Willow clutched Billy Joe’s shoulder, “ I need you to sell these for 100”
Billy Joe froze, his tough demeanor folding itself inward in the presence of a domineering force. Billy Joe took a deeper drag than he normally did from his American Spirit cigarette. “That’s a nightmare price boss,” he muttered almost inaudibly, a hollow laugh escaping his lips like smoke as he coughed out his complaint.
Willow was now halfway across the warehouse room, but seemed to hear Billy Joe's utterance by some unnatural means,
“That’s why we’re here, to make money and cause nightmares. Don’t lose your nerve. You’re gonna sell this. They’re addicts, you know they’ll buy.” Willow put his pink glasses back on, their circular shapes suggesting a softer tone on Willow’s boyish face. There was something unsettling happening underneath his skin, like a curse and a warning, a pale reminder and a white flag. His blue veins were unsettling visible on his hands, the blood flowing within them seethed. A black thin jacket with a pink stripe going down his back and sleeves wrapped him, its colors ominously clothing his thin sickly frame. When Billy Joe looked at Willow, all sorts of venomous creatures came into the back of his mind, crawling down his consciousness; fear settled down on him again, leaving him with a single phrase,
“Yes Boss.”
Billy Joe took a drag again and closed his eyes, in a world of creamers of every potency and flavor, a cigarette’s ability to soothe his nerves was unparalleled.