Love Is a Shout

Gaius’ POV

“America is a fan-fucking-tastic place to reside in for sure.”

Despite not being a nature lover, I can’t help but find myself stunned by the beauty of the Nevadan landscape. We are a few miles away from Carson City on our way to the heart of the state, Vegas, and the double-lane highway we are on cuts through an endless sprawling grassland with rows upon rows of naturally growing heather and cattails. The clear blue sky is tinged through with purple optically touches the earth at the horizon, and the product image is picturesque and almost magical in appearance.

I have to make a conscious effort not to leave my jaw hanging.

“I told you,” Ivano gruffs from his perch on the driver’s side, and I retort without looking away from the window,

“You told me the place is overrated, and Bucharest is ten times more magnificent.”

The blond behind the steering asks in an incredulously outraged tone, “Well, isn’t it?”

I deadpan, “It isn’t. New York and Los Angeles may be, but this…” I raise my curled fist to knock at the tinted glass window, “This is fucking gold. And I’m taking it all.”

Ivano stays quiet for a second as he switches lanes to overtake an eighteen-wheeler before relaxing to respond, “What would you know about New York and LA, anyway? You’ve only been to those places a handful of times.”

“I know enough to make my judgments,” I sniff and fold my arms across my broad chest, “And I know for sure they’ll never have the potential for what I’ve envisioned for this place.”

It had been barely a day since I landed in Nevada, and I am eager to start pushing out my essence into every nook and cranny. If I am being brutally honest, the state didn’t look like anything much could come out of it… at face value, at least. As a matter of fact, when Ivano took me around the capital city of Carson, I was more than tempted to turn around and head back to the airport.

But I was done with Europe… I am bored. Everyone knows who I am, and everyone fears me up to the point where life has become too easy. And I know better than to fall into the easy life pattern.

“…talking to Kevin yesterday, and he assured me the warehouses were ready to be filled,” Ivano was speaking, “Just don’t pack it to bursting; you never know when strays might wiggle their way in and make away with thousands of dollars’ worth of package.”

I chuckle darkly and shake my head. See? This is the exact reason I came to America; for the thrill of having to conquer and fucking bridle them.

“Strays are easy to deal with. All you need is a tracker and a gun,” I shrug, “Prongs and scalpels if you feel gory. The same applies to the police.”

The car jerks as Ivano slams the brakes forcefully and pauses a minute before continuing its journey. The blond’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head quickly and with conviction as he negates, “Ah ah ah… absolutely not. This isn’t some Romanian slum. Here, cops are sacred, and we’re gonna do our goddamn best to steer clear from them.”

I keep my lips sealed for the rest of the ride till we pass the wild lands and enter into the civilization of the city, the infamous Las Vegas. The sun sinks slowly into the horizon, so the streets are lit up to their peak. I blink so many times as I adjust my gaze to the copious amounts of colored flashing lights that adorn literally every corner.

And the noise…

For all it’s worth, I am excited about the opportunities that lay in store for me here. The city of patrons, it’s called, and my name will soon be on the lips of every fun-loving addict.

The car stops at a traffic light, and just as I open my mouth to comment on Ivano’s warning, a shadow looms from his window, and I look up to see a lady peering at us… no, not at us, as her eyes are roving but not seeing. I remember the windows are tinted and made for a nice-looking mirror.

Ivano and I watch as the lady, dark-skinned with long, curly hair that cascades down to her waist with slitted eyes that bespeak East Asian ancestry, preens herself behind the window of our car.

She smacks her full lips twice, and as quickly as she appears, she disappears from view, and we shift our focus to the rearview mirror to watch her walk around the back of the car and make her way across the busy road.

Ivano whistles lowly and croons, “She’s pretty.”

The cars start moving again, and I watch her retreating form with something more than interest. Then I ask my friend, “Is this how it always is?”

Ivano laughs and whoops, “Welcome to Vegas, baby!”

***

The creaking of the giant metal doors of the even more ginormous warehouse echoes so loudly that I’m pretty sure everyone in the country heard it. With my hands placed on my hips, I watch with pride as the doors slide open to reveal the abundance of space where my narcotics, hallucinogens, and other recreational will be produced and stored.

One would think that after doing this for more than ten years, I should have become indifferent to anything that has to do with the work of the business, but fortunately, that’s not the case. Thanks to the upbringing I received from my dead father, I learned to be very intentional about whatever I wanted to do in order to avoid one killing demon: complacency.

At seventeen, when I walked into the garage where Armand Doros, who’s now the number one Krokodil kingpin, was extracting Piperidine from flu medication, I knew there and then that this was what I wanted to do my entire life.

I knew I wasn’t going to get tired of the work, not only because of how fun it was to produce these substances but also because of the satisfaction of when someone dragged themselves back into a mind-blowing state to demand more. Others may find it boring and even tiring at some point, but not me… I love what I do, and I’m not going to be stepping back from the action anytime soon.

Footsteps of the men walking around and setting things up resound throughout the void space and soon, the lights turn on to flood the warehouse in brilliantly moderate illumination. I strut inside and immediately go to check all four corners of the place to see that they’re properly sealed. Good. That way, if anything goes missing, no one is going to come to me with the ‘stray’ story.

I pause my strolling when I get to the center of the room and take a sweeping gaze around, trying to figure out how the furniture and material placements are going to be. I typically compartmentalize my cookhouses into four utility sections: extracting, mixing, testing, and finally, packaging. I’m going to need to set up screen doors to isolate each section but first, we need to get the tables in here.

Ivano can help with that.