Jet Sparrows/White Shadows 2

– So you absolutely cannot get onto to Swift?
– What happened with James?
– Who?
– James, man... Jamess?
...James... search... check all files and folders... James... searching... 1 match: James Simpson = (2)
– Oh, fuckin’... just forgot, had shit happening, I’d say it was a slight over reaction, but I guess it got the message across right.
– Huh yeah, (1) laughed through his teeth and went to strike up another conversational vein.
– So what’s the deal then, do we go, or are you waiting to hear back...?
– Yeah, I juss gotta call him back and make sure it’s all good, then we’ll head over to his joint.
– Fair deuce, man. There was a pause. – So you calling him, or are you so deeply seated with this guy that he just senses...
– Fuck up, Felix. (1) pulled out his phone and flicked to the “favourites list”.
OBVIOUSLY ON GOOD TERMS
hopeful
HOPE WITHOUT GUARANTEE.
(1) put the phone to his ear and then stood up, he turned to Felix and put two fingers to his lips. Felix pulled out a cigarette fromt eh pack and threw it to him. (1) patted his pocket and and then stretched out his hand. Felix sighed and gave over his lighter. He was now (1)’s bitch until the transaction was complete. And most likely he’d be fucked by the dealer as well.
The joys of illicit trading.
(1) walked back and past Felix a minute later, waving his had for him to follow.
– So we’re all good, but when we get there, don’t pull any of your smart shit, cause this guy will throw you out on your ass and we’ll’ve both lost our dealers in the same day, cool?
– Yeah, he breathed a laugh – fair enough.

It was a short trek to (1)’s dealer’s abode. It was a rank little den. The carpet reeked of bong water and the “white” walls were tinged the sallow yellow of a nicotine stained index. There was a single chair set in the spotlight of the lounge room and large square pillows scattered over the floor and a low long table in the centre.
Felix followed in (1)’s shadow up the pitch-dark hallway into the dank little room. A guy with a shaved head, but obviously balding, the close crew-cut merely an attempt to hide this fact, sat in the singular chair. Reclining on a hord of pillows was a young man, black motley hair and red boots.
Fleet Travis…
The focal point of the scene glanced up at (1) and didn’t even acknowledge Felix. (1) moved into the room. Felix stood where he was, not wholly comfortable with the roles assigned by the dictator in his fraying arm chair.
– What happening Trav, (1) engaged Fleet and moved to sit by him.
– Not a lot, fuckin’ getting’ over a bender.
The dictator was bent over the table, divvying up chucky shards into their appropriate amounts, but nonetheless, obsevering the scape lest the scene deviated from his control. Felix had an overwhelming sense to challenge his gile, to tear that control away and watch as chaos sprawl from that central illusion of control. (1) flicked him an uneasy look, as though he knew, as though this was all part of the scene expectation; for him to fuck up the general atmos was simply a given. Fleet now looked over at Felix, his eyes focused as though he was bursting cells in an attempt to reconcile weather or not he knew who this tall thin, sweaty youth was.
– Sit the fuck down mate, the dictator spat, – making me nervous.
(1)’s mouth tightened and his eyes hardened, it was a placating, but coursing gesture.
– Fair deuce. Felix smirked and took a seat in the direct line of the dictators vista.
– Trav… Felix, (1) motioned between the two as though he were scaling them against each other, the weight of the each against the other. There was no introduction to that central vocal point, Felix figured you were just suppose to know him, and he is (to a certain extent) already acquainted with whom you are.
– Alright, Felix, Fleet said his name as though it were a foreign word, and stressed the x.
Considering you like an algebra equations… something no one uses practically, but is there all the same.