Vampire Rule n°8: Always keep and maintain a few blood dolls; stable blood sources are necessary.
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It had been one week since John's started his little 'conquest' of Bubbles and his world, making the junkie financially and socially dependent on him had been an easy matter.
A shitty truck, some human interactions and just a tiny little bit of presence was all it took to have the coke-thinned, remarkably sharp dopefiend dancing in the palm of his hand.
He made sure to meet him every two nights, between a pleasant feeding session with Max or the occasional girl he picks up at a local gym when he's craving some variety in his diet, they'd usually talk business.
If business was Bubbles complaining about the hardships and obstacle he went through to secure their 'bread', always exaggerating his tales in order to get some extra brownie points or an attaboy from his not so gentle employer.
Still, John didn't mind as long as his stomach was full, cultivating beneficial relationships was key to long term success, and that meant dealing with people's bullshit with a smile on your face and laughing when appropriate.
"That damn cop kept me there for ten whole minutes, I'm telling ya, you white boys sure have it easy round these parts…" Bubbles growled at the injustice of the world while driving the pick up truck he so generously lent him.
So John gave him a warm, sympathetic smile from his place in the passenger seat.
"Only fools care about such things, Bubs, soon you and will be living a life these worms can only dream off." He said smoothly, earning himself one grateful look and an eager smile from the junkie.
"—I told him not to try playing Hungry's boy like that, but the fool didn't listen to me, ended up getting beat so hard even his whale of a girlfriend wouldn't kiss his black ass face no more." Bubbles said with a voice full of mirth, and John laughed hoping it was indeed appropriate.
It wasn't rocket science, he just had to play nice while making it clear that he was capable and willing if not eager to hurt him very badly if he so much considering messing around.
Then ever so naturally the discussion drifts off and Bubbles starts feeding him some actually relevant informations, the words of the streets rang in every dopefiend's head, it was almost like a super power. Let them stand a few hours in some corner, and they'll tell you who works for whom, who's going to get hurt, who shall be doing the hurting and for whatever stupid reason.
The more he listened to Bubbles go on and on about this and that package, the more he understood the structure of the drug market, and the more he realized how little he actually knew.
It wasn't some corporate-like, cold business structure with powerful cartels carving up territory and enforcing rules upon the many greedy players.
It was a savannah, a wild desert, a concrete jungle where hoards of beasts fuelled by money and desire came to live the their lives in service of the high.
The corner was the oasis, the haven of readily available dope and coke where the ever so thirsty fiends gathered to feed their habit like a herd of antelopes stomping and grazing their way to the watering hole.
From the depressed white collar worker driving by every day with 20$ in his pocket and so much pain he needs to drown, the single mother selling her body for a vial thinking that it was only temporary and that her children were too young to remember anyway, the career drug-addicts, hardcores who live and die by the corner and developed something of a professional pride in their hustle.
All the animals, big and small, old and young, came to get that happiness cocktail hoping it would as good as that first time, the time their brain changed forever.
Every day and every night of every week of their cursed existence.
They ignored all dangers, the fiends felt safety from both harm and shame in their numbers, Gotham was a city of millions and her fiends were in the hundred of thousands.
'Gotham has the best drug fiends,' John thought amused.
In places with such abundance of fat, juicy prey, there was bound to be swarms of highly effective predators; drug dealers, ruling their little kingdoms with fierce reputation and the occasional bout of senseless violence.
Other with smaller fangs where content to take advantage of the weak and careless, burn sellers and stash thieves.
"What's a burn artist?" John asked his more street-wise companion when the label came up.
"Stupid bastards that's what they are, they put baking soda in vials then call it dope, robbing us blind is what they really do." Bubbles answered with distaste, and a bit of begrudging respect for those capable of such a good capper.
A capper, that's what they called it, not as bad as a crime, but not honest work either.
A capper was the fiend's hustle, the petty theft and small scams a drug addict will do to get his high.
Armed robbery was a crime, shoplifting was a capper.
How else was a fiend to pay a dealer?
'That's all in the game,' John couldn't count the amount of time he heard these words from his employee's mouth.
Game wasn't always played this way though.
Even back then in the sixties when heroin conquered the East Coast of the united states, turning what was once a small industry confined to hipsters and party goers and fancy musicians looking for something stronger than vodka, into an opportunity to make some serious money.
The users went from less than a couple thousands to a real army, legions paying up in the back alleys and low income housings, up the towers and behind the clubs and bars.
