An ‘87 candy red mustang pulls up to a parking spot in the far back corner of the 7/11 lot.  A dim street light peers from above into the open sunroof shedding a skim amount of light.  The driver proceeds to roll down his window and grab a cigarette.  He swiftly opens up the pack, brings it up to his mouth, and pulls out a stick of tobacco between his lips.  Once the pack of cigarettes is put back into his console, he strikes a match and lightly puffs to get the tobacco burning.  He hangs his hand out the window making sure no smoke will stain his newly refurbished ceiling cloth.  A burner phone is slipped out of his pocket and flipped open to reveal an ongoing conversation of texts. 

“Red mustang in the back,” he typed out.  There was only a brief moment of silence before the phone rang with a reply.

“Ight I’ll be there in a min,” read the receiving text.  There was only a few hits left to the cigarette when another vehicle pulled into the 7/11 lot and made its way to the back.  It was a brand new G Wagon pimped out to the max.  Matte black, gold rims, limo tint, lowered suspension, and subwoofers that rattled anything within a fifty yard radius.  Mustang and Wagon now next to each other, the blair of the subs slowly die and windows are rolled down for a meet and greet.  The Mustang driver reveals to be a young white kid, who doesn’t look a day over sixteen.  He has black hair with a feathered cut, green eyes, and mild peach fuzz resting under his nose.  The Wagon driver looks to be of Native American descent and at least in his mid-twenties.  He has long braided hair, tattoos covering his face, and multiple chains hanging from his neck, some almost reaching his waist. 

“You Dex?” said the Wagon owner.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Dex replied.

“A’ight, I’ll come to you,” he said as he began to hop out of the G Wagon with a black duffel bag secured in his right hand.  He reached out his left hand to open the passenger door of the mustang and plopped himself in the seat with the duffel bag resting on his lap. 

“What’s good homie?  My name’s Cool,” he said while sticking his hand out waiting for Dex to dap him back.  Dex couldn’t help but grin and make a cheeky remark.

“Like ‘and the Gang?’”

“Huh?” Cool said in confusion.

“Nothin’ man,” Dex said with a snicker.  “So what you got for me bro?”

“I got everything you’d want wrapped around your waist besides a fine ass female,” Cool replied as he began to unzip the duffel bag revealing dozens of designer belts from brands like Gucci, Loui V, Supreme, etc.  Dex let out a soft whistle as he admired the luxurious accessories. 

“Pick your poison man,” Cool said.  Dex scratched the whiskers on his chin for a few seconds acting as if he had to think about what he was going to say and began to speak.

“Um, I think I’ll take ‘em all.”

“Woah homie, you sure?  That’s gonna bring quite the bill,” Cool said with a surprised tone of voice.

“I think I got it covered,” Dex said while locking the doors and lifting his shirt to reveal a nine millimeter glock tucked in his waistband.  He pulled the handgun from his pants and pointed it at the side of Cool’s head. 

“What the f*** man! Come on!  I’m trying to run a business here,” Cool said as he sat frozen in a state of panic.

“Yeah, and I got some business robbing you, so I suggest you hand over that bag before I feel the need to use this thing,” Dex replied bluntly with an expressionless face.

“I ain’t giving you s*** punk!” Cool shouted back.

“Alright, well I got something for you then,” Dex said while lowering the gun and pulling the trigger making a fresh bullet hole in Cool’s off-white yeezy’s. 

“Holy s***!” Cool screamed in agony while releasing the duffel bag so he could tend to his wounded foot.  Dex threw the bag in the back seat and took back his position of aiming the gun at Cool’s head.

“Now get the f*** out of my car!” Dex roared viciously.  Cool flailed for the handle and stumbled onto the pavement once he was finally able to open the door.  Dex quickly backed up, threw the gear shift into drive, and peeled out of the 7/11 lot.

He zipped down highway 101 along the eastern edge of the Olympic Forest in northern Washington.  His conscience was left with the cigarette butt lying on the asphalt of the 7/11 parking lot, and his mind was focused on the paycheck awaiting him in his near future.  It only took about twenty minutes to reach the safe house nestled up in the Olympic hills.  Dex used the clicker clipped on the visor and entered into a garage that could’ve passed for a car museum.  He parked the mustang into the nearest open spot, grabbed the duffel bag from the backseat along with his pack of cigarettes in the console, and exited the car leaving the keys in the ignition. 

