You never expect to find yourself being strangled by your best friend.  It just happens.  Out of the blue.  At least, that’s the way it happened to you.  And according to him, it was your fault.  You shouldn’t have asked him those questions, those questions which had been bothering you for a long time now.  Where did he go at night?  What did he do?  Why did he call you last night at 3:37AM asking for you to come pick him up in the ghetto?  What was he even doing there?

            You didn’t ask him that until he got in the car, paranoid and looking behind his shoulder every 5 seconds.  He tells you not to worry about it, to just drive.  His intimidating motions make you feel uncomfortable and you speed up, keeping your mouth shut until you make it safely to the highway.  He looks more relaxed now, still with the occasional look over the shoulder, about a minute gaps between them now.  He doesn’t reply directly to your question of how he is doing, no, instead he turns it around, looks straight in your eye, and asks how you are doing.  “Fine,” you reply, “a little tired.  I’m worried about you, man.”

            “Worry about your own damn self,” he says.  You can almost feel the drugs circulating through his body by the tone of his voice.

            “I will,” you say, not knowing how hostile he would be if you asked him another question.  Minutes go by.  You figure you have about 15 left before you reach his house, so you ask him, “Am I taking you home?”

            He looks out the window into the side mirror and glances hurriedly back out the rear window.  That is enough for the cop who had been following you for a minute or so to light up and egg you over to the side of the road.  You gently pull over and notice your friend look at you in desperation, scan his whereabouts and decide whether or not to make a run for it.