It was 11.30pm on a quiet unassuming Wednesday, much like any other in Lincoln. As Al walked passed the Cathedral - a minor technicality promoting the small town to City status - he noticed how light it still was on this June evening. True, it was Summer solstice, but he'd never known it to be so light so late before, and with the weather so unbearable hot it made Al quite uncomfortable in his ill-fitting faux-Armani. A combination of poor-tailoring and sticky shirt syndrome made an ill-begetting sight for anyone walking in the late evening heat.
Al should have loved his job (the hour was good); he had no boss, no fixed working hours, no targets to meet and he could work from anywhere: home; public transport; whilst socialising; why, he even a few mail-order customers - though they were few and far between, you can't really get people to sign for drugs so you have to trust them to be honest about receiving the package.
Yes, Al should have loved his job, that much is true. But the real truth was - as it is in all good stories - lay just beneath the exterior of our character. Al did not like his job at all. In fact, would it be safe for one to say that Al was bored? It would? Then yes, Al was bored.

He kept lying to himself that this would be the last time he did a run. He had saved a good amount of money by keeping his business and hobbies separate and didn't really need to "work" anymore, but like most people in any job, he was caught in a self-perpetuating cycle of mediocrity. Too scared to break the cycle, but horrified by the prospect of this becoming his life.
However, walking the streets waiting for a client was better than staying in his flat with his sister, about whom he was becoming increasingl worried about. Alarmed at the prospect of darling Ottie sampling his products he had found the best place to hide them during an evening was about his person, and if he was made to carry such contraband then he may as well atempt to offload it on anyone looking for a quick "hit".
As much as he admired Ottties free-spirited ways, it worried Al that it may incur the wrath of his unforgiving father, who would place the blame for the spoils of Ottie in his hands. The thought of this made Al itch uncomfortably at a boil on the back of his hand.

Just then, his first customer of the night approached. A gothic chappy who liked to go by the self-annointed moniker of Edgar Allen, but - and for the sake of story - we all will address him by his less-pretentious birthname; Kevin.
"Allright mate? What are you selling tonight?" he asked.
"I have all the usual items, and they are all ready for your consumption." replied Al.
"Yeah, wicked mate. Can I get some happy pills, I think I have enough for a carton." By this he meant a half dozen, or 6 (six) tabs, but always the progressive linguist, Kevin was trying to make this new slang term stick, as always with forced colloquialisms, it felt forced. And as such was unlikely to catch on.
The transaction commenced and was followed up by some light-hearted and well meaning conversation in an inadequate attempt at socialising.
"So, where are your travels taking you this fine summer eve?" questioned Al.
"I dunno man, I'll probably just head back to Gullivers. I only popped out to score and get some air. I was chatting to Usagi when I was there, and he told me this wicked joke man." he continued "Why is a raven like a writing desk?"
"I'm sorry to be rude" interupted Al "but did you say you were partaking in festivities at Gullivers, and Usagi was present?"
Perturbed by the interuption, Edgar / Kevin answered the inquisition "Er, yeah man. He was in there just now."

And with that. Al took off, heading in the direction of Gullivers, a popular drinking hole in pursuit of Usagi, an Asian fellow who owed Al a substantial amount of cash.

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