I’M THE SON OF RAGE AND LOVE

TO FALL IN LOVE, TO FALL IN DEBT, TO ALCOHOL, TO CIGARETTES.

The alley is dark, just like many other things in Johnny’s crowded, confused world.

He stands on the edge of that dark threshold- one foot in the light and one foot in the grime, shoulders loose, eyes sharp. Tonight is a busy night despite the gentle sheets of precipitation that never quite seem to end (if there’s one thing that he misses about California, it’s the sunshine). His customers know how to find him, even in the rain, even in the biting cold that threatens the hem of his coat and pulls at his mess of dark hair like wanton fingers. Lesser dealers- the ones with the cheap stuff, the ones with the sugar-water, the ones with the real poison- they don’t worry about things like reputation. They don’t worry about things like image. But not Johnny- his image is a mountain, his reputation a fortress hewn into the rocks and the trees and the stone of the earth. Everlasting. It’s why he wears the mask, it’s why nobody knows his name.

There are not many things in this life that Johnny is good at- it’s a shame, really, that the one thing he happens to excel in is a highly illegal (and dangerous) practice in the grand scheme of things. But, he supposes, he’s stuck with it because he’s good at it- because what would he do if he didn’t have this? Sit at a desk in a cubicle in an office flipping papers, nursing papercuts, spilling coffee on every available surface?

Absolutely not, he thinks. Absolutely not. He’s done it once, and he’s never going to do it again.

And so here he stands, one foot in the light and one foot in the grime, collecting his dues and dishing out his own brand of holy water. Johnny is no stranger to withdrawals- and even though he’d tossed the habit he so cleverly encourages in his own customers, he can still feel the shakes, the burn, the splitting headache that rolls in on a tide of more, more, more. He could wax poetic about the way he’d surfed his withdrawals straight into another high, but he’d made a choice long ago to cut out the drugs, cold turkey.

Not after what he did to the woman in his apartment. Nameless, but not faceless. He supposes that’s what the drugs tend to do- they make you forget. They make you weak. They make you a menace.

He can recognize an individual in withdrawal like he can recognize his own face in the mirror. The individual in question appears like a thief in the night, which he very well might be- a man wrapped in a swath of black fabric, of crimson midnight, looking like he’s neck-deep in whatever mess he’s gotten himself into. Johnny might be forgetful (Whatsername, Whatsername) but he prides himself greatly on his ability to compartmentalize and categorize faces.

And this man, nameless or not, is familiar. Johnny turns his head- the young man is standing impossibly close, too close to be comfortable, and he’s talking about some sort of replacement.

Revolution, Johnny’s mind supplies helpfully. Revolution calling.

He nods, wordlessly, and jerks his chin over his shoulder. Follow me, he says, Into the grime.

As he steps into shadow- not far, not far from the light of the sleepless city- he tucks his hand into one of his many coat pockets and closes a fist around a balloon of powder. His mind tugs at him, a child pulling on the hem of his shirt. It’s the name, he thinks. The face.

And then, in the dark of the alley, mind switched into overdrive, he remembers. For the first time in years, a name (a name!) floats like a corpse to the surface of his mind, and he grabs it like it’s his only lifeline. Johnny turns, quickly, and grabs the nose of his mask to push it back into his mess of midnight hair. ”Nikki?”


NICKLAUS STRAUSS ;; [sparkly eyes montage]

I’M THE SON OF RAGE AND LOVE

TO FALL IN LOVE, TO FALL IN DEBT, TO ALCOHOL, TO CIGARETTES.

The mask isn’t just a means of flash- not anymore.

When he’d first begun to wear it, it’d been entirely for show. For almost three years, it’d merely been a new way to draw in his customers- the mystery of the man in the gas mask was just as potent as any promise of a good high, and for the most part, it’d been a symbol. A metaphor, if you will, of Johnny’s open disgust for the very product he sells. He keeps himself separated- a man apart, some sort of benign deity that refuses to mingle with the commoners he commands. His customers had flocked to him like moths to a flame, in some part more willing to buy from a man who doesn’t look them in the eye than a man who sees their sins laid bare, hands open wide and begging, begging for more.

Two years prior, the mask had stopped being a formality and more of a necessity. A knife to the face will do that, he supposes. And a scar as big as his own is more than likely to draw attention- it’s a dead giveaway to his own identity, and if anyone ever knew him as anything but the man behind the mask, he’d stick out in a crowd like a pile of pennies in a grain silo. Johnny doesn’t remove his mask, lest anyone see the garish scar that cuts under his eye and through the bridge of his nose- because he’s the only man alive with a scar like this one, and it’s remarkable enough a deformation that finding him in the corner store or trudging back to his apartment would be a blow to his reputation. Because when the mask comes off, the man from the coffee shop suddenly becomes the drug dealer on the corner. The stranger from the bus suddenly becomes the turnabout for the revolution. It’s a kick to the knees of his carefully built image, his fame-

His reputation.

It’s no surprise, really, that Johnny’s face is the first thing that Nikki remarks on. He’s used to the stares, the gawkers, the people who sneak glances out of the corner of their eye, wondering, how did that happen? But he supposes that Nikki is one of the few individuals in town who’d known him before the cartel, before the split ear and the angry pink slash across his very identity. Johnny’s mouth tips up in a wry smile, and absently, he brings the fingertips of his free hand to brush the lower edge of the scar. ”Sinaloa cartel,” he says carefully. ”Caught me skimming payments.”

Johnny nods. ”I’m lucky I’m not a dead man.” He admits, fingering the balloon of heroin in his pocket. He’s frowning, mouth pulled down with distaste. And then, with grace and dignity, he addresses his own elephant-

”Never thought the Nikki I heard so much about was you.” He says with a tilt of his head. ”Doctor X’s favorite son, one of my own?” And then the corner of his mouth slides upwards, just barely. ”I figure I’m the exact replacement you’re looking for.”

And then, all friendliness lost, all camaraderie discarded, Johnny holds out his hand. ”Thirty bucks,” he says.

Normally, for the good stuff, he’d charge more. But estranged past or not, Nikki is a friend -- was a friend -- and Johnny figures that he’d better go easy.

This time.


NICKLAUS STRAUSS ;; two bros, chillin in an alley, five feet apart,