“It’s not like he has any dogs in this game, is it? I mean, why busting my neck on this?”
Joel carefully selected the third cigarette in the pack, slid it out and leisurely lit it. He drew deeply on it, paused and thought before he spoke precisely.
“Ah, forget about it, you know him. He’s all about the details and all about the shit. He loves giving people shit. It’s your turn. You’re it, you’re the it-shit.”
The bleak, sporadic lighting of a closed parking lot barely warmed the whiteness of their weathered faces. Josh leaned on the wheel.
“Fuck it, anyways, what’s he want us to do, though? Always with the what’s happening, what’s happening? but he don’t tell me nothing.”
“Sit tight. Always the answer, Josh old buddy. If in doubt, sit tight.”
So they sat, and they grumbled and they smoked and they watched. Night after night after night. “Nothing is happening,” complained Old Ted to them, from behind his thick curtain of cigar smoke, “and it’s happening too fast.”
Just like that it happened. Just another night. And it happened, in the end, slowly, drawn out. The job was on, it was live. Josh just had time to register it, Joel probably not, as they became the first (of 28) victims of the Smart Grass Heist, long before it had even garnered that moniker.
Today I wrote between 23:29 and 23:39. I was prompted by an idea here.
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