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Discussion => Off topic => Topic started by: ShamelessHarvey on June 02, 2013, 12:39 pm
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PART 1 - Following parts further down in the thread.
DABBLING IN SUICIDE
-Seamus Harvey
DECEMBER
PROLOGUE
People pay good money to hallucinate.
Suckers, all of them.
There is no greater hallucinatory experience you can unleash upon yourself then simply staying awake for four days straight. You find people who commonly claim to have been up for days upon end without sleeping. They're called liars. What they mean is they were working on a project or paper of some weight, and have been getting ALMOST no sleep.
That won't do for these purposes.
No nodding off, no power napping under the desk, no quick winks while standing in the shower.
Awake, absorbing glorious input, longer than 96 hours.
It's a lot harder to accomplish than it sounds. Your body will want to shut off.
Fuck your body. It's a coward.
When willpower is failing, pharmacology will be your savior.
I find that methamphetamine is the best hack for bypassing this silly self preservation routine the body tries to pull on you. Preferably smoked from a glass pipe. And don't be trashy. Don't smoke from some carbon encrusted glass dick that they find on dead tweekers after the warehouse rave got raided. Be classy. Take care of your pipe.
Love your pipe.
Never let the flame touch the glass. Thats where that black charcoal bowl crust comes from. Keep the tip of the flame a good inch away from the bowl. Patience. You are baking a souffle not caramelizing creme brulee. The goal is to slowly let the crystal melt in the glass. You actually want to inhale pure, beautiful vapors not smoke. If your shit is smoking you are doing it wrong, dirtying your pretty bowl an wasting drugs.
Your mom taught you better.
Practice until you get it perfect. You will feel the difference.
Now once you've mastered your new found superpower you can use it to fight off any amount of sleep craving your body can throw at you. And now, well armed, you can take the governor off your waking hours and zoom down the road to the sacred world beyond the 96th hour.
There's a different planet past that point. I'm a regular vacationer there. I've even lingered into my 5th and 6th day. Like music to the deaf, I'm not going to attempt to explain it. But I encourage everyone to try it, at least once. Turn your world on its side. If you find you like it there a bit, stay awhile and play. At the very least it will expand your perception.
What I don't encourage is packing up your hooker girlfriend and BEGINNING a 21 hour road trip to New Orleans when you haven't slept a blink in 5 days.
CALI
Calling Cali a hooker is like calling a Maserati a car. You're missing the finer points.
Girls of her caliber are generally referred to as "Escorts", Cali doesn't like that word either. "Companion" or "Courtesan" is how she sees herself. At $500 an hour you can pretty much call her anything you want. And once you've sampled her, you'll be calling her again, and again, and again.
Of course I don't pay her. She's my girlfriend. My actual girlfriend not just a carefully orchestrated simulation. I'd like to say I'm surprised at how divided people are on the subject of dating a whore. They are completely black or white on the subject; but people don't surprise me anymore.
I love that men pay thousands for what amounts to my daily life. But those men don't really know Cali either. She's a transformer.
"This is not working" she sighs.
She could be referring to the fuck up dynamic that is our life and relationship, but she's not. She's been trying to scootch down in the passenger seat and light a crack pipe under the horizon of the window. She's failing miserably.
This would actually be comical if she hadn't agreed to also get me high off of the pipe in question.
Time out. Cali doesn't smoke crack. I sure the hell don't smoke crack either.
"Crack is Whack"...rest in peace Whitney.
The "Crack Pipe" is a "Meth Pipe"...but that sounds ridiculous. If you're around people doing methamphetamine and they say they are "doing meth" or "smoking a meth pipe"... run. Seriously, those are the backwoods hillbillies you see on the faces of meth poster. Those are the people who catch their bathroom on fire making low quality "shake and bake meth". They deserve the stereotype.
People like Cali and I, use "Crack" and it's ilk (cracked out, crack pipe, smoking crack) ironically.
Hipster speed freaks
There's a definite hierarchy to drug use. The bottom of the pyramid is being held up by people smoking actual crack. Cocaine and baking soda make for a delightful end to a promising life. Slightly above are hillbilly speed freaks, these dregs are not me or mine. Above them are potheads and other collegiate level drug abusers. Dime baggers, frat boy stoners, white rastafari, actual rastafari. Let us not forget the party girls, the ecstasy abusers, MDMA champions, with their serotonin receptors irreparably riddled. That level drifts into mushroom trippers and borders on the LSD and mescaline takers . The spiritualist. Searching for meaning or god. Far too often they detour smack dab into heroine junkies.The path to the golden lap of your creator is only as far as a short hitchhike on your Vasculatory system. That rarely ends well. Next come the prescription drug abusers. Soccer moms with an oxy problem. Lawyers on the partner track with an affinity for adderall. Pill poppers bleeding into the upper echelon, the coke heads.
Coke is still cool.
Don't let anyone fool you.
And people utilizing coke definitely believe they are the tip of the pyramid. But that's a delusion.
At the very tippy, tippy top are meth aficionados.
Captains of industry we are. Leaders of men. With no time for sleep. And we bare about as much resemblance to "faces of meth" as a "companion" does to a “crack whore”..
I hope that makes sense to you. Because I have something more important to say.
I am not getting high. And this is a problem.
"We're going to have to stop somewhere."
Cali agrees.
THIS ISNT DISNEYWORLD
When people think of Florida they think of white sandy beaches, palm trees and Disneyworld. What they don't put in the brochures is that most of Florida is a shit hole. And that's probably doing shitholes a disservice. Miami is great, a truly world class city. The greater Orlando area is great for the plastic coated tourist trap that it is. After that there's a handful of (loosely)metropolitan areas, Tampa, Daytona, Sarasota, Jacksonville, Panama City...maybe Pensacola. But dotting the lines in between those oases (oasees?) are the dregs of America. Palatka, Green Cove, Haines City, Brandon, Bartow, Pea Ridge.
