Balfe carelessly played with a spilt sachet of
coffee complement on the glass table-top. All Colin's powders had long since
been snorted, but he still handed a blade to Balfe, maybe out of wishful
thinking.
Two minutes later, Troy and his posse of females
piled into the bedroom. He saw the mound of coffee complement which by now had
been chopped into four lines by Dave Balfe.
"Hey, baby, is there enough for me there?"
Troy's nostrils flared in a macho post-coital kind of way.
"Sure, Troy. Take the biggest."
Troy Tate carefully took his cleanest, largest Irish
note, rolled it lovingly into a neat thin stem and held it delicately but
firmly over one end of the white lines of powder. He looked around at his
adoring girlfriends, flashed us his best James Bond smile and, with perfect and
unconscious comedy timing, said, "Too much of this stuff can make you
stupid." Then he put the whole lot up his nose.
Balfe, Gary and I
were down the corridor in a second, screaming in disbelief, hysterically
crying.
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