Originally posted by me on Fanstory. A cautionary tale...
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Bitten by The Krok
Chris decided to go make some
extra money. Being a poor black kid in Chicago, there were not many
options. Dad was gone, and Chris never knew when he might return.
Mom already worked two jobs. The landlord was on their backs for
rent all the time. So Chris knew he needed to act, and act fast –
as fast as a 17-year-old high school dropout could act. He tried
working at McDonalds, for a short time. The car wash job didn't
last long. Neither did the busser job at a popular restaurant
uptown, and the bus fare ate up most of that. So, after thinking
about it, and chatting with his main homey, he decided to hit the
streets. Lots of action on the streets, all the time.
He started with simple stuff.
Slinging some weed and hash to build up trust with his dealer,
Slink.
“Well, done, my man. You gonna
be movin up, real soon. Just keep it up,” Slink said on more than
one occasion. After a few months, Slink let Chris sell some rock
and crank now and then. Not much, just a few hits every so often.
The crucial trust element was building.
One Sunday afternoon, Chris was
on a street corner, when the cops came calling. Seems they had some
video of him handing something over. The police took him in for
questioning. There was no sense in him trying to hide it – and he
wouldn't eat it.
“So you have, like, two ounces
on you here, Chris?”
“Yeah, officer. I'm sorry,
man. That is for my own use, you know. Takes the edge off.”
“Then why is it divided up in
ten baggies? And why do you have a thousand in cash on you, Chris?
Really expect me to believe it?” Chris then clammed up, after
requesting a lawyer.
He got charged with possession
and dealing. But the judge, seeing it was his first offense, gave
him a few months and probation. The cops asked him about his
higher-ups, his sources. Chris wisely clammed up, or gave a fake
name. They finally had to turn him loose in the jail system. His
silence bought him more respect.
Once he got out, Slink looked him
up within the hour. He got some accolades, pats on the back, and
then new marching orders. Because of his silence and
professionalism, he graduated to a small wholesaler. Known to the
police now, he just made deliveries, and took larger amounts of
money. Pretty much staying out of the limelight. Chris prospered,
and used a new nickname. StreetFox. Fox because he had such good
looks. The ladies, and some of the guys would hit on him often, and
not for drugs. After a year or so, StreetFox seemingly had it all.
A good income, lots of ladies, and respect. He was tempted to show
off his wealth, and talked up buying a Range Rover with special rims.
“Don't do it,” said Slink.
“Lay low, be cool, don't attract attention, don't let it go to your
head. Stay wise, stay real, and stay outta jail.”
“Okay, man. Whatevah you say.
I'm all about stayin outta jail!” StreetFox stuck to his older
Chevy Cavalier for transportation.
StreetFox began to wholesale some
exotic goods to keep his income rising. If there was one thing he
liked, it was money. He was hiding sealed wads of bills all over his
apartment, and in his mothers house too. She was happy with the
money he gave her, and knew better than to ask where he was getting
it. Once in a while, she would question him, though.
“Chris, honey. I just don't
want to see you get caught, and go away for life. You know what
happened the last time.”
“I know, momma. Don't you worry
bout nothin. I got it handled. Don't you be talking to no one,
though. I mean it, Momma.” Then he would fix her with a look,
and she would know her little boy was gone from her now, forever. A
new, more dangerous person had emerged in his place.
StreetFox began to sell a lot of
Meth and Krokodil, both highly addictive and dangerous drugs. His
cash flow was going through the roof. But since he had to lay low,
and his money laundering skills were not the greatest, sometimes he
entertained himself by staying home with a girl, watching movies and
shooting up a bit of “The Krok.”
At first, he felt like he was on
top of the world. But he gradually found that he needed more to get
the same high. Still, he was young and vigorous. He kept his sales
affairs going well, and kept his girls satisfied. He and a gal would
shoot up, and sometimes attempt sex. But after a heavy dose of “the
crok” they would oftentimes just sit, and laugh, in each others
arms. Then other events took precedence.
It started with the shaking. His
hands, and then sometimes his legs, would get the shakes. And he had
periodic episodes of numbness. But they would pass. Sometimes he
would do a bit of crank to get through the day, and that seemed to
help. Months passed. He finally laundered some of his drug money
various ways, via nightclub deals, and some fake compartments on
trucks. He was getting better at various aspects of the business.
Aside from a couple of close calls, StreetFox was living up to his
name: He had not gotten busted since that first incident.