Places you go to die.
We had left from Key West and were now about an hour and a half northwest of Miami. Firmly in the grasp of podunk Everglades Florida. We needed to find a secluded location to do hard drugs. Which, looking at the inhabitants doesn't seem like it would pose much of a problem.
We thought about a lot of options, an automated car wash for example. Go in, wait for the suds to get nice and thick and then smoke up. We decided the lather cycle was probably not long enough to get the job done properly. And going thru 3 or 4 times would probably draw attention.
We also shot down papering up all the windows in a walmart parking lot, the “Family” bathroom at a Starbucks, a shower at a truckstop, and wandering out into a nature preserve.
In the end we settled on renting a motel.
Now, I am a drug addict. Have been for quite sometime now. And I generally don't delude myself too much about that fact.
For some reason, when I walked into the "Rest Easy" motel, on the 5the day of a crack bender, to rent a room SOLEY for the purpose of doing drugs, it really hit home. The cute cuban girl behind the counter was about 5'1" and smiled coyly at me in a way that meant "Please take me with you, I'll do ANYTHING to get out of here". On a normal(relatively) day I would have seen just how far anything would go. But, I had important business here.
I paid cash. Signed the register as nothing resembling my given name. And took my key.
An actual key, who knew?
Around the side of the building and up a flight of stairs, we found room 207. Cali had already taken the key from me and was successfully negotiating the lock to get us inside.
"This is disgusting."
She was absolutely right.
When I was in high school, my girlfriend and I would regularly copulate in shady motels. Places with waterbeds and mirrors on the ceiling.
Palaces, in comparison to this place.
Cali wanted to fuck. But after inspecting the beds she realized we needed to keep this a purely drug transaction.
In the bathroom, on the deteriorating porcelain counter, Cali began blessing the temple. She wiped the counter down with alcohol hand wipes before removing the Versace sunglass case that was currently holding our stash of crack, her personal incendiary device and her newly minted glass pipe. I had given it to her as a christmas present.
I'm a keeper.
You could see the relief in her eyes that she could take her time. Smoking in the car had not been a fulfilling experience. A sophomoric, fumbling handjob. Neither of us had gotten off.
So this time, behind closed doors, in the seediest of environments, she was meticulous.
I watched as the first crystal dropped into the pipe, then two, then three. From her purse she removed, her torch. "Pitchforks and Torches"...that's not this kind of torch. It was actually a butane soldering iron, with the tip removed. Unlike a conventional lighter, a torches flame could be precisely controlled, and she was a professional.
As the flame point teased the bottom of the pipe, I saw the hot crystal liquid pooling in her hands. Slowly she inhaled and equally measured she breathed out. I watched the glow wash over her.
My turn.
I was sitting on the counter facing the door of the motel room. As I put the pipe to my lips I saw small flecks of sunshine, piercing through the external room wall.
I inhaled slowly.
They were two bullet holes.
What the fuck happened to my life?
THE END OF THE AFTERGLOW
In the woods behind the house I grew up in lives a hermit named Andy.
He was equal parts conspiracy theorist, militant recluse, hippie burnout and full blown redneck. In celebration of each New Year, he and his cronies (his cronies and he?)would fire their shotguns into the air. It was great fun.
Kids love guns.
Andy never really got that all those bullets were going somewhere. One year they peppered his living room ceiling. Years later, they fucked up the paint on his buddy's trams-am. But the physics of the celebratory gun fight never hit home until they shot Cheyanne.
Cheyanne was a Redbone Coonhound and she was bleeding from an artery in her neck. The blood pooled in the dirt road and created little red clay blood clots. Andy ran to her like it was his child. He pulled her body close to his chest, blood matting his long brown hair. He wailed. He kissed her snout and cried into her mouth, she was too weak to close it. Her tongue just limped off the side of her jaw. He had shot his daughter.
They didn’t celebrate new years after that.
Unlike Andy, The return trajectory of upwardly mobile objects never escaped us. The motel had been the last time either of us had gotten high.
We were still smoking, mind you. Feverishly. But the effects of the magic potion had plateaued. We were falling back to earth, fast. A crash was imminent.
"Cali, what are you doing baby?"
The speed limit on I-75 is 75mph.
Currently we were parked in the middle of the interstate.
"I saw brake lights"
Looking ahead of us I could see the tail lights of only one other car. Conservatively, it was 10 miles down the road.
It was the wee hours of the morning. There are no streetlights on this stretch of road. When the torch flame emerged from my hand, sitting in passenger seat, parked in the middle of I-75 the whole car illuminated like a firefly in the night. Hold...2...3...4...exhale.
"Would you like me to drive?"
The firefly illuminated again.
MONSTERS IN THE TREE CAVE
I-10 starts in Jacksonville Beach on the Atlantic Ocean and dead ends in San Diego on the Pacific. If you'd never driven it you might assume the most boring part is right in the middle, in the desert. It's a good assumption. After San Antonio there's just mile after mile of desert that feels like it goes on into eternity. But the desert is not boring. It's inspiring. Makes you think about your place in the world.
No, the most boring part of that Journey is right at the beginning. After you leave Jacksonville there's a string of pine forests and marshlands that don't let up until just before Pensacola, a good 6 hours away. It's bad during the day. At night, you're just driving thru a never ending tree cave. Stifling, claustrophobic, blackness with little red tail lights peppering the trail.
It's probably not helping that most of the walls of this cave turned into giant tree monsters half an hour ago.
I'm well past my 96th hour.
It's fortunate that I'm a regular here. Periodically, tree monsters decide to desist decorating the roadside and stumble across my path. I can keep steady pressure on the gas and just marvel slightly that the car doesn't crumple under the weight of a huge pine foot.
You can tell this disappoints the tree monsters. What do they want me to do? Park in the middle of the interstate?
