Fix

Tim edged his way along the wall, moving closer to the alley. His eyes shifted around quickly, like a shrew about to leave its burrow in a field watched over by a hawk.

After ensuring that nobody was looking in his direction, he slipped around the corner into the alleyway. He jerked his head left and right, cracking the joints in his neck.

"Jesus, do you have to do that so loud?" came a voice from behind a dumpster.

Tim jumped. His contact emerged from the shadows, draped in a faded brown coat.

"It's a nervous tic," Tim whined. "Done it ever since I was a kid." The contact said nothing. "Well, don't just stand there, give me the caff!"

"This batch was more difficult to procure," said the contact in a low voice. Thomas shivered and cracked a knuckle. "I want double this time."

"Double?" Tim whispered, looking over his shoulder. "Christ, you clean me out as it is! I can't afford double!"

"No money, no java," said the contact. "I'm altering the deal because it caused me more hardship. Would you prefer if I passed the hardship on to you?"

Tim swallowed. "No," he said, and sighed. He pulled out his wallet. "What kind of hardship did you encounter in getting this?"

The contact merely grimaced and rubbed his shoulder as though it were sore. Thomas looked at the offending appendage as he pulled out the two Grants he had left and sucked in air through his teeth.

He hadn't seen it at first because of the shadows, but there was a dark red stain and a hole in the shoulder of the coat.

Tim swallowed again, then pulled out a Jackson, handing it over with the Grants. "For the extra trouble," he muttered, looking over his shoulder again.

The contact took the bills without comment, then slipped a large red can from the right pocket of his coat and handed it over.

Tim gazed at the letters on the can for a moment, then looked up, stuffing the can inside his shirt under his arm. "Same time next week?" he asked, cursing himself as soon as the words left his mouth.

His contact raised an eyebrow. "It may be two weeks, maybe three. I don't fancy getting shot again anytime soon, especially not before this one is healed."

Tim absently gripped his hands together, cracking his wrist joints. "Fair enough," he said, and he reached a hand out to shake the contact's, forgetting that it was the same arm under which he held the can.

It slipped and fell to the ground, landing on its side and rolling under the dumpster. Tim quickly fell to his knees, peering into the darkness. The can was directly in the middle of the space, out of reach.

He looked desperately up at the contact. "Come on, you have to help me get it!"

The contact raised his eyebrows and rubbed his shoulder in an exaggerated motion. "Oh, I don't think I can. Shoulder injury, you know." He turned and walked down the alleyway to the next street.

Tim stared after him, his eyes beginning to droop. He stretched out his hand under the dumpster and felt the tips of his fingers graze the can. "No, no!" he said as it rolled away. Looking again, he could barely make out the logo on its side.

He hit the side of the dumpster with his other hand, crying out a single word as he did so.

"Folgers!"

---

Sorry it took longer to get up today. This was pretty fun to write. It would be interesting to be in a world where caffeine, (and caffeine-infused products) was treated like the drug that it is.

Thanks to Thomas, Laura, Jen, Kelsey, Bobby, Kristy, Karen, Jennifer, Adam, Ashley, Lori, Stephanie, Jim, Solange, and Denise for their suggestions.

For next week, tell me: what is your least favorite form of exercise? Post your submissions in the comments section below, and please subscribe!