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Devil's Candy
By
Albert Williams
RAW! RIVETING! REAL!
Reviewed by Tempie
Author of Feelings
ISBN 1-4241-0706-7
Devil's Candy educates your soul! Albert Williams, once again treads ground some dare not to talk about. He in his hunger and thirst to feed, and free the minds in this twentieth century suspenseful masterpiece! This epic story of drug addiction captures fact, fiction and drama that will remain in the minds of many for centuries to come. He masterfully interweaves his literary senses to challenge his readers to go to an unspoken and forbidden realness. A realness that few escape. A realness that is everywhere. A realness to be learned. A realness of awareness. A realness of education. A realness of decision making.
This introduction opens with fact. The author skilfully and boldly makes clear from the start that this Class-A drug Crack Cocaine has no mercy. He describes in everyday language the derivatives of this monster and how when produced it can be sold on the black market.
His research explains how it came originally from the Cocoa Plant used by South American Incan royalty before the New World. He further explains how the plant, Erthroxylan Coca grew in abundance in the valley and the natural occurring alkaloid in its leaves produced a sense of extreme sense of exhilaration when chewed. I say continue to educate me Mr. Williams. I need to hear you on this. The world needs to hear you on this. And so he does, as only he could. He tells it like it is. How in Crack Cocaine abuse has grown in popularity. The effects and the facts are real.
The story, Devil's Candy, meticulously shows the shattered lives resulting in crime, violence, and treachery. It shows how drugs affect a society. Although the story is set in London’s Inner-City among rival gangs, kidnapping, drug use and drug abuse, the underlying message is that it could be anywhere. The fact that I do not tell the essence of all the twists does not take away from the seriousness of the sting operation and all the murders and mayhem that transpires as a result of the use of Crack cocaine. The author is very careful in telling the story to portray his moral and up side of the epic tale appealing to those who have not tried Crack cocaine, to simple steer clear.
The moral of this fictional and cautionary tale is very real and very universal. It is very clear and simple. Don’t get caught in the trappings. I can see this novel being part of an educational program in schools, libraries, hospitals police academies and other institutions that welcome the teachings of drug prevention. This tale supports, SAY NO TO DRUGS in showing its series of crime and consequences. The reader need only to ingest the ramifications of reality to draw their own conclusion. Devil's Candy is a means towards preventive measures of drug awareness and education and reality. Both thumbs up to this author on telling such a thought- provoking, meaningful and enjoyable tale.
Devil's Candy …a tale of addiction, Suspense and mayhem.
By Albert Williams
CHAPTER ONE
Crack cocaine, a Class-A drug, is derivative of cocaine produced by heating the drug in a solution of hydrochloride with baking soda till the water evaporates; leaving a light brown crystal which when cooled is broken into marketable portions to be sold on the black market.
Originally, Europeans discovered Cocaine, which comes originally from the Coca plant was used by South American Incan royalty before the New World. The plant, Erthroxylan Coca, was found growing in abundance on the valleys and plains of South America, and the naturally occurring alkaloid produced in its leaves produced a sense of extreme sense of exhilaration when chewed.
The ancient Incan priests and rulers used the coca leaves for many purposes. Including a source of nutrition to stave off hunger and fatigue. It was also used as for mystical and religious purposes in the lives of these ancient peoples.
It is perhaps a quirk of history that these peoples were responsible for introducing the smoking of tobacco, which the Europeans adopted following the bloody colonisation battles 500 years ago. However, like all drugs, legal or illegal, there is a time and place for its use or consumption, hence labelled as ‘controlled substances’.
In recent time, crack cocaine abuse has grown in popularity, erroneously refereed to as a recreational drug. But its effect on the individual, both, dealer and user, family member and society is far from recreational. As a matter of fact, many lives have been and are still being ruined in more ways that one, by yet another so called plant.
Devil's Candy is a fictional story following the lives of a columnist 18 year-old, Vickie Mc Lloyd19-year-old, Jimmy Squash; also 15-year-old, Robert Niaand and others. As their lives are shattered in the tales of crime, violence and treachery, brought on by the inevitable encounters with what Catholic Bishop of Cuzco in 1551 regarded as 'the Evil Agent of the Devil', while the Incas themselves worshiped the plant as 'the Gift of the gods'. Nevertheless, to thousands of men and women, of all walks of life, nationalities. Crack cocaine is trap that less than 1 in hundred escape.
