I’ve skipped over the end of the first scene and moved to the next. Again, the names in the final story won’t be Anglo ones in alphabetical order:
Patrick thought he had the hit held in right this time, but the damn tickle at the back of his throat got him. He ended up bent over the back of the couch, hacking and gasping, feeling the dizziness take over for all the air that wasn’t in his lungs no more.
“You cough like that, you know you’re going to be high as fuck,” said Quentin.
“Yeah? I already am, nigga.” He stopped to cough some more. “Man, you ain’t figured out the password on that yet?”
“Fuck you, man; you want to try?”
“You try one two three fo’?”
“Bitch, that’s the first one I tried. You want to criticize, you can step right up.”
“No, man; I’m too high.”
Robert came out of the bathroom, moaning. “I think that bitch done broke my nose.” He pulled away the dirty rag full of ice, reached up to carefully pinch the bridge of his nose. “It wobbles, now,” he said, whining like a little boy.
“Well, you was never pretty,” said Quentin from the couch. Patrick burst into helpless laughter.
“Fuck you, nigga. This hurts. I think I got to get me to the clinic. What did you find on them phones?”
“Ain’t opened this one yet.”
“You try one two three fo’?”
“Fuck you, man. The other one didn’t have no password. Ain’t nothing useful on it, but you gotta see these pictures. This grandma’s got her a church crown you wouldn’t believe.”
Patrick giggled. “Looks like a damn turkey on her head.”
Robert winced, put the towel back. “Fuck it. Give me them phones, I’ll take them down to Fatty J’s, get us some money.”
“Patience, nigga. Smoke some herb, play some Halo with Patrick here when he’s too high to smoke your ass. I’m going to get this phone; ain’t but a thousand numbers.”
“Ten thousand,” said Patrick. “Four digits. Hey, let’s call in and get us some Chinese chicken.”
“They ain’t going to pick up the phone,” said Robert. “They done blocked our number, after the last time.”
“Man, you got punched and wrecked your brain. We got us a new number, now.”
Half an hour later, Patrick’s eyes were stinging and dry, but he was mopping the floor with Robert, who was still whining about getting punched by a girl. After getting killed for the fourth or fifth time in a row, Robert slammed the controller down. “Man, fuck this.” He pointed at Quentin. “You take over. Give me that phone.”
“Nigga, I got me a rhythm.” Robert must have glared at him real good. “Shit, fine. I’m on 1179; just keep going.” Robert snatched the phone, went in the back room. They could hear the bong bubbling. “He going to forget.” Quentin sauntered over to the couch, sat down. “Get ready to die.”
Before Patrick could respond, there was a knock at the door. “Chinee food,” said a girl’s voice. “Got you some eggrolls!” Patrick tossed the game controller into the air and bolted for the door so quick he had the latch turned by the time the controller hit the floor. But then the door slammed inward; the corner caught him in the forehead, and the door shoved him against the wall.