Reckless Harmony

The Club on 10th Street

Mickey feels fucking lost in the hustle and bustle of New York. The streets are packed with people, each one with their own mission, and none of them seem to notice him. Not that he ever liked being noticed, but Max sure did by the fans.

Being in New York is like being in a swarm of bees, buzzing and chaotic. The people here are something else. People perform on the streets, record videos and yell loudly, some are obnoxious, some are actually kind of funny.

But Mickey just wants a break from it all, a moment to catch his breath in the middle of all the madness. He lights up a cigarette, feeling frustrated and annoyed. Colin's carrying a couple of beers over to where Iggy and him stand by an outdoor standing table.

"Doin' alright Mick?" He asks as Mickey snatches a beer straight from his hand.

Mickey takes a swig and rubs his temples holding the cig between his pointer and middle finger. "Too many weird fuckin' people."

"Compared with what we got back home this ain't so bad," Iggy says, taking a big bite of his chicken sandwich. Mickey takes another drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly as he surveys the scene around him. The towering skyscrapers loom overhead, casting long shadows over the bustling streets below. Neon signs flicker and flash, competing for attention amidst the sea of people and traffic.

"Yeah, well, at least back home, I knew where I stood," he grumbles, his stomach growling loudly in hunger. Fuck, he really should've eaten something when they stopped for gas that time.

Iggy grins and holds out his sandwich. "You want a bite?"

"Fuck no."

"He's scared he'll get food poisoning again," Colin says, smiling teasingly at his youngest brother.

Mickey raises his middle finger. "Fuck you."

Iggy interjects with a mischievous glint in his eyes, "Yeah, that was a rough night. Never seen someone hug a toilet so passionately."

Mickey scowls, "Shut up, you two. It was the dodgy street vendors' fuckin' fault."

Colin claps Mickey on the back, a shared moment of laughter breaking the tension. As they stand together, enjoying their drinks and cigarettes, Mickey steers the conversation toward their upcoming deal.

"So, the club over on the 10th?"

Colin nods, checking the time. "Yeah, midnight. Looks like we've got some more time to kill," he says, glancing at the clock.

**

As they step into the club, Mickey immediately feels like he's walked into a sauna. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, and it's like trying to breathe through a wet towel. The ceiling is kind of low and small but there are still too many fucking people to count. Dancers and cocktail slingers are walking around the place. Mickey quickly realizes it's a sketchy gay bar.

As the brothers grumble about the stifling air, a burly guard appears out of nowhere.

"Come on," he nods, indicating for them to follow him, his voice barely audible over the music. Mickey exchanges a glance with Colin and Iggy before they follow the guard through the sweaty mass of bodies. As they approach the back of the club, the guard signals for them to halt before a heavy door. With a creak, it swings open, revealing a dimly lit room where a man is sitting on a couch, shrouded in shadows.

The leader, his tattoos glinting in the dim light, leans forward, his gaze fixed on the brothers before him.

"Milkoviches, huh?" he muses.

Mickey nods, unzipping his backpack with practiced ease. "Yeah, we've got everything you need right here. Top quality stuff, all in there."

The brothers carefully extract the bags of crystal meth and cocaine, laying them out on the table in front of them like precious treasures. The leader's eyes linger on the drugs, assessing their purity and potency with a practiced eye.

"And how much are you charging?" he asks, his voice calm but commanding.

"80 per baggie," Colin replies without missing a beat, his tone firm and businesslike.

"Must be some primo stuff, huh?" the leader remarks.

"Well, it's freshly cooked," Iggy chimes in.

After a moment's consideration, the leader leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks over at the quiet but big guard standing beside him, nodding. "We'll pay 50 for each baggie."

Mickey's brows furrow. "75."

"55," the leader counters.

"70."

There's a tense moment of silence and exchanged glances before the tatted dude stands up, clapping his hands in decision. "Alright."

With the deal struck, a sense of relief strangely washes over Mickey. The leader gestures towards a briefcase sitting on the nearby table. "Your payment," he says simply.

Colin opens the briefcase, revealing stacks of cash neatly arranged inside. He nods in approval, satisfied with the amount. "Looks good."

As they navigate their way through the sweltering throngs of sweaty bodies, Mickey is grabbed by something and pulled deeper into the crowds by a strong grip.

"Aye, get your fuckin' hands off me!" He huffs as the guy releases him.

The guy smiles drunkenly, leaning in. "Wanna grab a drink, handsome?"

"Fuck you, jagoff." He swears, walking away. "Yo, Iggy!" Mickey hollers, his voice barely audible over the pounding bass.

Finally spat out by the human tide of sweaty men, he breathes a sigh of relief, scanning the hallway for his siblings. "Shit."

As he makes his way toward the exit, the sudden impact of a door swinging open against his face sends him reeling backward. "Son of a—" Mickey's expletive is cut short by the sharp pain blossoming across his cheekbone. "The fuck, man?" he snaps, clutching at the tender spot, only to be met with a familiar voice.

"Mickey?"