The effects are evident in our ghettoes and cities alike. Drug lords earn huge spoils from sales, while the addicts meanwhile are ruined because of it. Wherever you the reader stand-in this perverse world of darkness, Devil's Candy, although fictional, is very much real. As real as mankind's search for the ultimate state of happiness: Don't get caught in the trappings, is the moral of this cautionary tale.
Indeed while, decent men and women just like you and me am going about our legitimate affairs, at this very moment, as a major drug dealer is receiving his supplies. At his very moment and addict is taking another hit on his blowpipe. At this moment, some innocent person is the victim of a crack-related crime. At this moment, a woman is prostituting her body for a £10.00 vial of the crack. At this moment, a young man is in indulging wittingly or reluctantly, in the act of homosexuality for crack. At this moment, while, you and I are dutifully paying our taxes, a pubic servant is accepting bribes. At this moment, a long-term user’s heart has stopped beating as result of an overdose.
At this moment, a child is born already a crack addict. At this moment, a gang of crack addicts is assaulting a pensioner, a schoolgirl, or even another crack head. . At this moment, a drug dealer is slitting the throat on one of his debtors. At this moment, cracked is smoked in a prison cell. Crack cocaine is every where. In our schools hospitals bedrooms streets parks. It is ravishing the souls and minds, of the young and old. The able and disable. The rich, not so rich, and the poor and very poor. The educated and intellectuals. It is the curse of modern living. The curse of science backfiring.
Devil's Candy is a frightful look into the inside of the workings of a ruthless crack cartel: its destructive influence on society and the authority determination to stamp out the nefarious drug trade, and rampant drug abuse.
The cautionary tale begins with the kidnapping of a magazine columnist, Vickie Brown, who is an addict herself, and is drawn into a turf war between the rival gangs, in London's city centre.
In this high-energy drama, you will uncover the second thoughts of a drug middleman who wants to opt out of the trade; the demise of a group of promising musicians; and loads of background information on crack cocaine and its origins.
The story comes to a climax when a sting operation brings the cartel to its knees. But not before murders, shootings, burning buildings complete the tale of utter mayhem.
The upside of the epic though, is its appeal to persons who have not tried Crack to steer clear of its clutches.
CHAPTER 2
Thursday, October 6th, 2006 Autumn was here and the sunny blues skies that we had longed for so many months was beginning to give way to the typical weather England is famous for. Today, it was a windy day and the Cumulus clouds floated briskly eastward across the sky in thick rolls resembling huge woollen blankets rimmed by shots of opaque -blue. The sun was not in view, and a sharp chill seemed to descend from the heavens.
Victoria or Vickie as she was known by all was on her way to work. She had been lucky to land a job at The Beacon: a woman’s magazine. She was the gossip editor, and it was her responsibility to commission and edit the column- what women think, as well as to purchase bits and pieces from want to-bees who wanted to see their name in print, as well as from established writers such as Nancy Gordon, and Sheila Woodson.
Victoria was a middle of the road girl, 18 years old, 5-foot six and had the complexion of olive brown. Originally a brunette but had dyed her hair green, throwing in streaks of purple highlights. She said that this was all the go and that an editor of the gossip column she should look the part.
The Rolling Hill train station was awash with commuters. Businessmen dashing with the pinstriped suits, women dressed in their favourite work clothes, mothers with their little babies and school children catching the 7:30 am to London, a journey of 20 minutes away.
Life was bubbling at a frenetic pace this morning.
But Vickie was in dire straits again this morning she had her last £3.20 in her pocket, and that would only pay for the return ticket. Her mind was already in turmoil, and had begun to crave for the next high. Vickie was a chronic user of crack cocaine. Gossip editor or not, Vickie struggled to hide her addiction from the knowledge of her peers, but struggled with is incessant pulls, and demands on her salary and on her physique. She never was a plumb chick, but in recent times had lost a stone, and was beginning to look paper-thin. Nevertheless her furtive life appeared to move on, she doing what she had to do, when she had to do it. Living the existence of what the experts consider to be a functional addict.
She clutched her brown suede side bag closer as the train hissed to a halt at the Charring Cross. Undecided whether to visit the pimps first or head straight for the office. She decided on the former, and walked down Pearson street turning left at the traffic lights onto Morrison Drive passing the off license, and the hairdressers, then disappeared into an alley; running up a flight of iron steps, to bang loudly on a tin door.
‘Ok Ok what’s the hurry,’ an Afro-Caribbean voice shout from within.
‘It’s me, Vickie’, replied.