For the moment Cali is attempting to satiate her oral fixation on something other than a crack pipe. Society really doesn't give high functioning addicts enough credit. If I put you (sober) behind the wheel of a Mercedes E-430, getting a blow job from a $500 an hour escort, while doing 75mph you would be all over the road, maybe even wreck. Now try it on no sleep while dodging tree monsters.
I’m a pro. The car behind me just thinks I'm another working stiff on an unholy commute to a thankless job.
Pfft, I don't have a job.
Fireflies illuminate the car.
This startles me a bit. I have both hands on the wheel and Cali is currently otherwise occupied.
Great, now the tree monsters are smoking crack.
I look at the dashboard. Apparently I need oil.
WALLYWORLD
No matter what hell hole corner of the country you find yourself in, you're never very far from a Walmart.
As we pull into the parking lot Cali is adjusting her hair and make up in the mirror. This is the beginning of a universal ritual shared by all drug users across the world.
Attempting to make other people believe you are not on drugs.
People have mixed results with this. It can run from a stoned high school senior trying desperately not to laugh at everything, to your parish priest who's been a closeted speed freak for 30 years.
I find it's best to come up with a cover persona. A reason for you to be looking and acting a bit off. My personal ploy is to pretend I'm a douchebag businessman who's pissed off that he's coming down with the flu. It works for me.
Cali's trick is to be Cali. And like her, it's a charm. One that's particularly effective in our current location.
Watching Cali enter Walmart is one of my guilty pleasures. And there's plenty good reason for that.
For one, there's the reaction from every male in the store. Like they are watching a unicorn. Overweight stock boys slicking down their unkempt hair and middle aged shoppers trying nonchalantly to remove their wedding rings, while still in arms distance from their wives.
The reaction from the women is split, half look at her like the devil herself just walked through the automatic sliding door(Like the devil shops at Walmart). And the other half just stare, smiling and thinking how all they have to do is be like her to get the fuck out of this backwater.
But my favorite reason, is the look on Cali's face.
Her shoes are Christian Louboutin, and her bag is Hermes, but in here her face is just a wonderstruck little girl from Amarillo.
Cali loves Walmart.
She would never say it, but it reminds her of her hometown... Which she would also never admit to missing. Everyone else here probably sees a homewrecker. I see a glimpse of a pretty girl before her life got so damn complicated.
I love watching Cali in Walmart. Did I say that already?
I let her frolic in the aisles while I go in search of thirty weight. Twenty minutes or so later, I've checked out and she reappears. Hair braided in hap hazard pig tails, like a ten year old girl scout ready for a camping trip. She stares at me as I refill the oil reservoir on the Mercedes.
I know this look.
I had spurned her advances at the motel, I wasn't going to get away unscathed this time.
She was going to devour me. And I was way too tired to put up a fight.
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This is the first part of my book "Dabbling in Suicide" I'm only making it available thru the road. Fuck the pigs of the publishing industry.
Vendor/Forum name is the same: ShamelessHarvey
http://silkroadvb5piz3r.onion/silkroad/item/55821898e2
Tips: 1218rmotyZT7TmEhdQNEV14KFHrpJigXhc
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PART 2 -
INTEMRISSION
“Eat this.”
When I opened my eyes I was surprised by two things. Sunshine and a banana.
“Did I sleep?”
“15 minutes.
“Fantastic.”
It really was fantastic. Cat naps and sunshine are panacea to averting bender overload. Its actually frightening how much energy and stamina you can recoup from surprisingly little rest.
“Eat”
Eating on a bender is a high wire act. You don’t want to eat for a mix of reasons.
The drug is inhibiting the reuptake of many a neuro-chemical. Dopamine and Serotonin are the headliners here. Reuptake inhabitions mean normally docile and homely molecules are now out in force, wandering promiscuously around your brain, seducing any receptor that will have them. The Amish community has suddenly become a sex cult.
One of the lovely side effects of this romp is your body deflects blood flow away from your abdomen and into your extremities. Its preparing for fight or flight. And its telling you this is no time for lunch. For casual users this is fantastic. We’ll all stay skinny because we just won’t eat. But nonstop for days on end you are going to have to eat. No matter what your body says, it needs fuel.
Mentally you can get around that part. You know you need to eat. You can tell yourself that.
The eating itself is a whole other problem.
The banana feels like mushy barbed wire coursing down the back of my throat.
“Drink”
Cali presses the bottle to my lips. The water washes over my tongue and drags the last of the barbed wired down into my stomach.
“Two more bites”
“Fuck you”
She just smiles and pushes the banana at me. She’s wearing a t-shirt now. My T-shirt. The dress she was previously wearing is strewn somewhere in the back of the car. In college, I was fond of using the line “Nice dress, it would look so much better balled up on the floor of my room”. I shutter at the cheesy naivete, but for a moment I think of how proud that version of me would be of this moment. That this nymph had completely discarded her attire to have me.
Temporarily abandoned, unlike the pink and black panties she was now removing from the gear shifter.
She leaned back almost flat and stuck her legs in the air. Her tiny foot made and imprint on the windshield as she fidgeted her undergarments up her legs into their natural resting place. The tail of her/my t-shirt draped across her thighs and began to wick up the remaining evidence.
The car reeked. The musk that moments ago was inexplicably exciting and intoxicating was now starting to make me nauseous.
The barbed wire stirred.
I rolled down my window.
Cali opened her door.
“I have to pee.”
WESTBOUND FIREFLIES
“What time do we absolutely have to be there”
“Eleven”
“Midnight is still possible”
“Don’t make me late. Seriously.”
“No promises.”
Key West was where we had escaped to. We called it a vacation, told our friends it was a get away, but it was where we had fled.
New Orleans is what we had fled from. We had ran away screaming bloody murder. Well, I had run. Cali had made the decision to run with me. She told me she didn’t think I would make it alone. That it was too much to bare by myself.
She was right.
But in coming with me, she had crossed a line. I don’t really want to go into that right now. But lets just say that we were most assuredly intertwined. We had escaped together. As the mile markers dwindled downward the fact that we were willingly returning to our captor was washing over both of us.