When the first sores appeared, he
thought it might be Herpes. That is what a local clinic said, too,
and prescribed Valtrex. But, of course, they didn't know about
Chris's Krokodil habit, and he was not about to tell them.
Sometimes StreetFox/Chris would
mix a bit of pure heroin in with the Krok, sometimes with a bit of
cocaine. He would reach new highs, and not leave his crib for a day
or more. But he always came down, and then needed some Coke or
Heroin just to function at business.
One morning, he got into the
shower, and found that could hardly stand. His legs shook, and arms
too. He noticed several more sores, some deep. The deep ones hurt,
but the shallow, coin-sized wounds didn't even seem to hurt. They
bled just a little when water hit them, then stopped. He noticed how
skinny he was these days. He washed himself as best he could, then
got out. He had a couple of major cash deliveries to make, and in
his condition, it would take a good rock to charge him to get on
through it all. Sometimes, like this morning, Chris forgot to eat
anything.
Somehow StreetFox got through his
transactions. But his contact, a contemporary of Slink, looked him
over.
“Man, you better take care of
youself.”
“I'm fine, man. I'm here, ain't
I?”
“You better be here when we say.
You need to look after those habits, you know. Don't need no dead
movers on our team,” warned the contact.
“I hear you. Don't worry bout
me.”
“We better not have to. Later
then.”
The two went their separate ways
after the cash handoff, in a large, suburban parking lot.
StreetFox went back to his crib.
He was mad, and several scenarios went through his head. He thought
about calling in the cops and turning on those bastards. He
considered running, just taking some cash and leaving the country.
But it was difficult to decide on any course of action. Eventually,
he opted for a hefty dose of Krok, to adjust his attitude and maybe
clear his head some.
He found that he only had a small
amount left. Where the hell did it all go? I had a half-liter
of the shit. Couldn't have used it all...
He finally shot up the remaining
Krok, one regular dose, and followed it with a good shot of Heroin,
and another of Coke. Soon he was playing loud music, and pacing his
apartment, giggling. Every so often he would smack a wall, or kick
a chair, as he fantasized about kicking the shit out of someone in
his crew. His hands and feet bled from several small wounds. After
one hard smack, he left an impression of blood on the wall. That
sobered him up some. He looked over his hands, and arms. They were
nearly covered with wounds.
“Shit, man! I'm fucked up!
I'm all fucked up! Fuck, man!”
He began shaking, and sat down.
Dizzy, upset, crying, he still didn't want to dial 911 and risk
exposing his place. He finally ran out of his place, and walked to a
nearby hospital.
Once in the Emergency room, he
found the nearest person with a gown, and grabbed him, sobbing.
“I got sores all over, man. I
need help. I need a doc to check me out, man.”
The gowned person was merely a
gentleman with a large overcoat.
“Let me go. The nurses station
is over there,” growled the man, shoving StreetFox off of him.
StreetFox/Chris staggered across the room, and finally collapsed
right by a nurses station.
“Sir? Sir? You have to sign in
here.”
“Lady, he's passed out. Better
call someone, huh?” said another person waiting in the ER.
The triage nurse finally got on
the intercom, and said, “Help in admitting stat. Patient coding.
Need people down here stat.”
They got Chris on a gurney, and
into an exam room. After giving him oxygen, he came to. They saw
all of the sores, and decided to hook him up to some monitors. He
was coming down off all the drugs in his system, fast.
“I need outta here, man. Got
to get home. Got things to do,” he said, tugging at the tubes in
his arms. A nurse tried to restrain him, and called for help. They
finally strapped his arms down. Chris was too weakened to put up
much of a struggle. So he had to lay there, while they got him
stabilized. They treated all of his wounds, and bandaged up several.
“Do you have any kind of
insurance?” they asked him.
“Hell no, man. I'm just a poor
black kid, what do you expect?”
“Well, OK. We're going to have
to turn you loose. Just answer a few questions and you can go. But
you need to get yourself help, son.”
They took him to the exit, and
handed him a few extra bandages, and some paperwork.
At least they gave me a script
for some hydrocodone. I'll go get that, as soon as I can hit my cash
stash.
Chris headed home, on trembling
legs. He felt lightheaded, and realized he needed something to eat
as well. But when he finally made it to his apartment, and got
inside, and the doors locked, he realized his fridge was running on
empty. His cash was intact, so he finally ordered a pizza with all
the extras. It arrived, and he got the guy paid, tipping him an
extra ten bucks. He enjoyed the first feast he had in a long time.
Not too long after that, he fell asleep in his recliner.