A daft figure opened the door, his white t-shirt bore an emblem of a revolutionary symbol of some sort: skull with hideous eyes. He motioned Vickie to enter, and motioned her to a table laden with packets. ‘What you want? ‘He asked, ‘Dark moon?’
‘What’s this dark moon? ‘Vickie replied.
‘The hottest stuff on the market now, 60 percent pure, blows your brains out.’
‘Wow!’
‘But aren’t you supposed to be at work now?’
‘Shimon, I down on cash, and I haven’t had a high since last night; I know that you could help me out.’
Suddenly, Shimon moved closer to her and grabbed her by her green and purple hair. ‘You rather your early morning fix than to report to work on time. He let her go and snarled ‘Well I’ll see what I can do for you,’ he snorted. He disappeared into a back room and returned three or four minutes later with a tiny plastic parcel. In it was a crescent shaped yellow whitish substance. ‘This is the dark moon!’
Vickie fixed her hazel brown eyes on the packets and could feel the desire swelling up inside her. She always felt a conflict of emotions whenever she was knew she was going to have a hit. A combination of both fear and intrepidity. ‘Can I hit it here?’ Vickie asked shaking from head to toe. The dealer had a smug smile on his face, and glared at her then said.
‘You know that you will have to pay me double for this,’ Shimon said softly I charge a £20.00 for this, so that will be forty quid…do you understand?’
‘That will mean that I owe you £480.00, right?’
‘Right. And I want that this Friday right?’
‘Ok Shimon, this Friday I promise I will pay you all that I owe you.’
‘Ok Vickie,’ Shimon flicked his head to one side motioning her to a side room. ‘There is a pipe in there that you can use if you haven’t got your own.’ Shimon turned on his swivel chair and resumed the counting of wads of cash on the table in front of him. There were several bottles of wine and other strong drinks and glasses from the kitchen a delicious scent of food was streaming through the air.
Vickie grabbed the packet of ‘Dark Moon’ and stumbled into the dimly lit room. It smelt of stale crack smoke and it was sparsely furnished with a single bed, a small table and an electric fan. There were no windows. It looked more like dungeon. Vickie felt her innards rumble, and began to shake uncontrollably.
‘ Wha’ wrong wid you? Shimon asked smiling as he flicked a bale of twenties. ‘ You paranoid already? He got up from the chair hastily and pushed Vickie into the room, closing and locking the door. He smiled as he strode back to his table of money. Shimon reached out to a stereo wall unit and pushed a button. Out came the familiar voice of the Dominican D.J., Street preacher’, ‘you want to know some love?, you! , you want it? Yes! You want it? Yes…yes!…yes!…yes!’ then there was a knocking on the door.
Four knocks paced out. ‘Thud!…thud!…thud!…thud! He reached into his desk, and pressed a button. A buzzing sound as heard at the door. ‘ Come in da man,’ Shimon said. The door pushed open, and in came a dark-skinned well –built youngster about 19. He was dressed in a purple and white track suit, He had thick-soled trainers on and a clutched a black leather bag under his left arm, a bunch of car keys dangled in the other. Gold chains swung around his neck. He greeted Shimon, ‘Hey man!’
‘What’s going down da man?’ Shimon replied without looking up. He had monetarily bent under the table to retrieve a twenty pound not that had fallen to the floor. ‘ Man alright?’ he asked.
‘Yeah! Just from on the block, see what the pushers doing with my gear,’ he snorted. He sniffed the air. ‘ Is it you that smoking that shit I n here, man?’
Nah!, is the journalist girl, she there in the little room knocking her brains out.’
Shimon, how many times I tell you I don’t want Paros smoking in dies place man. You crazy man. Fuck me!’ he shouted. ‘ Who is this journalist?’
‘ come on man, you know the daughter of that magazine man, Mc Lloyd, the one that printing those shit about drugs spoiling people children. The Maverick, I think it called. I never read it, but Murphy tells me his printing stuff all about drugs in it every week.’
‘Well good for him, and bad for us… I mean good for us, at least the more they talk about it the larger the market grows man. The shit getting better every shipment, and the punters can’t get enough,’ he burst out laughing. ‘ How much you got there for me man?’
‘Eighty.. Ninety, …£7,990 the man, in one week. James’ Shimon replied smiling slightly. He scraped his fingers over his bald head, then cracked his knuckles. This woman, have £1,400 for me you know…she coming here every day, and you know that she have the cash.’
‘I hope so, because I’m no fool. You want hard drugs. You pay for hard drugs or else…Look man when I getting this money from the girl, All pusher I gone round to collect my dough telling me the same sad story, I not in no nonsense , man.’ James walked into the room kicking an empty bottle on the floor sending it crashing into the opposite wall.