The first signs appeared outside of Mobile.
New Orleans 148 miles.
Cali ignored it. I just wanted it to be wrong.
From the hammock, on the deck, of the bungalow, on the water in Key West I had wished it all away. That I could somehow blow on the map and the words and dots and what they represented would just swirl out of existence. That my will could finish what Katrina couldn’t.
Outside Biloxi.
New Orleans 93 mi.
Cali and I had built a perfect simulation of that in Florida. We played house so well. Sun filled days. Nights with each other in a manner that only exists in serial young adult fiction. We had each other completely. But even in the moment we knew it wouldn’t last. That something would make us leave.
Louisiana State line.
48 miles.
Someone would die. Terrorists would invade the Keys. The inescapable gravity of the Crescent City would not relent until it had pulled us back in. The universe punishes all those that stand in opposition.
Slidell. 27
Currently we were going back for a much more mundane reason.
We were fucking broke.
10mi.
And as of 30 minutes ago, we were damn near out of drugs.
Touchdown. Saints Win.
ELEVENISH
We pulled off the I-110 into the quarter at 11:07pm, December 31st.
New Years Eve.
Did I mention that?
A little longer and I would have made Cali a full year late.
“Where are we going?”
“The Renaissance”
“Arts or Pere Marquette”
“Pere Marquette”
“Fucking Classy”
“Aren’t I always?”
“You. Always. Your dates...”
“Jealous?”
“Insanely.”
She leaned across the console and kissed me, completely with zero regard for my field of vision. The car drifted and I corrected. I cornered onto Common St., a “Transitional” neighborhood. In New Orleans that meant crack houses and vagrants perfectly married with mansions and 4 star hotels. Somehow the winos we passed as we pulled into valet at the uncommon common hotel made our arrival aptly poetic. Or pathetic.
Cali. Finished applying her lipstick exactly as the car pulled to a stop. Considerately, she had kissed me before applying it. I can’t stand the way it feels. Her lips were the final step in an elaborate transformation I had been witness to for the last 200 miles. Outside of Pensacola she had exposed her breasts to a jeep load of Florida State Seminole fans as she discarded her t-shirt to don a bone white La Perla demi bra. When she put on its lower counterpart, that was a show that only I was privileged to see. The dress she slid on around Mobile. Black silk, a deep wrapped plunging v neckline with white lace ruffle surrounding. Astounding. In Mississippi, her battery powered straightening iron and makeup kit came out. By this point she was no longer recognizable as Cali. She was no longer Cali, she was Amanda now. And passers by began to wonder why the hell she was driving around with me. The last touch (before the lipstick) was a pair of black calf skin, calf high, stiletto boots. They were client requested, but I made absolutely no objection. As she stepped from the car it was apparent no one in the lobby or valet stand could muster a complaint either.
Cali was a transformer.
“I’m going to be bored”
“I’m so sorry baby. You know I have to take this one”
“It’s New Years Eve.”
“It pays like its New Years Eve too. And its just Dave. You like Dave.”
“I like you”
“I like you too.”
She kisses me. I hate lipstick.
“I called Lara to keep you company”
“Great.”
“Be nice.”
“I’m going to totally defile her. You know that.”
“Turn about is fair play. Don’t break her.”
“I didn’t break you.”
“I was already broken.”
The automatic door rushed opened and Calimanda disappeared into its opulence. In some well appointed corner of this building, Someone (just Dave) was about to have an amazing New Year. She would make sure of that. Lingering striptease. BBBJ on the living room rug. DATY turned missionary on the 800 thread count egyptian cotton. Reverse cowgirl, into a pure porn star Doggy Style finish that evan Eva Angelina would be proud of. Then lots of champagne and room service.
Rinse and repeat, Viagra willing.
In the past this thought would have gotten me unbelievably hard. In the future it would again.
Right now, I just wanted someone to hold me. And that someone was nowhere to be found.
It started raining. Cliches abound in a transitional neighborhood.
“Are you parking her, Mr. Harvey?”
Jeffrey the valet startled me. All of the valets here knew my name. I liked to think it was because I was somehow important. But truthfully it was because I tipped well and was here more often than anyone should be.
“Put her away for the year.”
I handed him the keys, a twenty and wandered out into the rain.
I really needed to get high.
OL LANG SYNE
I had a professor that would say New York is an amazing city when you’re flush and a horrible city when you are broke. Well at least New Orleans didn’t care about your economic condition. The french settlers had built an emotional amplifier, a series of streets, locks and levees that combined to fortify your outlook on life. Pauper Kings were as much a part of the ecosystem here.as miserable billionaire debutants.
Being broke and miserable here was special.
New Years eve is the lesser of the “Mini Mardi Gras”. It’s not quite as debaucherous as it is for Halloween, but the streets are still adorned with revelers. The impending kick off of the Sugar Bowl skews the demographic slightly more white trash, but a good time is still available for all.
I’m smiling. But it’s just camouflage. I wouldn’t want the other revelers to turn on me.
I wouldn’t expect you to know this, but prostitution has been decriminalized in New Orleans. At least for the time being. And the streets are awash in budding entrepreneurs trying to bag that last sale of the old year.
“Hey Irish, want to put a little cream in my coffee.”
Pairs of shadows move in the dark recesses of the overhangs of closed or abandoned retail stores. The over abundance of alleyways, nooks, and crannies are apparently all occupied. No more room at the end.
“Hey baby want to party?”
Still in a transitional neighborhood.
“Want to celebrate with me?”
I know I’m smiling. But its really just an act, sorry.
“Want to tie me up, before the ball drops?”
I stopped.
For the moment all I saw were the fine whirls of cigarette smoke. The smoke and the darkness concealed my new propositioning mistress, but her voice exposed her.
She wasn’t a lady of the night.
She was a sophomore pre-med student at Loyola University.
