Satan’s Choice Drug Run
We are driving through Blind River,
on our way back from camp.
Past the dragon boat races
and that half-demented dentist
who should have stopped pulling teeth
over a decade ago.
And looking to the nearest corner
of the Tim Hortons parking lot,
my wife and I both see them right away.
Hiding in plain sight.
Or perhaps not hiding at all.
Top and bottom rockers watching the trucks go by.
Satan’s Choice, I read the patches
on their leathers.
Speaking into a walkie talkie,
their bikes parked just a few feet away.
I guess they have a big shipment coming through,
my wife says.
I shake my head in agreement.
It must be big if four of them are out there,
I say.
Making sure things go to plan.
The smallest one has the walkie talkie.
It is always the small one that is in charge.
But he is not really in charge of anything, is he?
Just a fixer to make sure this Satan’s Choice drug run
happens as it should.
That product reaches pusher.
That weight is moved without hassle.
We are driving through a known speed trap,
but today there is not a cop
in sight.
Even though the police station
is less than 500 meters
down the highway.
Seems the right people got their envelopes
this month, I say.
My wife agrees.
Turning up the radio
for a song we both haven’t heard
in years.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author who lives in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work has been published both in print and online in such places as: The New York Quarterly, Red Fez, Evergreen Review, The Literary Underground, Horror Sleaze Trash, Rusty Truck, Zygote in my Coffee, and The Oklahoma Review. He enjoys listening to the blues and cruising down the TransCanada in his big blacked out truck.
