Fulminated Mercury

Walter White had a plan.

He felt stupid walking up to the lair of a psychotic drug dealer. He felt like an alien walking up the stairs to that dealer's office, the air permeated with the low bass of the latest hip hop craze. He felt scared when the two goons escorting him pushed him into a wall, patted him down, took the bag of crystals he brought from within his jacket.

He felt all these things, the sweat dripping down his armpits, the clamminess taking over his hands, and he ignored them. They were not part of the plan, and they would not get in the way of the plan.

The goons ushered him into the office proper. Tuco, the dealer, sat at his desk, a bald and tattooed runt of a man. He inspected Walter’s crystal on the flat edge of a knife, his eyes unblinking and intense. He placed the crystal down gently, looked to Walter, said, “What’s your name?”

Walter felt sparks arc along every nerve of his body, licked the words around in his mouth before answering simply: “Heisenberg.” The name felt natural on his lips, powerful.

“Heisenberg,” Tuco parroted with a nod. “Have a seat, Heisenberg.”

Walter didn’t like his tone. He looked to the seat, back to Tuco with narrowed eyes. “I don’t imagine I’ll be here very long,” he said.

Tuco smiled with teeth; a gaudy collection of gold caps. His ‘bling’, as Jesse would call it. “No?” Tuco laughed, nodded a few times before composing himself. “Be that way,” he said, lips tightened.

Walter proceeded to be that way, and they stared in silence for a moment. Tuco shook his head. “It’s your meeting,” he said, irritated, “why don’t you tell me what you want?”

That was a question he’d been waiting for. Walter kept the dealer’s gaze, said flatly, “Fifty thousand dollars.”

Tuco immediately broke into laughter, leaned back in his seat. His goons laughed from behind Walter. “Oh man,” he said, “fifty G’s? How do you figure that?”

The math was simple for the chemist. “Thirty five for the pound of meth you stole,” he stated, “and another fifteen for my partner’s pain and suffering.” He thought back to Jesse in the hospital, laying in a bed unconscious, beaten half to death by the punk sitting in front of him.

The dealer winced his eyes, leaned forward on his desk to pick up a lit cigarette. “Partner,” he mused, and opened his mouth. He stubbed the smoldering cancer stick out on his tongue like it was nothing.

Walter watched him, gulped subtly. It was cheap intimidation, but it was also completely insane.

Tuco laughed, pulled the cigarette from his mouth. “Oh yeah, I remember that little bitch,” he said. “So you must be Daddy.” He stood up from his desk, hastily removed his coat and gestured to Walter with shaking hands and that toothy smile. “So lemme get this straight,” he said, his voice shaky with adrenaline.

“I steal your dope.” He pointed to the crystal sitting on his desk.

“I beat the piss,” he continued, punching the air maniacally, “out of your mule boy.”

“And you walk in here,” he said, smiling wider than ever, “and you bring me more med?” He laughed, a high pitch squeal that made Walter grit his teeth. Tuco hit his table in his laughter, took back his seat. “That’s a brilliant plan, esse.”

“Brilliant,” a goon said from behind Walter.

The chemist only let Tuco finish his speech to make his point that much clearer. This was all still according to plan. “You’ve got one part of that wrong,” Walter said, one finger raised. He reached toward Tuco’s desk, plucked the chunk of crystal he’d been examining off of it with careful fingers.

He held it up before him, looked Tuco dead in his eyes. “This,” he said, “is not meth.”

Tuco stared back at him, curious, probably on the verge of another laughing fit. Before he could start, Walter turned on his feet, chucked the crystal directly on the ground between the goons behind him.

It struck, and the explosion rattled the entire top floor of the lair.

An air conditioning unit was forced out of a window by a storm of debris. It fell down like hail upon the junkies and gangbangers hanging out below. Broken glass cascaded down, tinkled on asphalt as the patrons scattered like mice, cursing and screaming in shock and disbelief.

Inside, Walter stuck with his plan. He ignored the ringing in his ears, the possible trauma to his body, his heart thumping so fast in his chest. He snatched the bag of crystals off Tuco’s desk while him and his goons recoiled from the explosion.

Tuco stood up, shaking and covered in dust. “Are you nuts?” he yelled.

Walter stared back at him through the smoke that waft through the room, held the crystals above his head. “Wanna find out?”

The dealer’s goons recovered, bolted to their feet with guns held up to the chemist’s head. Tuco calmed them down in his native tongue, and Walter was glad he was smart enough to do so.

“You’ve got balls,” he said in the ringing silence. “I’ll give you that.” He stepped up to Walter, turned to face an open safe. “I’ll give you your money,” he said, reaching into it. He pulled out wads of cash, said, “That crystal that your partner brought me.” He put the cash into a bag, made sure to show Walter it before shoving it in. “It sold faster than ten dollar ass in Tiju.”

Walter wasn’t surprised, and took relief in the dealer’s defeated tone. He still kept the crystals held tight, shifted around on his feet.

“What’s say you bring me another pound next week?” Tuco finished.

The chemist kept his gaze, wrapped his free hand around the bag of money. Now he was in control. “Money up front,” he spat out through grit teeth.

Tuco nodded. “Money up front.”

Walter took the bag away, looked around the room. The goons kept their distance, nervously eyed the crystal clutched in the chemist’s hand. Tuco kept his stance. “Sometimes you’ve gotta rob to keep your riches,” the dealer said, “just as long as we’ve got an understanding.”

They would have an understanding, a simple one. That Walter White, Heisenberg, was in control now. “One pound is not gonna cut it,” he said. “You have to take two.”

Tuco laughed, broke down into coughs from the hanging smoke. Walter, his own lungs burning from it, found peace in not having to hear the dealer’s hyena squeals anymore. “Odele,” Tuco said with a nod.

Walter made his way out of the room, his eyes still scanning the goons. Tuco stopped him for one last question: “What is that?” he said, eyeing the crystals.

The chemist looked to them, back to Tuco. “Fulminated mercury,” he said. “A little tweak of chemistry.”

He left the room in silence, walked down the same stairs as before. He felt no fear now, and the sweat that clung to him was a cool blessing as he walked back out into the muggy warmth of a New Mexico afternoon. Everyone around him had settled down and were gazing up at the destruction, excitedly telling passersby about what happened. Car alarms buzzed around the entire block, and the chemist expected to hear the wail of sirens soon.

He ignored it all, walked straight to his car, opened the door, closed it when he climbed in. He looked at his money, gripped the crinkly bills tightly between his fingers. This was real. He grit his teeth, let out a primal shout and pounded his steering wheel in victory. The adrenaline passed into weakened coughs, and the chemist settled down with one thought on his mind:

Walter White had made a plan, and it worked.