46
A classic Detroit Road Beast, with a trunk full of coke or heroin or whatever.
We’re living the cliché.
I don’t handle drugs. Not only is the law brutal to traffickers, but drugs are yet another boot rich bastards use on the face of the poor. Folks escape an unbearable system any way they can, then the monsters who make that system unbearable get to lock them up and enslave them.
There’s a scrap of cloth jammed up against one tirewell. I tug it out—an old T-shirt. That’ll do. I wrap it around my hands as makeshift gloves and start flinging bricks across the potholed macadam.
I’d rather set the drugs on fire to keep the cops from putting them back on the street, but we have no damn time.
The AR-15s might come in useful, but the weapons we purchased are guaranteed clean and anything