Dealers were businessmen, they maintained distribution networks and provided for them, their people, their muscle and soldiers and the boys locked up who stayed silent knowing their families would be taken care off...one way, or another.
Professionals, lethal but not stupid like the fools John raided these last few days, these men had a code.
They didn't use what they sold, didn't serve or use children, wouldn't sell to people who didn't know what they were in for and didn't shoot people who didn't need to be shot.
For John who saw children as young as ten working as lookouts or even runners for teenaged drug dealers, it sounded like fantasy.
But it was the truth, people came and went, kingpins rose and fell but the rules stayed the same.
Until Miss Coke showed her pretty arse in town.
Heroin meant business, it was the needle piercing a hole to your veins, it was hardcore and pricy and something most people had the sense or fear to avoid on sight.
It took a real determined fool to stab himself for a high right off the bat.
But the eighties saw the arrival of Jane, the Miss, a much cheaper, friendlier sort of white powder you could shove up your nose to get a few moments of euphoria before it fades and you're going back for more.
Those on dope like Bubbles could pretend to be stable, they could do things and buy stuff that didn't necessarily fuel their habit...sometimes.
But coke was a horrible mistress, it demanded everything and then some, turned a man so mad even the dope fiends were disgusted...till they tried it, and mixed it up with their beloved heroine.
Coke brought women to the corners, made it possible for a fifteen years old to grab a vial and tell a friend that his mother would take it up the arse for this much, all the while being completely truthful.
It made the hard to maintain, limited connection essential to the heroin trade nearly obsolete, any fool could go to Gotham and buy a package then deal it back in his home town making a thousand bucks and paying six hundred to the suppliers.
That meant anyone and everyone could deal.
That meant chaos.
The professionals became a minority in the game they pioneered, now twenty something young guns were giving package to seventeen years old and making hundreds of thousands of pure benefits every year.
The prison were crammed full of people, so much that arresting someone for street level distribution became utter madness, the best the cops could do was rough them up and send them to a judge who'll dish out probations and pre-trial time served to young men who were effectively shitting gold bars.
The streets were full of dealers, the prisons were full of dealers, and no matter how many new cages were built in the city, the county or the entire state, there would always be ten times as many dealers working the corners for every last dollar they could provide.
Ladies and gentlemen, that's the war on drugs.
In every war, information was key, and everyday John Harker was getting more and more educated on the subject.
"—Here's your share, fifteen hundred!" Bubbles said with big smile, trying to hide his nervousness, but John already knew it was the correct sum.
Giving a couple hundred dollars to the employee at the scrapyards was enough to ask a couple favour, like noting the exact amount they paid Bubbles every week.
"We've made 3200 bucks, right?" John said as he counted the bills, not bothering to look up to see the older man's surprised face, he already saw it enough times already, "That's alright, keep up the good work."
He knew Bubbles probably shorted him off a few dollars, but it didn't matter much, what mattered was letting him know that his actions weren't as discreet as he might think.
At least, until his first human asset is ready for further development.
His freshly bought phone buzzed, breaking the silence. He glanced at the screen and saw Max's name, who happened to be the only person with his contact information. Answering the call, he noticed an unusual silence on her end.
"Max, everything alright?" he asked, his voice smooth and reassuring, already suspecting what was about to happen.
"We need to talk," she replied, her tone subdued.
There they were, the dreadful words.
Lesser men would panic and scramble hearing them, with good reasons too.
John held back a chuckle, something like this was bound to happen sooner or later, "Sure thing. Where are you?"
"Outside the diner. Can you come?"
"I'll be there soon," he promised.
As he ended the call, Bubbles shot him a concerned look. "You in trouble, boss?"
'Boss? Now that's new.' John thought, evaluating the situation, 'Is he trying to compensate for a possible dishonesty?'
"Nah, nothing unexpected."
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Yo! It's Hamtaro!
I don't know why this chapter turned into a study of the drug trade in the East Coast during the nineties, but it did and I can't say I regret it.
Our boy Bubbles has been working hard hauling scrap metal all day long, it should alright to let him have a few extra bucks for his trouble, right? As long as he knows that John knew, they don't don't know that we know though...or do they?
Anyway, thank you all for reading, please do leave a comment and drop your stones to encourage me to write more. As always, criticism is welcome and suggestions even more so.
Pet your dog, kiss your mom, hug somebody who needs it.
And have a nice day.