You slide the bag across the table. The hooded figure opposite of you peers inside and whistles. "Now, where in the hell did you find this?!" An eager hand pulls back the zipper while another reaches inside. Wet sounds emerge. "Eugh. Thawed. You know, if you're gonna be transporting alien guts, you're gonna want a little more than a backpack and a bag of peas."

"Hey, I was in a hurry," you shrug. Have been. Still are. Will be until you can get some of that sweet, sweet Perihelion. "I'll take whatever I can get for it."

"Pfft. 'Whatever I can get,' he says..." he mocks. "You know desperate ain't cute, right?"

The bottom of the bag sags when the hooded man lifts it; a long stretch of sticky blue ooze still connects it to the surface. The contents had already seeped though both the bag and the two towels it's wrapped in, slowly making its way to the cracks of the man's impeccably neat coffee table. He sets it back down with a little squelch and leans forward. His elbows are on his knees and chin is pressed against his the top of his fingers. You can't quite see his eyes due to the hood. Just that eerie grin of his.

"So. Where'd you get this?"

You shrug. "Around the way. Look, are you buying or are you buying? I just need the funds, man. Can't even... tell you about it right now." Your head's throbbing a little to much for storytelling.

"Around. So it fell out of the sky? Just..." He makes a splat noise with his mouth. "... right there on the sidewalk? No, no, let me guess, you yoinked it off the back of a GlobalMed truck, yeah? Ooh, yeah, that must be it. Never trusted those bespeckled freaks; I always knew that they were screwing Mother Nature behind closed doors." His voice keeps going on and on around your head. It buzzes in your ears and tingles the back of your eyes. "Nah, it's something better than that, right? Some real-deal heist movie shit, right? Am I right or am I right?"

Nothing. His goading gets nothing from you. Just the universal sign of feigned disinterest: two half-lidded eyes and a slouch. But the sweat's already pooling down the side of your face, drenching the collar of your polo. You can't think that this is cool, right? Or unsuspicious? Your eyes keep darting around the room, fixating on anything but the figure across from you.

The potted plant in the corner which shimmers like plastic when the moonlight hits it a certain way. The armrests of the chair you're sitting in is all peeling leather and scratches. Reminds you of the bedframe back home. The picture frame on the desk is cracked through the center; the rug has iridescent stains on it you want to lick; the shutters are only half-shut, half-raised across the window in a disorienting angle.

"Mmm. I'm right. Always am," he concludes, leaning back once more. His sticky finger pokes at his cheek in thought. "Hm. I'll give you, maybe, fifteen."

"K?"

"No. Fifteen minutes." His smile goes straight for a moment. "This here? It's one-of-a-kind. Bigger than that, it's the culmination of a lot of money and a lot more time. Now, I'm assuming you know what that means already. If you don't, let me make it clear. I do not have the time, nor the patience, to take upon your burden. Whoever made it has probably already tracked your scrawny ass from whatever run-down apartment you live in to this building right here. It is only a matter of time before they come knocking at my door, and I promise you that when they do, I will not hesitate to throw you at them from the top floor of my humble establishment. You understand?"

You blink. "So you're... not buying it? B-but I thought you bought everything?"

"Well, you brought me the one thing I can't afford. Money, stress, time; all of it! You're a psycho for even lugging that thing around, and that's coming from me." He spins around in his chair as he says that, fishing out a small copper lighter from his hoodie pocket. "Alright, now are you gonna conduct yourself like a gentlemen, or am I gonna have to ask Paulie out there to grant you the early end you're so eager to meet? Cause I'll tell ya, it'd be a luxury compared to whatever those sickos will do to ya."

The door behind you creeks. An older gentleman, bald with a few tattoos and a scar, lugs a long rusty pipe over his left shoulder. His name might be Paulie. Who knows? Either way, you decide not to ask. You take your bag, say your goodbyes, and head back out into the real world. Once the cold night air hits you again, your heart stops pounding. Surely you can find a buyer before the night's out? Before the cravings kick in again?