By Daniel Kool

When my editor told me to investigate the drug trade in Allston, I knew just where to start.

It was a little joint – family owned, Twinkies, little case of bongs, you know the type. To the west, that “anything goes” hellhole of sin and seduction, TITS. To the east, the ruins of Kappa Sig. And there I was, right in the middle of it, just a little terrier in a world full of rottweilers.

But that didn’t bother me. I’d been covering these streets since I was a starry-eyed freshman. Nothing surprises me anymore.

Nothing, that is, except for her. She was standing behind the counter with a nurturing, unmasked smile, trying to make a Facebook post on her phone. Her gentle gaze intoxicated me. She was like the mother I always described to my friends to make my family seem cooler.

I asked her if they sold something sweet to take the edge off, completely forgetting to use my codeword.

“Of course, baby,” she said.

She set a handwritten list of flavors on the counter. Suddenly I was lost in the winding roads of her perfect cursive. “Mint Massacre,” “Perfectly Pure Peach-Pear,” “Orange Orgy” – there were smiley faces in the O’s and hearts over the I’s. It was like a rush of pure nicotine right to the heart.

I stammered and reached for my wallet.

Walking out, I could still hear her saying “all set, boss” as she slipped me the stuff – no one ever calls me “boss.”

It was a joy I hadn’t felt since arriving in Boston. It wasn’t until I was back on the T that I realized I had fallen right into her charismatic trap. She played me like the goddamn GSU piano.

AT PRESS TIME: The author of this article has been let go after having inappropriate relations with a source.

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