09.30
Sam tossed and turned in bed, sweat pouring out of red, irritated patches of mostly pale skin. The covers had been tossed away in the heat, pulled close in the cold, and drenched with sickly smelling perspiration. The designer sheets were ruined. God, he needed it. How long had it been? A few days already? No, hours. Minutes were now killing him. Something had to be done. Cold turkey was too hard.
That sticky black tar. It spoke in dreams, wrapping his head in a sweet stink of want. He flung himself out of bed, rid his stomach of another mouthful of bile at the door, and collapsed next to his shoes. Finding socks proved too difficult, so he just pulled on some brand new Reeboks to rub irritatingly against his naked feet, and found a shirt.
Sam stumbled out the door, pulling on a fresh Nike shirt and clutched himself awkwardly down the driveway. New Lexus. His wetness stained the leather seats as another bout of cold sweats began. His fingers found their way down underneath the seat, gently pulling at the trigger of a handgun. He made sure it was there with him twice more before shoving the car into gear. He pulled out in reverse, scattering the poor in the street. Leaving them to continue digging through his garbage, Sam sped off down the alley in search of oil. Maybe those Arabs downtown had a few million more barrels.