinic and dose in the comfort of his own home. Better yet, maybe he could get on the longer acting medication and then he wouldn’t have to dose as often.

Finally, the lock snaps, the door opens, and everyone begins to walk single file through the entrance, just like penguins at the zoo. Inside, the clinic is brightly lit, with plain décor and a musty odor. Chairs line three of the walls, and some are arranged back to back in the middle of the room. The crowd divides up into its respective castes: the heroin addicts (surprisingly most are snorters not shooters) talk amongst themselves on one side of the room, the prescription drug dependents on another side, and tucked away in the corner with plenty of intentionally empty seats around them are the speed freaks, dust bunnies, and animal tranquilizer fanatics. The latter are in a world-of-their-own so to speak and use whatever they can in between their supersonic highs.

The walls are plastered with archaic wallpaper that is yellowed and peeling. The once blue carpet is matted down with dirt and grime and is split at various parts of the floor, sprouting black nylon fibers like whiskers. A large picture of a sunrise hangs in a cheap frame on the wall adjacent to the front desk and declares: TODAY IS A NEW DAY!

A tall vinyl plant stands in the corner and has collected a thin layer of dust on each of its broad leaves. Self-help pamphlets are strewn about the end tables and vacant chairs. Apparently, they are more useful as coasters, wrappers for used gum, and handkerchiefs than they are as motivational tools.

The front staff is official and business-like, checking in each of the clients as they sign the appointment sheet. The nurses are friendly and often motherly, quick to offer support and a kind word. The doctors are laid-back but professional, conveying a sense of trust, but also authority.

You been comin’ here long? asks a greasy-haired, pox-marked character sitting next to Tristan.

Huh? responds Tristan, wrinkling his nose at the body odor emanating from the man.

Have you been coming to this clinic long? repeats the man.

For a while, answers an irritated Tristan.

I used to go to the office Downtown, but those pricks booted me out. Fucking Nazis there, boy! They had me pissing in a cup just about every day, constantly riding my ass. I heard that this place is more easy-going, and the docs are a lot cooler about things. Easier to get take-home privileges too, I guess.

Yeah, notes Tristan, lacking interest and enthusiasm.

I’m Stuart, announces the man, with a smile that reveals a partial set of yellow and brown peanut-like teeth.

I’m Tristan.

What are you on, Bro? pries Stuart.

Prescription pills… mostly hydrocodone, proclaims Tristan.

Bad news, Man, bad news. I’ve been hooked on ‘H’ for years. Fuckin’ snort it, though. I’m not into that needle shit. First of all, I fuckin’ hate needles, and second, I’ve seen too many people pick up hepatitis and HIV and shit, Man!

Realizing that there is no chance that he will be able to escape the conversation, Tristan turns toward his new friend offering just a little more attention.

Stuart continues, I’ve been in and out of rehab over the years… what a fucking joke! Rehab is just a marketplace for dealers and addicts Man. It was easier to get drugs in rehab than on the streets. One time, I tried a new approach. I figured the best way to stop and get some real help is to dive head first into the criminal justice system, you know, just jump into the fire. I woke up one morning, walked down to the police station, staggered up to the front desk, and dropped a big-ass bag of heroin right on the counter. You should have seen the look on the cops’ faces. They didn’t know what the fuck to do!

Tristan laughs out loud as he tries to imagine the police officers’ reactions.

So I spent some time in the county jail and got a shit-load of probation. It was my longest run of being clean. But all of that counseling and support went to waste, ‘cause here I am. Fucking heroin has a tight hold on me, Bro, and it ain’t letting go anytime soon!

How much you doin’? inquires Tristan, now deciding to actively participate in the conversation.

Whatever I can. I just lost my source of income though, so things are a little tight now.

You’ve been working? asks Tristan, intrigued.

Naw, Man. My old lady isn’t working anymore, responds Stuart.

Does she have a habit too? questions Tristan.

No. She had some mental problems that I was trying to help her with though. She was pretty fucked up. Cried all the time. We started fucking on camera for an Internet web site, but we didn’t make enough cash with that gig. So I started to whore her out and the coin really started flowing in. Now she’s not doing that anymore and I’ve had to cut down, man. I’m trying to supplement my highs with whatever I can. Huffing paint… whip-its. Mostly alcohol now, though. Hey, if you ever need a cheap buzz, just chase a bottle of cough syrup with a beer. ‘Roboshots’ have saved my ass many times, Bro!

What happened to your wife? Did she just split on you? asks Tristan.

No, Man, she’s fucking dead. One of her johns slit her throat ear to ear a couple days ago. Gave her a Columbian necktie, Bro! I fucking told her that she should carry a weapon, Man. Bitch never listened to me. Anyway, bottom line is that I don’t have any money coming in now, Stuart explains without a shred of remorse.

Tristan stares at the man speechless, amazed by Stuart’s cold, placid account of his wife’s murder. The silence is eventually broken as a nurse calls Tristan’s name. He stands up quickly and approaches the door, but has to be buzzed in to the office area. He is greeted by his favorite nurse… a short, large-breasted lady with long curly hair and lime green fluorescent scrubs.

Although he had only been at the clinic for a short time, he had developed sort of an affinity to her. He felt relaxed in