continued post

Blog Prompt 3 11.6.15

My first week at Northridge, I was shocked and relieved too see that everyone else was "faking it" too. "Come on, Larry you could've done much better than this"(1), I thought, laughing to myself at the thought of my superior trying and failing to screw me over yet again. I introduced myself to the boy whose locker was next to mine; he said his name was Charlie, and I dazzled him with an anecdote (2) about how I came to study there at Northridge. I told a story about an egotistical teacher who didn't rest until he got me kicked out of my last school. What Charlie didn't know was that the story was really a satire (3) about Larry's self-serving, willingly ignorant attitude towards those who he commanded. Charlie countered with a tale about how he ditched study hall one day to get some donuts. I wasn't impressed to say the least; it was no doubt an attempted appeal (4) to my apparent anti-establishment sentiments. As is glaringly obvious by now I'm sure, Charlie was quite the flat character (5) in the grand scheme of my plans at Northridge, as he did not offer even the slightest bit of insight into the underground drug-ring that operated during lunch and study-hall hours. However, Charlie's slapstick (6) humor and pervasive buffoonery (7) provided the perfect cover; the drug kingpins would never expect Charlie's new best friend of being bright enough to uncover their industry. One dark, dreary, damp day (8), I came slowly and unwillingly (9) into school to find Charlie negotiating heatedly with a group of guys I sarcastically (10) referred to as "The one percent" due to their designer salmon shorts, gelled hair, and sickening "My dad could beat up your dad" attitude. I was surprised, and I found it ironic (11) that Charlie, someone who wasn't even intelligent enough to be anything but genuine, was talking so passionately with people who only knew how to act like the models they saw in magazines. I never got my answer, as Charlie and I made eye contact and he made his way over as the trust-fund drones threw words at him that had connotations (12) which their sheltered minds couldn't begin to fathom. It was clear to me that they weren't actually friends, as their attitudes (13) toward him were reflected blatantly in their tone (14), which indicated their disgust for anyone who dared differ from them. I asked Charlie why he would talk to people who treat him so poorly, but he only answered with "Oh, they're not that bad, they just like to mess around with their friends". From then on it was clear to me that Charlie was a highly unreliable narrator (15) when it came to social tensions and cliques, and I reminded myself to gather information from other sources regarding the investigation. I was instructed to spend my first quarter at Northridge focusing only on blending in, but it was difficult as each group was made up of what seemed to be a ridiculous caricature (16) of kids from my High School days. It was impossible to belong to one group of students while communicating with any other. Trying to fit into multiple groups was like trying to put one leg into both holes in your pants (17). I quickly became known as "Jake the floater" (18), because I would spend time with all the different groups each day trying to get a hold of who knew about dealers, suppliers, buyers, etc. I was just getting into a groove with my social status, but the pace (19) of my experience was about to pick up faster than I could ever have expected. Charlie ran up to me one morning looking like a kid who just robbed a candy store (20). He pulled me over to his locker, ripped the door open, and my jaw dropped halfway to the floor (21). It was clear to me now what he had been discussing so fervently with the one percent.

To Be Continued...

***

The Sting

As I looked into Charlie's locker, I couldn't muster up a single thought for what I was seeing. Pounds and pounds of white pills and powders, and a roll of what must have been over a thousand dollars on the top shelf. It seemed that I had befriended the one percent's newest dealer. I went home early that day to call Larry and start organizing a take-down, as I was much closer to the source than I formerly imagined. I asked him where he got all these drugs, and he simply said "Joe". Joe was the ring leader of the one percent, which I assumed were the kingpins  of the school at this point. Not surprising. Larry called me back and said that they would bug the one percent's lockers the next day, and I would soon be off the case with a success under my belt. For the rest of the week, I laid low waiting for my department to gather  enough evidence to make some arrests. Annoyingly, Charlie kept asking me what I thought about the drugs, to which I always just shrugged like I was totally indifferent. At the end of the longest week of my life, I gave Larry a call. I got no answer. I called his secretary, no answer. Strange. I went out to the parking lot, got into my car and drove to my office to figure out what was going on with everyone. Our entire suite was empty, and Larry's desk was cleared off. Very unusual for such a workaholic. I was walking around his desk, checking to see if he had any recordings or videotapes from the wires they installed. After I failed, was on my way out when I noticed something written on the office chalkboard. It said in big letters: "NOTHING..?". Not knowing what it meant, I decided to return home after my strange day. When I got to my car, Charlie was waiting for me. I didn't know how he got there or how he knew I would ever go there, but as soon as he saw me he charged. he pulled a knife, and my training took over. I drew my .22, dodged around his swing arm, pressed the barrel up to his temple and fired. the small caliber round made short work of his brain, bouncing around in his skull and scrambling them like a smoothie. I walked over to the SUV that wasn't there when I pulled up, popped the trunk, and sure enough, there were Larry and his secretary.