It was Lara, my girlfriend approved babysitter. A flicker of actual sincerity entered my smile.
“That’s what you like, right Seamus.”
So... I have two issues with how she says this statement. The first is my name. Yes, it’s Seamus. But I’m not really Irish or Scottish. At least not enough to live upto the expectations of a lithe young redheaded girl with a trainspotting fetish. But more so I take issue with the fact she assumes she has any idea what I like. Sure, she has some idea. She has girl parts. I like girl parts.
But this is different. I’m an anomaly to her. In one (or more) of those conversations girlfriends have with girlfriends that boys aren’t privy to the subject of Cali and I’s Iife sex life has been discussed. Not in context of the situation. Not with the subtleties and nuance that develop in a mature adventurous sexual relationship. But with a frame of mind created from cross references of fetlifes click boxes of interests blended with a heady dose of female competition, braggery, and lies.
Lara has been reading the cliff notes on BDSM.
“Want to tie me up, Seamus?”
“Want to buy me breakfast.”
She lifts her leg and bends at the knee to put her cigarette out on the very tip of the heel of her designer knockoff slingback heels. I offer her my arm and the two of us us continue weaving in and out of the inebriated and the soon to be.
She takes me to Daisy Dukes.
It sounds like it should be a strip club with a trailer park theme. But it’s one of my favorite 24 hour breakfast dives. It’s strangely empty. Our proximity to midnight has sent most of the patrons out into the streets. After the new year and hangovers set in, there won’t be a square inch to be had in here. But for the moment we slide into either side of one of its bare wood and corrugated sheet metal booths.
She orders chicken wings and water.
I order a Dr. Pepper and a Colorado omelette.
“You know there’s no way you’re going to get that omelette this year.”
She laughs at the play on words. She thinks she’s remarkably clever. The tendrils of her red hair fall slightly against her pale white face as she switches sides of the booth to take a place next to me. The kind of move thats provocative to a sophomore. Her hair is not really red. It’s a beautiful dark golden brown. The semester before Cali had died her hair red, Lara had followed suit, to much contention. Cali had since switched to her trademark black locks. But the attention Lara garnered from it had made the red hair stick. Lara was a brilliant, beautiful girl. But as willing as she was, she was fumbling thru promiscuity. Many a willing participant, but she lacked the grace and ease of which Cali was fluent. She coveted that in Cali. It made for an interesting relationship between the two. Normal girl stuff.
The red haired counterfeit put her hand on my thigh. She was sweet. But in practicality, she was unfamiliar with the dismal effect of a meth bender on an erection. Poor thing. I really donn’t want this. At all. But I really don’t want to be alone.
Who knows, maybe I would tie her up.
My tongue still works, right?
10, 9, 8, 7
She rubbed my thigh harder. I could feel the frustration and expectation from her transfer to me. My mind began to wander. Where was my omelette? I wondered if it would too be made of barbed wire.
6,5, 4,
How do girls end up here? With me? Girls with promise, from (theoretical) good backgrounds rubbing the cock of a man 15 years their elder, in a shity dive bar on New years Eve in New Orleans. Where was this on ramp?
3, 2
I must be the problem. I told Cali I would defile her. I was joking, but maybe I was just laughing at myself. Making light of the fact that the only skill set I was truly proficient in was ruining young women. I was an expert in breaking girls. I should tell Lara that. I should tell her to run..
But she was here of her own free will, right? An adult (supposedly) She just wanted what all the college boys in the world couldn’t give her. Something she was sure I could proide. Something I was certain I could give to her.
A brand new in the cellophane addiction.
1
In one motion I...
Removed her hand from my thigh.
Wrapped it around me.
Placed my left hand on the small of her back
Pulled her into me
Placed my right hand on her cheek
And I kissed her.
Not lustfully.
Not as she had intended.
Not a friends kiss either.
It was a soldier returning from war. A knight returning home to his maiden. A kiss built from years of shared experience, trust, familiarity, pain, passion, hatred, loss, grief and joy. A kiss beyond her years. A kiss that was not meant for Lara, and she knew it. But she didn’t stop. A willing Similac
My phone rang and she reluctantly slid off of me. Sliding low into the booth as I answered.
“Daddy? Happy New Year, Daddy.”
My omelet arrived
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Lord, it's like a sea of meth addicts this morning... Still, this is really quite good.
... and to think: for many people, church has only just begun :P
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Lord, it's like a sea of meth addicts this morning... Still, this is really quite good.
... and to think: for many people, church has only just begun :P
Church is so subjective. I have know many people who call their pipe church :-)
I'm glad you like what you've read so far. Believe it or not Meth is just the gateway drug in this story...
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I actually really liked this, and the fact that I read the whole thing is a good sign because I have a short attention span usually. Subbed.
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I actually really liked this, and the fact that I read the whole thing is a good sign because I have a short attention span usually. Subbed.
I take that as the highest compliment. I know the feeling :-)
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PART 3
JULY
PRESTIDIGITATION
“Daddy come to the magic show.”
My 7 year old daughter Stephanie was imploring me to follow her into her bedroom. But I was finding it difficult to pull my concentration out of my inbox.
FROM: Cali Firefly <littleNOLAfirefly@gmail.com>
TO: Joseph Harvey <NotaCelt@gmail.com>
SUBJECT: re: well wishes
Joseph,
It’s fantastic to hear from you. I’m doing really well, I think ;) I still think about you all the time too.
Cali
PS - Noticed I changed the name on my email? :P
When I first started talking to Cali 5 months ago, she claimed her name was Bella. Even worse was that she tried to claim she hadn’t pulled the name out of the pages of Twilight. The first time we met, I called her by her real name..Cali. She turned white.
