Sparrow Sprite wears her strawberry blonde locks in pigtails. Her eyes are covered in blue makeup, shadowing the dark brown eyes you never see on tv. She’s wearing a Pixies t-shirt, and ripped at the knees jeans. Blue boots with hot pink laces stomp towards me.
“Hey, got a smoke?”
Damn it. That clerk was trying to help me out.
“No …uhmm.. Sorry.”
She rolls her eyes and passes me into the neon storefront. What the hell is Sparrow Sprite doing here?
This isn’t the town or the area for stars of her ilk, and we have no music scene. I have to ponder the reasons later as three gun shots ring out from inside the 7-11.
Three shots that change my life.

About two blocks from Rahkim’s I walk into a 7-11. Chemical Floor Cleaner.
I wander the aisles, debating between a Reese’s peanut butter cup or the Trix bar. It’s tough being me. I go with the cups, and grab a Mountain Dew from the fogged over drink cooler. The clerk eyes me suspiciously, scans my items,
“You want cigarettes?”
“Um. No just this.”
I think it makes him mad. Whatever. I take my caffeine and sugar outside. The sun is setting and the neon of the store starts to cast a shadowy glow on life outside.
I sit on a concrete parking barrier, and eat my chocolate. My wallet is empty, my debts are clear, and the air is crisp with a summer kick. I’m thinking that life should always be like this.
And then the blue Corvette pulls up. I see her instantly. Sparrow Sprite.
And I can’t breathe.
—–continued.

“What up Red?”
Not a thing he says, lifting the red brimmed cap so his eyes barely shine out. They’re cold, and bloodshot, and I retreat from meeting his gaze.
“You good if I go in?”
“Sure thing Jackson, you and me straight.”
I slide past, not wanting or needing to continue the conversation. I can hear the low thumping before I enter the building, and smell the incense burning into my nose. A young blonde lays out on the couch across from me, she’s barely conscious.
A part of me wants to go to the kitchen, grab some water and wake her up, but it’s not why I’m here.
I head down the poster covered hallway, past images of superheroes, dead comedians, and one strange mickey mouse and enter into Rahkim’s lair.
He sits with his back to the door, his large frame holding the room in center, carving out his space with little effort.
“Hey Jackson. You got my money?”
See I like Rahkim. He gets right to the point.
I reach into my pocket, and pull out the green, sweaty, payment.
—–continued.