La-Ra. Grime. Ring-pop. Shoulder-molder. Rezi. There were a lot of names for DDHP. The best Kenzo had ever heard was “muppets” and just thinking about, tweaking little puppets going on killing sprees in Malaysian-made drop top Cadillac X29s, gave him the chuckies. But whatever the street name on the lips, in the eyes, it had only one, the same, call-sign: “Now.” And who was Kenzo to disagree with that kind of fervor? So he’d wake up every day, before even the day-ringers and tracktraders were up, taking the 99 monobus with his hot stash in his pocket — the heaviest half-kilogram on the face of the fucking planet — to that dry stretch on Via Paolo Lomazzo and set up shop by with the tilt of his hat.
And on this morning, this kind of morning, well, why not have a drag to celebrate good business? Then again, if Kenzo knew then what he would know at the end of today’s workday, he would have had two drags.