Water drips heavy from the boards overhead, droplets striking one after another against his brow. He grunts and shakes himself off, loosing away the memory of his dream. Hideous forms in dark rooms.
Johnny stands up stretching and brushes his dirty hair back, gargling up a wad of early-morning phlegm as he strolls out from his hiding place. Spit to the ocean, kersplash to the deeps.
He gently pats at his front breast, feeling the glass vial still tucked away. Gently it is drawn from the pocket, unwrapped from its black silk kerchief; his eyes gleam as he looks it over again in the morning light. The thick redness, only half-empty, still enough for a few more rides on the tilt-a-whirl of black sukha.
Johnny smiles, remembering how he'd scored it off that dead-beat Cockscomb, the joy of watching with the other boys as the catchpoll had taken a beating from the pirates. The sly grin of invitation to loot from the bloody-faced captain, calling it an offering to the growlers on corner, a token of respect from a real criminal.
He himself had managed the snatch the best of the haul, not including the exotic drug he'd last night smoked with his elite fellows. There was the silk kerchief, the silver knife, the polished orange stone, all engraved with exotic signs, all sure to fetch good price when he manages to fence them.
The reverie is short-lasted as Johnny spies a fellow mover, Shaun Brantley, stalking out down the pier, a wet sack slung over his shoulder.
"Hoy! Shauny!" he calls out. "You'd not believe the time I've just had last night!"
Li'l Shauny turns to pull a heavy drag from his cigarette, offering a bemused smirk. "You say so, huh?"