Yellow Jacket - Pt. 2

Rain. Precipitation from the sky in the form of water. In Seattle, it is known as Washington Sunshine, and there are multiple sub-genres of said precipitation. Such names include drizzle, showers, mist, down-pour, cats and dogs falling from the sky, usual Washington weather, each with various adjectives and modifiers.

On October 17, 2024, there was a heavy deluge in Seattle, and John Snyder was hunched in the Jungle. This jungle isn’t what you think. There are no trees in this jungle, no plants, no wildlife to be spoken of, though other civilized individuals and groups might not consider John Snyder to be civilized. No, the Jungle is a large homeless encampment, full of rapists, drug addicts, alcoholics, sex offenders, murderers, and other criminals who were let out and had no place to go. Some of the Jungle’s citizenry simply include druggies whose addiction took them to poverty on a golden thread.

Here, in this Jungle, John Snyder shivered while hunched over a burning barrel filled with garbage and heroin needles. There were dozens of other sharps around him, but he didn’t notice. His eyes were fixated on the dancing green and red flames. One thought ran through his mind over and over.

Money.

He needed money to get another hit. He also needed money for food. He hadn’t eaten in three days. The last few hits had screwed with his perception of time. It was 36 hours of perpetual bliss. He couldn’t recall if it was Thursday, or Sunday. Sunday was when someone usually brought chicken that the Union Gospel Mission was giving out. That seemed so recent to him.

The rain was lessening, and that meant he might be able to pan handle a few bucks for another hit. His muscles twitched uncontrollably as he was coming down. He was thinking in minutes now, minutes to his next hit, minutes to enough money, minutes to talking to his dealer, minutes to that un-explainable bliss.

“You strung out man?” someone said next to him. He didn’t see the man, walk up next to him and the burning barrel. He spoke with a deep, muffled voice. He wore two sweaters, a winter rain coat, jeans, old Sketcher boots, and a red beanie.

“Why, you sellin’?” John asked. “I don’t have money, but I can get some… soon too… I think.”

“Nah, I ain’t sellin’,” the man replied. “I got something new though, I could give you a taste and see what you think.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out an orange prescription pill bottle. He unscrewed the cap and tapped out the last pill. It had a plastic coating, half yellow and half black.

“What is it?” John asked.

“It is your favorite ride but cheaper. Ten bucks a pill. Just open it up, pour out the powder, and I think you can figure out the rest.”

“I thought you said you aint sellin’?”

“I’m not. This one’s free.”

John, frantic, desperate for the ecstasy he was coming out of took the pill out of the man’s hand.

“Thanks,” he muttered. He turned back to his tent next to one of the pillars. He had his materials there. There wasn’t enough powder to cook for an injectable dose. Instead, he laid it out on a piece of paper into a thin line and snorted it.

Within seconds, John was back in his restful high, staggering around the jungle as if he were half asleep.

Within minutes, he was lying next to a garbage can. A dried foam covered his mouth and chin. 

His eyes were glazed over with the grey sheen of death.