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Junior has a surprising visit to the neighbor.

The idea of sabotage was delicious. Somehow, Amanda had pictured something else. The way Glory talked, getting published meant fame and fortune, ticker tape parades.

On the contrary, Glory Jacobson was just another face in the crowd; just another author.

"$25 each," grinned the doorman, arms crossed, biceps bulging beneath a black T-shirt; the pocket puffed out by his pecks; perfectly chiseled.

"Oh shit," Amanda whined, biting her lip. She had enough money for the cover charge, but not enough for a score.

"Let me guess, you don't have enough money," sighed Glory; a sigh that was angry, pissed off; but not angry enough to start a conflict. She opened her wallet, calculating her expenses, totaling her cash flow. Three twenties and a wrinkled hundred; a grand total of one hundred and sixty dollars; not counting the two fifty she had in the bank. Four hundred and ten dollars; that's all the money Glory Jacobson had until payday. Paying for Amanda had to stop; it was tacky and rather taxing; financially speaking.

"I only have twenty five on me. If I pay the cover charge, I won't be able to score anything."

"Life is full of hardships," Glory added, sarcastically. She unfolded two twenties and a ten; the corner of each twenty smeared with lipstick; the ten pieced together with scotch tape. The bouncer licked the edge of his thumb, counting off the miniscule roll. He was proving a point; proving his superiority; showing up the pretenders like Glory; the women who acted like they owned the world, even though they didn't have shit.

"Enjoy," he smiled, waving them inside with a nod of his head, a smile that looked down on them, condescended to them.

"Who's holding?" Amanda asked, projecting her voice over the music; a slowed up, techno version of a Blondie tune; a tune called "Maria."

"Mar-i-aaaaa," purred Deborah Harry, behind a scratch, scratch, synth-pop bass line that flowed in one continuous beat. "See that guy over there?" asked Glory, pointing to a fellow standing near the bar; hair slicked back on the sides, boxed on top. He was quiet cool, chicness; a leather coat that stopped at his calves; black sweater with a circle shaped collar; purposely cut not to be a v. Only in Manhattan could you find a stylish drug dealer. "Who is he and what does he charge?" wondered Amanda, head bouncing slightly to the music as she surveyed the scene; white boys with shaven, nicked up heads; a by-product of buying ecstasy, the most expensive product on both the club and the rave scene. Obviously they couldn't afford to buy a decent razor. Their necks were raw, pink; marked by tiny pimples; pimples at the base of the neck. These were marks of excess and or cheapness; even a backwards baseball cap couldn't conceal them. All the white boys were into shaved heads these days.

"His name is Satellite," smiled Glory, wondering how he rated on her finger scale of decent and or good fucks; his thick fingers lighting a cigarette, wallet leaving a bulge in his left front pocket.

"Let me guess, his shit is the best," added Amanda, cynical as always, questioning Glory's desire; her hunger to sleep with an illegal entrepreneur; a drug dealer, if you will. "It takes you to the stratosphere," Glory cooed, thinking of her next hit, that rush she felt when she was high. If drugs were so horrible, Glory never understood why. She got high, she slept it off, then time passed, night becoming morning. As far as Glory knew, her health was grand. Besides, there weren't any addicts in Manhattan. Addiction was rather tacky; pass__, if you will.

"What's your poison?" asked Satellite, watching Amanda as she stammered, body fidgeting as though she were coming down.

"Coke?" she asked, unsure of the drug dealer etiquette in Manhattan.

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