He was born dirt poor but always had that certain swagger about him, a kind of carefree charm that won everyone over, cheering them up like a sea breeze. It was his charm this led him too early to the chemically enhanced good times, primarily just the dealing at first, like a funky sole trader, an entrepreneur with a gift for a cheeky pitch and always with a ready supply. He knew a couple of actorly types and before long he was the link back to the street for some of the most famous faces on tv and the media.
His supply lines were always reliable and discrete; his quality never in question. His face was known in the right places; and wholly unknown to the police. He could have straplined himself as safely dangerous. He grew rich and respected both above and below: the glue between social layers that would otherwise never connect.
Which would have been fine for years most probably. If, that is, he hadn’t started sampling his products a little too much. Soon he was seeing cops everywhere. He grew convinced he was being followed. He sensed traitors all around him. Within a couple of years he trusted nobody. As his circles dispersed he grew more and more anxious; more and more isolated and dependent upon the chemicals that were addling his thinking and driving people away.
Until one day he could take it no longer.
“Okay, okay, okay,” he said, marching into his local police station. “I know you’ve been trailing me for months,” he explained to a surprised duty officer. “I can see how you’ve been filming me. Just take all this now,” he said, opening up a large hold-all. “Let’s get it over with.”
His eyes were wild; his charm all sweating out of him; his charisma melting away.
“Well sir,” the arresting officer said once she’d established the full extent of the haul. “I think we’d best start right back at the beginning.”