“It is freakin’ cold out here,” he thought, “I’m freezin’ my …”

 

The crunch of snow from the opposite end of the clearing broke him from his self-pitying misery.

 

The scene played itself out like it had a hundred times before - dudes decked out in black standing next to black sedans, the headlights the only light for the clandestine meeting.

 

The weasely ‘faceman’ next to their boss nasal-ed, “You got the money?”

 

He wanted to scream, “I swear, if I had a dime for every time I heard that line, I’d have the freakin’ money.”

 

Disgust would have sneered on his face if it weren’t frozen from standing outside in this upstate New York winter for half an hour.

 

“Wait for it … wait for it.  Here it comes …” He thought as he imperceptibly mouthed, Vinney, his boss’ faceman’s response.

 

“Right here.  You got the stuff?”

 

He wanted to shake his head in disgust but was afraid his overly greased hair would break in the cold.

 

“I thought this crap was only in the movies.  Unbelievable. When I got involved in this line of work I thought I was in for gun fights, car chases and babes.  Nope, nope and nope.  I bet those guys playin’ my part in the movies even make more money than I do.”

 

“The real sad part is that not once has there been a snitch or a rat or a stooley or even an undercover cop.  Nobody wearing a wire or yelling out some obscure catchphrase to call in the SWAT team.  Nothing, no excitement.  Just freezing ones butt off or sweating it off in the stifling humidity of summer.”

 

“Oh, wait, it's not over yet.  Let’s not forget …”

 

“Is it good?” Asked Vinney after the boss whispered in his ear.

 

To which the Weasel replied, “Is it good?  It’s the best - 100 percent pure. C’mon man, who d’ya think you’re dealin’ wit?”

 

The Weasel snorted and sarcastically spat, “Good?”

 

“And, so it goes, on and on.”  He yawned down his checklist - The ‘Chemist’ checks the purity, “Oh yeah, Deano, purer than pure.”  Weasel, “See, we don’t pull fast ones on our ‘friends’.”  Vinney hands Weasel the dough, the bosses shake hands and ‘yippee’ the deal is done.

 

SMACK!

 

He’s jarred aware by a hard smack across the chops from the boss’ meaty paw.

 

“Hey!  Wakeup sleeping beauty, time to go.”

 

And just like that, trunks closed, bosses escorted, doors shut and the clearing is empty.

 

 And then quiet.

 

Quiet …

 

as if nothing ever happened.

​