((OOC: Phoenix downs on this thread!))<br/><br/><br/>The girl danced, the sun burnt and production ploughed into full swing in the factory of Reeds conniving little brain, as the prize marble of an eye locked on to the articles-of-evidence-to-be arriving on the tarnished table-top.<br/><br/>Cigarettes, broken or bent or half mortified, prized out from between the cold dead lips of the long since rotten, christ, smokes in any way, shape or form could and would be put to fond use. You'd scuttle back to security of your plank board â€˜velvety softâ€™ mattress and in the safe shadow of your own cells bars, you'd mine the sorry things for tobacco on grain at a time. The infamous smokers fable about prison cigarettes wasn't all dreamt up. One broken portion of a white coated, sweet smelling stick weighed up to a delicious grand total of three rollies IF done right.<br/><br/>Reeds brow knotted in the middle as he attempted to subtly draw the loose stitches of visual evidence-- bag size and substance texture, the usual need to knows of narcotics-- to arrive at an estimated weight, value and, more importantly, effect.<br/><br/>And ... what was this? ... Hot damn. The glint of metal in the relentless sun snagged his gaze.<br/><br/>A clip.<br/><br/>Fucking unbelievable. Wasn't it a little too early to be bringing the big boys to the table? Reed grinned and leisurely unwound from his resting spot on the corner of the bench, "'Lo Tink," something of a smile twitched in his cheeks, a fresh wave of life glistening in his baby blue.<br/><br/>Tink, Tink, make the gals wink, had it on good terms with fucking Saint Nick for all he knew, for the stream of goodies he smuggled in. He was also kind of easy on the old eye, but that was secondary. More importantly was the drugs. Powders, pills, sweeties, crutches, coping mechanisms and taste the rainbow, whatever your vice, sugar or spice, he kept it nice.<br/><br/>â€œGat a taster fâ€™r old friends?â€  Reed jerked his head towards the bag hopefully. He kept the smile small and shoulders stooped. Pushing your luck wasnâ€™t an advisable hobby in these kinds of temperatures, but Tink wasnâ€™t a bad sport. The oddity had humour. You needed that like a second head as far as the small minded criminal was involved, but none the less... â€œNow only ye , meself, â€˜n God â€˜bove  know how much Iâ€™m in need oâ€™ some. Be anâ€™angel wouldchya, Sweet?â€