Day 'n' Nite / Kid Cudi

Jesse plugged the key into his 1995 Toyota and wasn't surprised when the car whined and wasn't able to start up.

His forehead found the steering wheel as he closed his eyes briefly.

"Jesus. Piece of shit."

He turned the key another time and, again the car balked. Once more. Miraculously, the cherry red Toyota's engine turned over, and Jesse sped off. Where he was going, he didn't know. But not "home," not to that awful apartment that wasn't actually his.

Fucking Justine. You don't understand, and you never will. You'll never be able to fathom the amount of strength it took just to stay alive.

Jesse, deciding at the last second, hooked a sharp right turn onto a dirt road, one not unlike the thousands of others that spider-webbed across Albuquerque.

He needed a fix. This time, it was more illegal for him than ever; if he failed a random drug test at his next DEA confession, it would finally land him in jail. Jail was the place he knew he belonged, but he just wanted a taste of life before Heisenberg.

The unpaved road greeted Jesse with a sign dictating that he go only 35 miles per hour. It followed seventeen miles of dark, cold desert, and wound endlessly to deter anyone not ready to face the house the road lead to. Speeding along at nearly eighty miles per hour, the Toyota skidded around every curve. He reached the house in about five minutes. He didn't hesitate, like he might've three months before, to jump out of the car and walk briskly to the dilapidated front door, hands stuffed in the pockets of his zip-up hoodie.

He knocked three times. No one came to the door, and it was getting cold out. He started to knock again, but before he reached the third knock, a rusted-out panel on the door slid open and a pair of red eyes peered through.

"Who the hell are you?" Asked the raspy voice belonging to the eyes behind the door.

"I'm Jesse, I know Faren."

"Yeah, right. Does he know you?" The figure laughed and started to shut the panel.

Jesse looked closer and saw that the eyes were a bright green. "Dude, you're Faren. You know me."

The panel slammed shut, then the door burst open. It came outwards, knocking Jesse into the sand as it did.

"Who the fuck are you?" A handgun was outstretched towards his face.

"Faren. Listen, man, you're high. It's me. Pinkman." He paused, looking for any sign of recognition. "Put the gun down."

Faren, wild green eyes darting right to left, heard the truth in his voice and put the gun in his belt. "Hope you have money, Pinkman." He stumbled back into the house.

Crackheads are crazy, Jesse knew that much, and it wasn't the first time one of them had pointed a gun at his face.

Inside, there were easily thirty five people, all of them cranked out of their minds. They lay on every surface: the floor littered with holes and dents, the couches with torn fabric, the coffee table with an uneven leg and spilled cocaine in every crevice.

It was a bad place, but it was Jesse's safest bet.

Money was exchanged and crack was inhaled through a short pipe. It wore off in ten minutes, so Jesse smoked another two fifty-dollar doses, one right after the other, and promptly sat on the floor and slept leaned against the dirty wall.

He woke up nearly four hours later to nausea and bleary vision. At nine o'clock, he figured Albuquerque was dark enough for most of the highway cops to be back at the station, so he slipped out of the house.

An hour later, his worn-out tires hit the Albuquerque streets with more speed than they were meant for.

He just drove. He didn't really have a destination in mind until he crossed onto Central Avenue. He knew this road was a place to avoid after dark, but knew that if he was already at risk of being jailed, he might as well find some girls to witness it. Groups of them stood on various corners, and their pimps stood just blocks away. Three of them specifically caught his eye.

Jesse pulled up slowly, then stopped. Out of the two in the back, the blonde one was smoking something, and the brunette was unimpressed by the Toyota. The black-haired one in front had fresh syringe marks. They all were Jesse's idea of sexy. He knew he had to get Skinny Pete and Badger in on this.

"Are you gonna pick us up?" The tall one in front asked.

Or, maybe Skinny Pete and Badger didn't have to know. He could just keep them for himself.

"Shit yeah. You," he pointed to the black-haired girl, "get in the front."