Jezebel Wintergerald
There was little in life that was better for a drug dealer’s business than a party. Even if the host was zealously anti-drugs, there’d always be that handful of stragglers who wanted to let loose and have a good time. When she was a kid, Jezebel Wintergerald had pushed her wares down at the community centre, but nowadays her customers tended to make their way to her.
Once she’d established herself a reliable reputation, the money had come pouring in.
“You really are your father’s daughter.” Her mother had said to her when she’d found out about her dealing.
“Go deep-throat a chainsaw.” She had responded.
They hadn’t spoken much after that. Not that she cared.
Life without her parents had proved to be everything Jezebel hoped, with very few drawbacks to speak of. She was her own boss, best friend, arch-enemy, confidant, and critic, and she loved every minute of it. If she felt down she did shrooms, if she needed to relax she smoked a joint, and if she needed a buzz then she dropped some mandy. All her bills were paid on-time, the fridge was full of food, and she got to meet all sorts of crazy characters.
Not a bad deal, given that all she had to do was sit on her arse and wait for a text.
Jezebel was out shopping in one of those ritzy, clothes shops when she got her first order of the day.
“Honestly, my dear, it's like wearing warm butter…” The shop assistant babbled whilst Jezzie slid into the $430 leather jacket, just as her second (Pay-as-you-go) phone let out a dull buzz.
She flipped it open.
Can you bring the usual to the party tonight? Will pay at the door.
-Shorthair
All of the contacts of Jezebel’s “work” phone were saved under cat names.
“I’ll take it.” She said with a friendly smile, forking $400 worth of bills out of her wallet.
“Is it okay if I pay in cash?”
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