YNs–Tattoos

2013

An ankle connecting a foot in plastic hung under the logo of the tavern The Iron Knee in Wilmington, Delaware. The joke was lost on some, but for those who got it, they were probably too hammered to even comprehend beyond the sardonic piece of witticism. A golden glow seeped through the space and allowed steins to show bubbles floating to the top in a gilded fashion. The din of the place featured a few bursts of laughter amongst the idle chatter. Garr Forsyth, 22, looked around and found his schoolmate from the University of Delaware. They had been on spring break. He was six three and spelled the name “athlete.” With bronze skin and frizzy hair, he noticed the friend coming in the door to the bar.

His friend, Tomasin Yorbo, 21, was slight of build and about five foot eleven. He possessed chestnut skin and box braids. He made his way over to Forsyth.

He looked down at the floor and then up again as he always did to match his pal’s sense of humor and size difference. In the time that he sat down with him, he knew the plan would be laid out plainly.

“So, I took her to the dance right. And she was all over me. Hands in my pants. I’m a cinder block the whole time. She looks at me with greenish blue eyes and continues to pull me in closer.”

“You get all her socials?”

“Everyone but Snapchat. I don’t like Snapchat.”

“You know where she lives?”

“She lives in Easton Apartments.”

“Cool. Cool. So why am I here again?”

“You have to find the woman with the rose tattoos.”

“Both?”

“Both. They’re on her lower back accenting her first name and she’ll let you know the rest. One gin, double!” Yorbo shouted. The bar kept with the ironic scene. The barkeeper showed a finger to his lips amongst all the noise. Yorbo grinned.

“Bet. I’ll find her and we’ll continue with the conversation with the girl at school.”

Yorbo grabbed his glass and downed its contents with aplomb. “I’ll see you back at the dorm.” He left as quickly as he had come. Forsyth removed himself from his stool and started the hunt. He looked right and left in a hoodie and track shorts and sneakers. He got close sometimes and the looks seemed like the female had visibly been disturbed without even being touched. Forsyth made the international symbol for apology with both hands out front and one upon his chest over his heart and a simple lowering and shaking of his head. Through the room he thought he’d never find her. But there right on the bench, a woman with multiple tattoos including the one for which he searched, laughed over a beer with her friends.

Forsyth walked to her and uttered the code word he hated to say but Yorbo thought it would fit the setting. The word most associated with the most elite Ivy League School in the Country and one of the best schools in the world.

“Crimson,” Forsyth spoke clearly and almost inaudibly like a verbal missile directed at the twenty-five-year-old woman. Her face seemed angular and her green eyes glittered in the low lights. Her figure looked slight but there existed an apparent authority in her motions. She drank the last of her beer and turned around and smiled. With an outstretched hand, she looked Forsyth in the face and shook his hand.

“I’m Talina.”

“Garr.”

“Guitar?”

“No, Garr.”

“Garr. Cool. Let’s head out,” Talina directed.

The cool spring air felt damp and appetizing at the same time. It kind of had a quality of early autumn. The man and woman sat on the patio of the establishment.

“We’ve got a shipment of over 6,000 tablets. You move them to Newark.”

“Why not here in Wilmington?”

“Too small of clientele. People here want the fetti. College kids like yourself are hooked on the molly. You should know that.”

“I do. I was just testing you.”

“Okay. If you move these tablets, you’ll have $120,000 to your name, 6000 at $20 each. Of course you’ll split it with your underlings. Are you all about it?”

“I’m with it.”

“Good. Your runners are going to be on guard at all times. No matter what, make sure they get to the college kids. Take the bus, the train, whatever but don’t put it in a car. We almost got busted a few weeks ago,” Talina related.

“Are you being ironic right now? I would imagine a car would be the most secure way to deliver the product.”

“No, I’m as serious as colon cancer. We have to keep our work tight and still maneuver through the streets and campuses through public transit.”

“So Dart?”

“Exactly, and AmTrak, whatever you’ve gotta do besides a personal vehicle,” Talina replied.

“That’s the basic idea for me. I don’t have a car anyway.”

“See?”

“Alright. Where’s the stashhouse?”

“Stashhouse? There is no stashhouse. There’s going to be a bag of work dropped off tomorrow morning. While most kids will be out of town for spring break, there will still be those who will stay back. That’s our target. They’ll be making plans for graduation and going back home most likely or taking a job around here for the summer.”

Yorbo nodded. He had the face of a monolith. Stern and marked with the gravity of this situation. His look at her greenish-blue eyes allowed him to become smitten, but he didn’t allow her to know he was about to catch feelings. The negotiations remained that much more important.

“Alright. I’ve got it,” he finally admitted.

“Come to my house. They just shipped it off a delivery truck.”