She couldn’t parse it. In her mind I was either a mind reader, a conjurer, or a savant that could simply derail her lies by looking at her. All three of those options would be more glamorous than the truth. The truth is I am exceptionally good at finding information. Especially information people would rather not be found. Breadcrumbs of digital detritus, scattered and forgotten. A handle on a no longer used forum that alludes to an an archived tweet, mentioning a post you once made talking about going to a football game with your freshman roomate. Signed with a name different than you would prefer to have your online booty call know.
Calling her Cali was enough for the right effect. I didn’t tell her I knew it was short for California. I didn’t tell her I knew who both of her parents were. That her father was a former congressman, that her mom was a hack journalist that maintained a cursory position at the Washington Post only because her father was a former congressman. I didn’t tell her because I didn’t care. It was irrelevant, superfluous, information.
Calling her Cali was enough because we were only meeting for one thing. And when that one thing was complete, we would never contact each other again. Yet here I was, 5 months later staring at this simple one line reply she had sent me.
I still think about you all the time too.
I felt my pulse quickening.
“Daddy. Come on daddy. The magic show is starting.”
Steph led me upstairs, out of my office on the first floor of our townhome, up thru our perfunctory living room, up another set of stairs, down the hall to where I would normally expect to find her bedroom. At the moment it had been transformed to a performance hall of prestidigitation. Three dining room chairs had been lined up as field expedient theater seats. My 3 year old Sebastian and his 6 year old sister Elizabeth were impatiently holding my seat.
“Presenting! The great Stephaini!”
The magician extraordinaire lept onto her queen sized stage. She was wearing a flowing navy cotton dress, Mickey Mouse Fantasia wizarding hat, and a wooden mixing spoon for a wand.
“For my first trick I will need you all to close your eyes.”
“I have to go potty”
Sebastian bolted from his seat and went sprinting down the hall.
“There will be a 5 minute recess before my first trick.”
FROM: Joseph Harvey <NotaCelt@gmail.com>
TO: Cali Firefly <littleNOLAfirefly@gmail.com>
SUBJECT: re: re: well wishes
Want to have dinner with me tonight?
Joseph,
It’s fantastic to hear from you. I’m doing really well, I think ;) I still think about you all the time too.
Cali
PS - Noticed I changed the name on my email? :P
The male patron returned to his seat from his restroom visit.
“For my first trick I will need you to close your eyes”
The entire audience obeyed.
“Now...count to ten”
1, 2, 3
“Wait...I will count to ten. Keep your eyes closed!”
The enchantress began counting. I peeked for a moment, not to look at her but to make sure that the other two were keeping their eyes closed. Satisfied they were obeying I closed my eyes. I could here ruffling on the stage. But no actual movement.
“9...TEN! Tada!”
When we opened our eyes, the performer had miraculously changed her attire. In place of the flowing navy blue dress she was transformed into a slim cut green and white striped number.
“Bravo!” I shouted
“How she do that?”
Sebastian and Elizabeth were quite impressed. They were too busy applauding to notice the tiny bit of navy blue dangling from her thighs. When Stephanie had balled it up in her quick change she had neglected to ball up the dresses tie straps. But as far as her brother and sister were concerned, this was high magic.
I smiled. The smile turned into a cough. The cough turned into a fit.
Fucking drugs.
HARD DRUGS
You might want to hold your disdain. There will be plenty of time for that.
The drug that is currently destroying my body is called Fluorouracil.
And it’s suppose to be wreaking havoc on my body. The plan being that it will wreak havoc at a slightly slower pace on my body then it will on the carcinoma cells currently lining the walls of my colon.
The girls wince. Sebastian goes to play in the other room.
My oldest was born in July. She cried when she found out her astrological sign was cancer. We had to have a long discussion about how that just meant she was a crab. She didn’t like that either, but it was a little better. We had to talk about how she didn’t give me cancer. That the zodiac was bunk. She acted like she felt a little better after those talks, I’m not really sure she did. But she was really good at making me feel better about being a good dad.
She cried over a lot more these days.
She didn’t give me cancer, but I know who did.
I did.
This is actually my second time with colon cancer. Two years ago, when I was first diagnosed. It was a simple affair. I had three “Abnormal” regions on my descending colon.
Treatment was straight forward, cut out the offending bits of colon. Out patient procedure. Very little recovery time.
The doctor told me I had good “Margins” that they had most likely gotten it all. But to make sure,
to be on the safe side, I should undergo an “Adjuvant” round of chemo therapy. A relatively short, duration of treatment that would kill off any maverick cancer cells that had broken loose.
I was too busy to have cancer. At the time I was running a very successful web development company in Plano, TX. We were the best. We were changing the world. We built websites for most of the municipalities in Northern Texas. I had even secured a deal to redo Dr. Peppers web design and social media presence. I was important.
Seriously, Dr. Pepper.
I was too busy for cancer and I was damn sure was too busy for treatment.
I told my Oncologist to fuck off.
Ok, I said it a lot nicer. I’m sure I even kissed up to the guy.
“You did a fine job doc.”
We talked about it once. And I convinced him his fine surgical acumen was all the treatment was all I needed. That he had done a miraculous job. I would blog his praises.
I had beaten cancer. I wasn’t sure what all of the fuss was about.
8 months later when my “empire” was acquired it didn’t even warrant a blurb on the acquiring companies blog. I had offered my services to come on board bridge the gap between the merger.
They politely declined.
I was too important.
The money from selling the company had given me a lot of time to think.
Work on new projects.
Twiddle my thumbs.
When I was diagnosed again, I was almost relieved to have something to do. But the doctors had different words this time. It wasn’t 3 spots, but 17. And they were all over this time. Some of them had even broken thru the lining of my colon and were at risk for transport to other parts of my body.
The VA Hospital where I had received treatment was not sure they were the best place for me anymore. They suggested New Orleans, they had a more specialized cancer treatment center. I should go there.
I should pull my children out of a school they loved, tell my wife to leave a town she was truly happy in. And move to a city that our only experience with had been puking up crawfish during Mardi Gras.
And that’s what we did.
I didn’t even give them a choice.
I was too important.
