[ WP ] You and your cohorts have pulled off your heist as planned . Later , in your hideout , you see TV reports that the payload you hijacked is lethally radioactive

It takes all your poise to keep from joining Larry again in the bathroom. By now the toilet, the bathtub and the kitchen sink reek. His retching echoes through the apartment as you're sitting on the hard lumpy futon with Mop Head, whose own mother calls him that, smoking the strongest pot you've got left to help ease the nausea and the wild headaches. You think it helps but there's no telling. It feels like someone's drilling holes in your head. 
 
 `` Must have been the shawarma we got afterwards,'' he says. 
 
 `` Fuck, do n't even bring it up.'' 
 
 Mop Head takes a huge hit and passes the bong. 
 
 `` So what do we do with the stuff?'' you ask. 
 
 He exhales, closing his eyes. 
 
 `` The payload?'' 
 
 Fuck off, you think, as the water under you gurgles. 
 
 `` Yeah,'' you say, sending a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. 
 
 He cradles the bong back in his crossed lap. 
 
 `` We wait for the right buyer,'' he says. 
 
 `` What are we even selling?'' 
 
 `` Something good,'' he shrugs. 
 
 Larry stumbles into the living room, both hands clamping his head. He sways like you're on a boat. 
 
 `` Feels like something took a shit inside me.'' 
 
 `` I was just saying it must have been the shawarma we got after...'' 
 
 `` Screw the shawarma, man. I said do n't bring it up.'' 
 
 `` It's not the shawarma,'' says Larry, `` It's that fucking thing outside.'' 
 
 He lets go of his head to point through the sheet-thin wall, where the truck currently resides. 
 
 `` We have to get rid of it.'' 
 
 `` We ca n't until we find a buyer.'' 
 
 `` All this shit started when we stole that truck, man. Do n't tell me you want to sit on it any more than I do. There's shit in my sink, man!'' 
 
 `` Correlation, not causation,'' Mop Head says. `` Just because it started around the same time does n't mean it's what caused it. I say it was the shawarma. The chicken was n't cooked properly and we probably have salmonella.'' 
 
 `` Fuck you,'' Larry says for you. `` I've been throwing up blood.'' 
 
 But you ca n't help agree with Mop Head. It's just a crate in a truck. There's something in the crate worth a lot, worth needing guards. You do n't know anything that could cause what's been happening to you and you do n't believe in curses and superstitious shit like that. It's just as likely you got food poisoning. Still something about that crate does n't seem right. 
 
 `` We do n't even know what's in there,'' you say. `` Maybe if we just take a look.'' 
 
 `` Do n't need to,'' says Mop Head. `` Someone'll buy it as is and we'll never have to steal anything ever again.'' 
 
 `` And you're going to find someone to sell it to smoking pot all day in this fucking apartment right?'' Larry says. 
 
 `` You're starting to sound like my last girlfriend.'' 
 
 `` Your last girlfriend was a crack whore. Do n't me tell me shit.'' 
 
 Larry disappears into the bathroom again. Mop Head keeps puffing in peace. How he can sit there meditating like that you have no clue. You click on the TV and flip through to the news. 
 
 `` I do n't watch the news,'' he says. 
 
 As he goes on about how everything you watch is controlled, you do n't ask why he even keeps a television and instead turn up the volume over his BS and Larry's retching. 
 
 `` Wait, they're talking about the thing we stole.'' 
 
 There's a lot of pussyfooting, cycling of clips of armored squads, still-shots of the place you hijacked the truck from, and the reporter finally says what you're waiting for. 
 
 `` Authorities still have no leads on the current location of the radioactive material, but the search continues. Experts have confirmed however that the perpetrators who have stolen the shipment are dying or already dead. If you have any information, please call...'' 
 
 You get to your feet. 
 
 `` Did you hear that?'' you say, `` What the hell have you gotten us into, Mop?'' 
 
 You look over at the man. Some time into his mumbled conspiracy theories, he's fallen asleep. Now his mouth is open like an ashtray. Larry's tossing his guts into porcelain inside. You think distantly about taking the truck to the authorities and getting help but it's too late. 
 
 `` Fuck it,'' you say. 
 
 You grab the keys of the truck and go out. Your hands are shaking on the steering wheel but not out of fear or panic. They've been doing that for hours and now you know why. 
 
 You throw the car in reverse and lean out to use the rear-view. Once you're on the street, you slam the pedal and take off, driving as far into the desert as you can. The world grows lonelier. Your mind starts wandering. You stop a couple times to throw up bloodily on the side of the road. On the third you ca n't catch your breath for a full minute and wake up some time later with your face half-caked with dirt and half-crusted with foamy spit. Squinting into the late afternoon sky, you wipe your mouth on your sleeve and hobble back to the car to resume your endless drive. When you ca n't go on any longer, you pull off the highway and into the rocky dunes. Driving over tufts of weed and around wide ditches, you end up in a secluded spot and park the car. You light a cigarette and sit there, dissolving in the acid of the light, burning up and being hammered by heat and radiation and your own god damned hindsight. But you're beyond caring. You wonder if Larry and Mop Head are dead. 
 
 Assholes, you think, and nod off. 
 
 edit: thank you for the kind words
