This is in response to an idea hatched by thenewgreen in his first line thread. So, can you tell a story contained in one paragraph (ish)?
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He remembered the first cigarette of the day like he remembered the tooth his tongue now searched the socket of; the tooth now somewhere beyond the galaxies of light surging toward him from thousands of distant flashbulbs. Outside of thought, he felt his muscles bunch, slacken and recoil as his right glove smashed the orbital bone of the other guy looking for a payday, looking for a way to keep the lights on, looking to make those critical eyes glow with appreciation. "Couldn't punch his way out of a wet paper bag," that stung. Most people couldn't appreciate the humble paper bag's capacity for metaphor, nor its ability to wrap its way around a life just as easily as it could be thrown away. Life; rock, paper, scissors . . . shoot.
The man wanted to die by his own, not somebody elses, he was staring at the gun and knife laid out on the table before him. He couldn't decide between the two, and he desperately wanted to make a choice, he could feel the weight of the life he took bearing (right usage?) down on him like an iron anvil. His palms were wet and his eyes were glazed over with the agony and fear that he would be made to pay by others for that life. He didn't want to face external punishment, he wanted to take his own life into his hands do what he felt he had to do. Finally he made the choice and put the gun under his chin, the cold iron felt comforting against his fevered flesh, he pulled the trigger and entered the void of death.
"You got the goods?" He looked at me, desperation in his eyes. By god I pitied him. "Yeah" I looked over his shoulder to make sure no-one was following him. He was one of my regulars but you never know. "Potent?" "Of course, isn't my stuff always" He started shuffling about, afraid he wasn't going to get his fix. "Yeah, yeah, of course..." "Relax" I showed him the zip-lock bag. "I had to swim over from Cuba to get this" Okay, maybe I took a boat, but it was dangerous non-the less. "Sweet, grumpy cat! Aww..." I left him, I never liked seeing them get high.
A big thank you to lil for editing this for me: The Cocoon "Wouldn't you love to have a cocoon for a bed?" Sitting on the remake of a mid-century modern chair, he shrugged, confused both by her question and by the price tag in his hand. Under his breath, to nobody he muttered, "I don't understand." "You know, a cocoon that we could sleep in that would envelope us and keep us both warm and safe." She gave him a look that said, I'm not kidding, this means something to me. With that, he stood up quickly, pointed the gun and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. She took the gun from his hand, pointed it at the price tag on the chair and pulled the trigger again until it beeped. He looked annoyed and said, "This place is way too expensive. We never should have registered here.... and why the fuck would I want a cocoon?"