Nine months into a seventeen month chemo therapy program.
Interrupting my childs magic show.
Checking my email.
FROM: Cali Firefly <littleNOLAfirefly@gmail.com>
TO: <notacelt@gmail.com>
SUBJECT: re: re: re:well wishes
I was really hoping you were going to ask that.
Want to have dinner with me tonight?
Joseph,
It’s fantastic to hear from you. I’m doing really well, I think ;) I still think about you all the time too.
Cali
PS - Noticed I changed the name on my email? :P
{Kink and Chemotherapy}
CASUAL
The decor at Cafe Granada is not much to look at. Essentially bare walls with a slight spanish accent to them. Basic tables, basic chairs, even the dancefloor was pieced together out of polished plywood. It was kind of a dump, with a mediterranean flare. It was always hard to get a table here.
This was to be my fourth time seeing Cali. I was trying to recall the exact features of her face so that I would recognize her walking thru the door. All I could remember was how she looked the first time I saw her. It had been in February, still cold. Well, cold for new orleans. I had ordered her to meet me at the Audubon Zoo streetcar stop wearing a pink scarf. I could see the scarf thru the window as we approached the stop. The wearer was an adorable, if not slightly clueless looking college freshmen. Her brown hair was in pigtails, and covered up with a pink beanie to match her requisite pink scarf. Grey and black plaid puffy woolen coat covered a black oversized sweater worn off the shoulder and a grey tank top. Grey semi pleated skirt a little above the knee and has a little bow on the side in the middle. Black tights and classic black chucks.
She wore glasses. That surprised me. She was absolutely adorable.
And in way over here head.
“You have 30 seconds to tell me why you aren’t a complete waste of my time.”
Her back stiffened, her gaze dropped.
“Because I need this, sir. I need discipline in my life. I have none. I want you to teach me.”
“You want me, or you need me.”
“Both, sir.”
“We will see, Cali.”
Pale white.
We walked awhile. She told me her problems. The problems of every other rich girl freshmen.
I hate my Mother. My parents don’t understand me. I just wanted her to shut up. I acted like a caricature of a dominant male. Told her to stop whining, accept responsibility for her actions. Make her own decisions. Make better choices.
She blew me in the men’s room of a Starbucks. Slut.
And that should have been it. That should have been the last time I saw her. I said I would call her. But that’s just cursory. Protocol. If you meet someone from the casual encounters section of craigslist and have sex in the mens bathroom of a coffee shop, you’re not suppose to call them.
You’re not suppose to give them your phone number.
You’re not suppose to use your real name.
Life doesn’t care what your suppose to do.
Cal walked thru the archway at Cafe Granada.
She looked...I can try to describe it but it will never suffice. She looked brilliant. Her black hair was straight, glistening. It fell down perfectly on her sundress. I could feel the eyes of the other men in the waiting area turning. Where had my pony tailed freshmen gone?
“Joseph?”
beat
You’re not suppose to use your real name.
“Cali. You look like a felony.”
She smiled and took off her sunglasses.
I think that was the first time I realized she has brown eyes.
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This is well written man, subbed!
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This is well written man, subbed!
Thanks man! This book means a lot to me. I'm glad you are enjoying it.
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Is this a story your writing?.
Either way I read the first post and it really held me. Good stuff! :D
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I thought this was written brilliantly, it was like being on a trip with Hunter S Thomson, i enjoyed the trip ;D
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I actually really liked this, and the fact that I read the whole thing is a good sign because I have a short attention span usually. Subbed.
Ditto...that was awesome!!
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very good.
don't have time to finish the reading now, but will finish it as soon as as can!
You write very well sir.
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DABBLING IN SUICIDE
-Seamus Harvey
DECEMBER
PROLOGUE
People pay good money to hallucinate.
Suckers, all of them.
There is no greater hallucinatory experience you can unleash upon yourself then simply staying awake for four days straight. You find people who commonly claim to have been up for days upon end without sleeping. They're called liars. What they mean is they were working on a project or paper of some weight, and have been getting ALMOST no sleep.
That won't do for these purposes.
No nodding off, no power napping under the desk, no quick winks while standing in the shower.
Awake, absorbing glorious input, longer than 96 hours.
It's a lot harder to accomplish than it sounds. Your body will want to shut off.
Fuck your body. It's a coward.
When willpower is failing, pharmacology will be your savior.
I find that methamphetamine is the best hack for bypassing this silly self preservation routine the body tries to pull on you. Preferably smoked from a glass pipe. And don't be trashy. Don't smoke from some carbon encrusted glass dick that they find on dead tweekers after the warehouse rave got raided. Be classy. Take care of your pipe.
Love your pipe.
Never let the flame touch the glass. Thats where that black charcoal bowl crust comes from. Keep the tip of the flame a good inch away from the bowl. Patience. You are baking a souffle not caramelizing creme brulee. The goal is to slowly let the crystal melt in the glass. You actually want to inhale pure, beautiful vapors not smoke. If your shit is smoking you are doing it wrong, dirtying your pretty bowl an wasting drugs.
Your mom taught you better.
Practice until you get it perfect. You will feel the difference.
Now once you've mastered your new found superpower you can use it to fight off any amount of sleep craving your body can throw at you. And now, well armed, you can take the governor off your waking hours and zoom down the road to the sacred world beyond the 96th hour.
There's a different planet past that point. I'm a regular vacationer there. I've even lingered into my 5th and 6th day. Like music to the deaf, I'm not going to attempt to explain it. But I encourage everyone to try it, at least once. Turn your world on its side. If you find you like it there a bit, stay awhile and play. At the very least it will expand your perception.
What I don't encourage is packing up your hooker girlfriend and BEGINNING a 21 hour road trip to New Orleans when you haven't slept a blink in 5 days.
CALI
Calling Cali a hooker is like calling a Maserati a car. You're missing the finer points.
