Warhol's Prophecy

56

‘FUCKING THING,’ SNARLED Russell Poole, banging the fruit machine.

He stood glaring at it, while fumbling in his denim jacket pocket for some more small change. He fed in more coins and watched as the three reels spun once more.

Again nothing.

‘Fucking fix,’ he rasped and turned away in anger.

The Black Squirrel was busy. Both bars were full of noisy drinkers. It was one of the most popular pubs in the city centre despite its reputation. There were five or six other pubs, each with a somewhat calmer atmosphere, but Poole had always looked on this one as his local. All his mates drank here. He’d met his last two girlfriends here (fucked one of them in the Gents to be exact). The recollection brought a grin to his ravaged features.

He was twenty-seven: slightly built and with long, lank hair. His hands and most of his neck were covered in pink, puckered skin that a doctor had once told him was eczema. A scar ran from the corner of his left top lip to just above the nostril, giving him the appearance of constantly sneering.

Poole pushed his way through the mass of drinkers to the bar, downed a pint of Carlsberg, then made his way to the toilets to ease his already over-filled bladder.

The stench hit him as soon as he walked into the Gents.

‘Fuck sake,’ he hissed.

The other man inside glanced round from the urinal where he stood, ran appraising eyes over Poole, then continued urinating.

The doors of the three cubicles were open and Poole chose the first one.

‘Dirty fucking bastard,’ he grunted, looking at the filthy, excreta-filled pan. ‘Don’t people know how to flush toilets?’

He moved to the next cubicle.

Clean.

He smiled and bolted the door.

Poole urinated gushingly, then zipped up and sat on the cracked seat.

He slid the small plastic bag from his inside pocket and regarded it on the palm of his hand, grinning down at it.

He pulled the small bag open carefully and dipped the tip of his index finger into the powder.

The cocaine tasted cold on his tongue.

It was the only drug he dealt in that he actually used.

He never touched crack or smack, and E was for stupid fucking teenagers. Another one had died at the weekend. Taken a tab at some fucking club and died bleeding from every orifice. One less clubber, he mused, grinning. One less arsehole.

Stupid cunt – had it coming.

But he still sold them. He sold anything and everything if people wanted it. But the only stuff he’d touch himself was Charlie.

The odd joint, naturally, but otherwise he was very particular about what he shoved into his body.

Some silly fucker had asked him for acid the other week.

He’d got it, naturally. Poole prided himself on being able to deliver, no matter what the request.

Even the nitrous oxide had been easier to obtain than he’d thought. He had a contact at the local hospital.

Piece of piss.

He tipped a little of the coke onto the palm of his hand and regarded it almost lovingly.

Poole snorted the tiny pile: some of it into each nostril.

Fucking ace.

He re-sealed the bag and slipped it back into his inside pocket.

It was good shit. He only used the good stuff himself. The stuff he sold was chopped with washing powder, Vim and any other fucking thing. But what did he care. The punters paid the same price, no matter what the quality.

He flushed the toilet again and brushed his nostrils with the back of one hand.

The Gents was empty when he emerged from the cubicle.

At least he thought it was.

He never saw the hand that grabbed him around the throat.