Talina led him to her car and they got in with ease. When they arrived at her house, he noticed that it was nineteenth century Victorian with inviting decor and artwork everywhere. This lady sure knew her way around a gallery, he thought.

“C’mon, it’s in the back.” The two of them journeyed to the rear of the house and she showed him the proper amount of product. It was on a small pallet in a red bag with thousands of multicolored pieces that looked like a candy store.

“You have to be careful with the baggies,” Talina admonished. “You don’t want to fill them too much as they’ll break the tablets.”

“Okay. So I can give all this out with the confidence that no one will be any wiser?”

“Of course, we got it for cheap and we’re selling it at wholesale dirt cheap,” Talina explained.

“I’ve got it.”

“You want to come in for tea?”

“Sure.”

They didn’t have tea. Talina kissed his mouth. He pecked at her neck. They found their way upstairs. After a few minutes of bedroom traffic, they put back on their clothes.

“If you move work like you moved me, you’re in for a great career, young man,” Talina whispered and kissed his mouth again.

“I know,” he got up and placed on his sneakers.

The next day, Yorbo gathered his three couriers. As an underboss, he had been put in the position of letting the youngsters delegate themselves.

He mapped out the places to go for the best engagement. With a red erasable marker on a whiteboard, he ensured each one of them knew their roles and how to transport from the small city to the college town. He wasted no time directing them to keep instructions for the clients to drink just enough water before taking the drugs and to drink a moderate amount after consuming.

“Why we gotta tell ‘em to drink water?” Chris Wascomb asked.

“We want clientele that will come back for more, not die of overheating or having a seizure. That’s the reason why we tell them to hydrate not too much but just enough. Before and after.”

“Okay, but is it because most of them are white?”

“Of course. Nobody cares about black clients getting high off heroin or crack anymore. One white college girl will get front page news and the top story on channels 3, 6, and 10. And Fox, too.”

After that had been cleared up, he had felt satisfied with his briefing like a lieutenant colonel instructing Marines on how to be safe on the ninety-six. This emboldened him to look for as many people that could have stayed back or had been or was about to go on vacation. The way that he viewed it was that he would be in the trenches putting in work alongside his subordinates.

They tore open the vials of the drug and placed them in the baggies under the instruction that Talina provided Yorbo.

From Wilmington’s West Side, they traveled via Dart buses or the Amtrak train in tandem with the product. Once they had entered the train or bus, they knew their mission. Early morning allowed them to be able to skip school and travel the entire day and end up in the home of the University of Delaware. Six of them ventured southward. Yorbo looked at his couriers and made sure they knew the assignment. His face remained solemn and cool. The runners also looked poised and ready to reap the rewards of their labor.

Once night fell, they walked with their packs in Jansport bags. They cushioned the bags with small pillows. Their precautions had remained so precise. In fact, they had fortune enough that more students had been preparing for spring break and went to one last party. When the sun had wheeled its way through the sky and set in the beautiful illusion, the seven of them descended upon the houseparties. The parties, for the most part, remained sedate. No red cups on the lawn or anything had surfaced.

A few couples jammed to the hip hop music while others made out in dusky corners. Once they finished their sessions, the runners looked at their potential buyers. Yorbo folded his arms like a plant manager at the Chrysler plant from some bygone year. A tiny smirk arrived on his face.

At the point that they had sold most of their wares, about $145,000 worth of product, they found themselves being targeted by three giant orange men. They had reached Wilmington to unload the rest of the product and use it to put on top of the re-up. Fear struck their minds, because they had only heard of the fables, myths, and legends of the gigantic green-eyed men. Although afraid, they advanced nevertheless. Yorbo commanded his troops to fire their weapons at the giants. They had Uzis, AR-15s, and sawed off shotties. Rounds and slugs sent through the house and caused a ruckus. While it seemed as if there had been a police response, they had been in the traphouse where the kingpin had set up for them to process the work and the profits.

“Goddamnit!” Yorbo yelled. He kept firing away but their resistance proved to be overwhelming. The orange men not only towered over the seven of the young men, but their strength seemed to deflect the rounds and they kept going with their precise might.

One orange man had been knocked back and down off his feet. Wascomb shot into his eyes and it only angered the orange man. He grabbed Wascomb and crushed him like pepper in a grinder. The grisly scene sent a horrific tremor through the remaining dealers on the avenue. Yorbo’s eyes widened but he didn’t show that he had been afraid beyond his wits. He dragged Wascomb’s body from the carnage and fought alongside his runners. The underboss had about just enough of these beings. But the three of them together overwhelmed them.

Their strong stance on being stalwarts for their money-making-machine, had faltered and died in the hopes of bringing together the ideals that they had set forth to accomplish. Yorbo moved with the spirit of a warrior fending off frightening foes. He aimed true. This, though, only worsened the situation as the orange men began to encroach further upon him. He blasted the shotgun but ultimately had been devoured with the rest of his men.