The house Dex had just entered into is no average house.  Normal houses have pictures on the wall, neatly placed furniture, and most usually, people living inside of them.  For the 5,000 square feet of space that this house took up, there was only one resident that roamed it halls.  Halls filled with file cabinets.  Bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchen, living room, all filled with file cabinets. 

Dex made his way up the grand staircase in route to the master bedroom.  He always wondered if his boss ever got lonely, or maybe he went crazy enough to find company within the file cabinets.  The house rarely saw visitors that weren’t clients of Glaz, but his clients were treated like they were practically family.  Come to think of it, his clients were probably the closest thing he had to family. 

The door to the to the master bedroom was cracked open leaking out A$AP Mob being played over the bluetooth speaker sitting on a smaller file cabinet being used as a night stand.  Glaz was lying on his bed facing the ceiling and puffing on a blunt.  Dex knocked on the door to announce his presence, but Glaz remained unphased and drowned into the music filling the room.

“I got a pretty nice package here for-” Dex started but was cut off by a shush and pointer finger being held up by Glaz.  Dex identified the soft singing artist to be A$AP Rocky, but he was unfamiliar with the song.  Just when Glaz opened his mouth, and Dex thought he was finally about to start talking, he started singing instead along to the next verse.

“I just wanna be your friend.  Come through, we could count hundreds, no tens,” Glaz sang matching the pitch of the artist.  “Do you know who this is?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Dex said.

“Smooky MarGielaa,” Glaz said with difficulty pronouncing the second half of the name.  “This kid is only fifteen years old, and he’s featured on one of the hottest albums of the year.  How do you think that is, huh?  How do you think a kid younger than you started hanging out with middle aged rappers and featuring on their songs?” he asked but started speaking again letting Dex know he wasn’t actually asking. 

“I’ll tell you how.  The kid’s got talent.  And you got talent too kid, ya know that?  I wouldn’t associate with you if you didn’t,” he said while beginning to sit up and take another drag of his blunt.  “So what’d you bring me homeboy?” 

Dex tossed the duffle bag onto the king size tempurpedic mattress making the impact nearly silent.  Glaz unzipped the bag, and laid his eyes on the treasure of belts that had been delivered to him.  He shuffled through the leather for a few minutes examining each belt carefully.  The music transitioned to what Dex figured was the next song on the album and coincidentally the next words to be rapped were “Gucci, that Prada, that Fendi,” as Glaz held each a Gucci, Prada, and Fendi belt in his hands.

“Two bands,” he said looking back at Dex.

“Man, why you frontin’ me?  I know that bag is well worth over ten k, and I’m not out here blowing toes off for a s***ty two grand,” Dex said as if he was offended.

“Dog!” Glaz bursted into laughter, “You should’ve started with that,” he said while reaching into the file cabinet night stand and pulling out four rolls of cash each held together by rubber bands. 

“I’ll double it this time just ‘cause I like to hear about your trigger happy stories,” he said and tossed each wad of cash to Dex causing him to look like a juggler while he caught them all.

“Thanks homie, I appreciate it,” Dex said while stuffing the bills into his pockets.

“Wanna stick around a toke a ‘lil bit with me?” Glaz offered.

“I’m gonna have to take a rain check.  I already got an uber outside and a dinner waiting for me at home,” Dex said sounding like a normal teenager that hadn’t just shot someone 30 minutes earlier.

“Ah, I feel ya man.  Nothing better than mama’s cooking.  Well you know where to find me, peace out homie,” Glaz said waving him out of the door.

“See ya man,” Dex said as he was already in the hallway.

He strolled down the hall passing by dozens of file cabinets and made his way down the grand staircase.  The uber was waiting by the curb right outside the front door.  Dex hopped in and asked if he could light up a cigarette.  The driver replied yes and asked Dex if he could snag a cigarette himself.  There were only two cigarettes left in the pack, one of them being the lucky cig, so Dex handed the driver the cigarette he was about to smoke and pulled out his lucky cig.  Lucky he thought.  That’s my talent.