He was awakened sometime later,
by knocking at his door. He jumped up, unaware for a moment where he
was. The knocking continued. He finally got his bearings, and
answered the door.
“What? Who is it?”
“It's me, man. Slinko. Where
you been? You missed a drop.”
“Oh, come on in, Slink. I
been in the hospital. Look, see?” He showed Slinko his bandaged
wounds, and Slinko exclaimed, “Woah, you. What you been doin to
yourself? I told you to be careful, man.”
“I know, I know. I got it
handled. But I need some time, man. Got to recover some, you know.”
“We got a business to run, man.
You in it, now. We don't get days off. But tell you what. I'll
cover your shit for a day or two. Tops, I mean it. That's it. Get
yourself clean, or whatever it is you have to do. Alright?”
“Alright, man. That's real cool
of you, man. Appreciate it a lot. I'll be back up to speed soon.”
Slinko got up to leave, and
turned to him. “You do that, man. Two days. You answer that
phone first thing Friday morning, or there'll be repercussions. You
feel me?”
'I got you, bro. I'll pick up,
and step up. Thanks again man,” said Chris. They shook in their
style. Then Slinko walked out, and Chris locked the door behind him.
He turned and surveyed the shambles his place was in. He began to
pick up a bit, and straighten the living room.
Don't know how, but I got to
get clean. Got to get off this shit. Got to get my old life back.
His cleaning jag lasted all of an
hour. Then he sat, and got the old TV working well enough to watch
some programs. He napped a bit. But his body was already doing
things – strange things. He could tell he needed a fix. Chris
soon found the prescription for Hydrocodone, and he shortly went out
to get it filled. When he got the bottle at a local pharmacy, he
paid cash out of some proceeds he had recently made. He went back to
his apartment, and once there, he yanked the bottle open. Ignoring
the few spilled tabs, he gulped down around ten tabs, with some
water.
There, at least that will calm
me down. Eventually, it did, and Chris fell into a deep
slumber.
He awoke the next morning. His wounds
were aching, and a couple bled some. And his insides were jangling.
His head pounded intermittently. He found the hydro, and took five
more. Then he grabbed some cash, and went out to grab some breakfast
somewhere.
But by Thursday afternoon, his
small prescription of hydrocodone was exhausted. His body was
hurting, and nerves were on fire. He had to admit defeat. Chris
went out with still more of his cash reserves, money owed to Slinko.
He found some H to score, but couldn't find any Krok. He finally
scored some coke as well. Trudging back to his crib, he got there,
and barely got the door shut, before hurrying over to a special
table. He got out his spoon, syringe, and assorted items. He mixed
the coke and smack, melted them in the spoon. Then he filled a
syringe with the whole mess, and shot it right into his femural
artery. The explosive high he got felt exquisite. He had never
been shot up this high, this fast.
He was sent into another land,
full of flowers and colors and happy times, and hot gals hugging and
kissing him....
Friday Morning came around.
Slinko called, and called, and called. A while later, he came
knocking, with an enforcer in tow.
“He ain't answering. Should I
bust it in?” asked the enforcer.
Slinko looked around, up and down
the hall. In this run-down joint, who would care?
“Got a jimmy or anything on
you?”
“Naw, man, what do you think I
am,” the enforcer snickered.
“OK, try and kick it, but be
cool. We is just friends, concerned about our man.”
“Yeah, right,” said the
enforcer. He raised up and kicked the door hard. On the third
kick, the door flew open. A lady stuck her head out, and Slinko
said, “We's checking on our friend. Think he may be sick, ma'am.”
“Ok, ok, whatever,” said the
lady, waving her hands, and retreated back inside her place.
Slinko and the enforcer walked in.
They soon found Chris/StreetFox. Sitting in the same place where
he had shot up the bad Heroin mixed with extra-potent cocaine. The
mix had overloaded his already-wearied body, and stopped his heart,
permanently. He was still holding the empty needle in his other
hand.
“Sheeeee-it. Better go see if
he had any extra cheddar,” said Slinko. This was now a potential
crime scene. They searched the place, and Slinko found some of the
cash, but not nearly all. The fool had spent more than his
share. Still, they had to get out of there.
“Come on, man. We'll work it
out later. We got to go!” said Slinko.
“No argument here. We gone,”
said the enforcer.
They slipped out, pulling the
door shut behind them, and hurried out of the building. The lady
down the hall was just hanging up her cellphone after talking to the
police.
Headline the next day: “Another
heroin overdose victim found – our city is under siege.”
the end