‘ Easy man! Shimon said, easy what the hurry man is?’
‘ Man you playing with fire ..Give me my money or give me my drugs. You think I am in the charity business, how many others you giving free smoke i.e.’ with that James pulled out a revolver, and pointed it menacingly at Shimon.
Hey man, be careful with that, I have £7,990 the rest will come in by Friday, I promise, Shimon said, thrusting the wad of cash at James. James reached out to take the cash , but withdrew his hand just Shimon let it go. The bale of twenties, and hundreds and fell to the floor and scattered like cards.
‘ Pick it up,’ shouted James, Pick up its arse’
Shimon bent down to pick it up. AS he did that down came the back of the revolver on the neck of Shimon with crash. Shimon screamed. ‘Ohm!’
‘You think me playing with my money.’ He strode over to the door of the little room and banged on it furiously, ‘ open that dam door, woman!’ he shouted, Time up…time up, time up.’ James caught hold of the door handled and twisted it, but the door held fast, ‘what h happen you lock your self in there you little tart? Open the door!!!’ he said angrily.
Shimon was nearly knocked out by the blow to his head with the butt of his revolver, and he began to feel a trickle of blood oozing down the back of his neck, ‘oh my God, James you wanted to kill me? I am your mate, ain’t I ?’
‘What wrong with that crazy woman in there? She locks the door or… I’ll kick it down if she doesn’t open it.’
‘ I lock the door, James’
‘You bastard! Open the f***king’ He demanded. ‘ The girl deaf nuh?’
James was livid with anger, and he stood by the door panting like a mad dog. He eyed Shimon, who at this time had struggled to sit upright. The smell of the delicious food had now turned to a nasty burnt smell. Smoke began pouring from the kitchenette. The smoke alarm went off.
Chapter 3
Behind the closed door, Vickie was unaware of the row between Shimon and James. She was unaware that it was now ten 30:30 are. That her father publishing tycoon, Peter Mc Lloyd would be wondering why hadn’t she called, as she was accustomed to, that she would be late in reporting to work, or that she had gone to follow a lead. Vickie was unaware that a mad drug dealer was pounding the door and shouting her name. She had passed out in a crack–induced stupor face down on the table top. In her hand she still held on to the blow pipe. Her bronze complexion: now an ashamed white, and she were dribbling. Vickie, underestimating the strength of the dark moon, had overdosed.
It would be at least half an hour before Shimon would open the door to let James in. He would first have to, wipe the blood from the wound behind his head. While holding a towel to it, put of the cooker, grabs the saucepan of pasta and corn beef from the appliance, and disengage the smoke alarm. Then reach into his pocket for the keys.
‘What the!…’ exclaimed James, ‘ is she dead?’
‘ What?…what?’ answered Shimon
‘The girl…’
They both entered staring at Vickie slouched over the table. Shimon was the first to touch her. ‘ She’s warm,’ he said. She must have had an OD. ‘Come on man! Let us put her in the recovery position, then call an ambulance.’
I’m not touching that bitch, she’s your problem, mate,
‘James retorted.
‘What do ya mean?’ replied Shimon’
‘An’ you can’t call the ambulance you want the police to come around here asking questions…are you mad fella? Let us see if we can wake her up. JJames ran to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water and threw it on the Vickie’s face. Vickie seemed to shudder, then she moved her head , as Shimon dragged her to the bed. Holding her under her arm pits. He struggled to get her bottom on to the bed, then lowered her gently on her back. He remembered from a class in of first aid, how to put a victim of overdose in the recovery position, and proceeded to turn Vickie on her stomach after first checking to see if there was anything in her mouth. She was breathing, so there we no need for mouth to mouth resuscitation. He called her name, ‘ Vickie! Vickie !Can you hear me, oh my God! Vickie, you bitch… wake up!’ shouted Shimon. Maybe it was the damp clothes, or the sound of another human being, but after ten or so minutes, Vickie opened her eyes. Her pupils were dilated and the white of her eyes a reddish-brownish colour.
‘Give the girl something to drink,’ James suggested, and made off to the table in the living room, and returned with a glass of wine. ‘Here, drink this, he told Vickie handing the glass to Shimon. Who lifted her head so that she could take a sip of the wine. ‘ So what are we going to now?’ inquired James. Shimon only looked at him with an expression face that suggested a mixture of panic, doubt and apprehension.
TO BE CONTINUED
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