‘The Glass Factory:Part One’ by Ahmed Nader Gretly

I

Butch drove a classic Chevy Bel Air, one of those old school convertibles, pitch black in color. The car was illegal of course, no one was allowed to own a private vehicle in the city, but Butch told me that no one dared to take on the Bel Air; it was much faster than any cop car. He pressed on the accelerator, the motor roared into the night as we rolled towards Creekwell City. The mission was simple, The Doctor asked us to go pick up Steve Miller and The Painter from the dive-bar, drive to the old glass factory on the outskirts of town, and meet up with a man who’d give us a package to be delivered to The Doctor. I rested my back on the leather passenger seat, the cold air blew so hard on my face that it made me squint. It was my first time out after taking the Blue, the rush was incredible. I lit a cigarette and took a long puff, and in my mind, I could see the smoke whooshing down my windpipe, into my lungs. Butch turned the radio on, and from the speakers came the voice of a man singing about killing his wife, snorting cocaine, and running away to Mexico. It was the kind of music that suited the big old man next to me. Butch told me how he stopped pushing junk a long time ago, that he only focused on selling meat, and occasionally doing favors for friends. He was still doing junk, but not government issued; he scored M and C  from The Doctor with a little bit of Blue in them, just like the stuff I scored from the Doc before finding out about the Blue.

“Why didn’t you take the last sample?” I asked blowing the smoke of my cigarette skywards “Why not take the Blue, and have the infinite high?”

Butch turned his head, looked at me for a few moments, and smiled. He reached for my cigarette pack, took out a cigarette, flipped it between his fingers like one would do with a metal coin, and then stuck it in his mouth. He took out an old metal lighter, flicked it open, lit his smoke, and snapped the lighter shut.

“I’m too old now, Cali,” he said “I don’t need this high; it’s too late for me.”

“I don’t understand.” I said “I mean, it’d be better for you, for your health.”

“Don’t worry yourself, kid; I’m old, but I’m still tough as hell.”

I continued to puff at my cigarette, looking forward towards the dark road we were on. My thoughts shifted to the matter at hand, the mission we were on. I thought about how important this package must’ve been to The Doctor, so important that he had to send four men to pick it up. It was so important that he didn’t let Mary join Butch and I on this drive. Strange, I thought, but then smiled to myself for the mere realization that my life was eloquently fashioned from threads of bizarre events.

Out of nowhere, I felt a surge of energy all over my body. It did not hurt, but it felt highly uncomfortable. My heart beats accelerated, and my mind throbbed as white light flashed before my eyes. In a second, everything went back to normal as if nothing happened. I looked up to the dark sky and saw flocks of blackbirds, incredibly unclear, but visible at the same time due to the presence of millions of stars. The birds were flying towards our destination, towards Creekwell City. My breathing was heavy, and I could almost hear echoes in my ears. Vivid sounds intermixed with the sound of the brisk wind, and the sound of music coming from the radio filled my brain. I shook my head, and lit myself another cigarette.

“You know, Cali,” Butch said taking me out of my daze “Your daddy would’ve been so proud of you.”

“What?” I replied not because I didn’t hear his statement, but because I did not understand it “What do you mean?”

“If your daddy was here, he would’ve been proud of you.”

“And why is that, Bu─”

“Look at that,” He cut me mid-word and pointed with his thick index finger “We made it! Welcome back to Creekwell City, kid.”

*

Butch The Butcher parked his car in front of the entrance to the dive-bar, honked the horn a few times, and then leant backwards in his seat. From the alleyway next to the bar appeared two shapes walking side by side towards the car. I saw The Painter first with his void face and sharp eyes, wearing a trench coat with his hands in his pockets. Steve Miller walked next to him, scrawny with a hard-on visible under his pants. They both got in the backseat, and slammed the doors shut. Butch looked back at them with a furious glare.

“Don’t you fuckin’ slam those doors like that ever again.” He growled at them “Do ya hear me?”

“Yes, Sorry.” They both said at the same time.

“Callisto,” The Painter said “Nice to see you again.”

“Same here,” I said “Same here.”

Butch slammed on the gas pedal and we zoomed through the fog that slowly began to form all around, the streets were unusually empty, but at the same time, the weather was unusually cold. I took out a cigarette but couldn’t find my lighter, so I grabbed Butch’s metal lighter. I noticed that there were engravings on both faces of the lighter, but it was too dark to see, so I sparked my cigarette then gave the lighter back to its owner.

It wasn’t long before the abandoned glass factory appeared behind our windshield, the darkness of the night did not help better the view of the old grey building, which looked more like a giant block of solid concrete than a factory. Butch turned off all the lights as he rolled the car past the main gate, and parked it behind the building. It was so dark I couldn’t see two feet in front of me.

“Our guy’s here,” Butch said “I can see his car. Follow me boys.”

I followed the shadows of my three companions through a side door to the grey building; I felt something in the pit of my stomach that made me uneasy. After a few lefts and rights, we entered a small room; Butch found a small lamp, and turned it on.

“This is the place.” He said.

“Where’s the guy, man?” Steve Miller said.

“Are you sure this is the place?” The Painter mumbled.

“Yes,” Butch The Butcher said as he took out a gun from his coat pocket “This is definitely the place.”

Suddenly, it hit me, I knew exactly what the score was, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

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About Ahmed Gretly

Ahmed Nader Gretly. Construction/Site Engineer, fiction writer, poet, psychopath, researcher, a book addict, and a daydreamer from Cairo, Egypt. Currently doing Construction Project Management, MSc, at Heriot-Watt University, Edinburgh.
This entry was posted in Chronicles Of A Twisted Mind, Prose and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to ‘The Glass Factory:Part One’ by Ahmed Nader Gretly

  1. You draw wonderful pictures with your words.

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