Girls of her caliber are generally referred to as "Escorts", Cali doesn't like that word either. "Companion" or "Courtesan" is how she sees herself. At $500 an hour you can pretty much call her anything you want. And once you've sampled her, you'll be calling her again, and again, and again.
Of course I don't pay her. She's my girlfriend. My actual girlfriend not just a carefully orchestrated simulation. I'd like to say I'm surprised at how divided people are on the subject of dating a whore. They are completely black or white on the subject; but people don't surprise me anymore.
I love that men pay thousands for what amounts to my daily life. But those men don't really know Cali either. She's a transformer.
"This is not working" she sighs.
She could be referring to the fuck up dynamic that is our life and relationship, but she's not. She's been trying to scootch down in the passenger seat and light a crack pipe under the horizon of the window. She's failing miserably.
This would actually be comical if she hadn't agreed to also get me high off of the pipe in question.
Time out. Cali doesn't smoke crack. I sure the hell don't smoke crack either.
"Crack is Whack"...rest in peace Whitney.
The "Crack Pipe" is a "Meth Pipe"...but that sounds ridiculous. If you're around people doing methamphetamine and they say they are "doing meth" or "smoking a meth pipe"... run. Seriously, those are the backwoods hillbillies you see on the faces of meth poster. Those are the people who catch their bathroom on fire making low quality "shake and bake meth". They deserve the stereotype.
People like Cali and I, use "Crack" and it's ilk (cracked out, crack pipe, smoking crack) ironically.
Hipster speed freaks
There's a definite hierarchy to drug use. The bottom of the pyramid is being held up by people smoking actual crack. Cocaine and baking soda make for a delightful end to a promising life. Slightly above are hillbilly speed freaks, these dregs are not me or mine. Above them are potheads and other collegiate level drug abusers. Dime baggers, frat boy stoners, white rastafari, actual rastafari. Let us not forget the party girls, the ecstasy abusers, MDMA champions, with their serotonin receptors irreparably riddled. That level drifts into mushroom trippers and borders on the LSD and mescaline takers . The spiritualist. Searching for meaning or god. Far too often they detour smack dab into heroine junkies.The path to the golden lap of your creator is only as far as a short hitchhike on your Vasculatory system. That rarely ends well. Next come the prescription drug abusers. Soccer moms with an oxy problem. Lawyers on the partner track with an affinity for adderall. Pill poppers bleeding into the upper echelon, the coke heads.
Coke is still cool.
Don't let anyone fool you.
And people utilizing coke definitely believe they are the tip of the pyramid. But that's a delusion.
At the very tippy, tippy top are meth aficionados.
Captains of industry we are. Leaders of men. With no time for sleep. And we bare about as much resemblance to "faces of meth" as a "companion" does to a “crack whore”..
I hope that makes sense to you. Because I have something more important to say.
I am not getting high. And this is a problem.
"We're going to have to stop somewhere."
Cali agrees.
THIS ISNT DISNEYWORLD
When people think of Florida they think of white sandy beaches, palm trees and Disneyworld. What they don't put in the brochures is that most of Florida is a shit hole. And that's probably doing shitholes a disservice. Miami is great, a truly world class city. The greater Orlando area is great for the plastic coated tourist trap that it is. After that there's a handful of (loosely)metropolitan areas, Tampa, Daytona, Sarasota, Jacksonville, Panama City...maybe Pensacola. But dotting the lines in between those oases (oasees?) are the dregs of America. Palatka, Green Cove, Haines City, Brandon, Bartow, Pea Ridge.
Places you go to die.
We had left from Key West and were now about an hour and a half northwest of Miami. Firmly in the grasp of podunk Everglades Florida. We needed to find a secluded location to do hard drugs. Which, looking at the inhabitants doesn't seem like it would pose much of a problem.
We thought about a lot of options, an automated car wash for example. Go in, wait for the suds to get nice and thick and then smoke up. We decided the lather cycle was probably not long enough to get the job done properly. And going thru 3 or 4 times would probably draw attention.
We also shot down papering up all the windows in a walmart parking lot, the “Family” bathroom at a Starbucks, a shower at a truckstop, and wandering out into a nature preserve.
In the end we settled on renting a motel.
Now, I am a drug addict. Have been for quite sometime now. And I generally don't delude myself too much about that fact.
For some reason, when I walked into the "Rest Easy" motel, on the 5the day of a crack bender, to rent a room SOLEY for the purpose of doing drugs, it really hit home. The cute cuban girl behind the counter was about 5'1" and smiled coyly at me in a way that meant "Please take me with you, I'll do ANYTHING to get out of here". On a normal(relatively) day I would have seen just how far anything would go. But, I had important business here.
I paid cash. Signed the register as nothing resembling my given name. And took my key.
An actual key, who knew?
Around the side of the building and up a flight of stairs, we found room 207. Cali had already taken the key from me and was successfully negotiating the lock to get us inside.
"This is disgusting."
She was absolutely right.
When I was in high school, my girlfriend and I would regularly copulate in shady motels. Places with waterbeds and mirrors on the ceiling.
Palaces, in comparison to this place.
Cali wanted to fuck. But after inspecting the beds she realized we needed to keep this a purely drug transaction.
In the bathroom, on the deteriorating porcelain counter, Cali began blessing the temple. She wiped the counter down with alcohol hand wipes before removing the Versace sunglass case that was currently holding our stash of crack, her personal incendiary device and her newly minted glass pipe. I had given it to her as a christmas present.
I'm a keeper.
You could see the relief in her eyes that she could take her time. Smoking in the car had not been a fulfilling experience. A sophomoric, fumbling handjob. Neither of us had gotten off.
So this time, behind closed doors, in the seediest of environments, she was meticulous.
I watched as the first crystal dropped into the pipe, then two, then three. From her purse she removed, her torch. "Pitchforks and Torches"...that's not this kind of torch. It was actually a butane soldering iron, with the tip removed. Unlike a conventional lighter, a torches flame could be precisely controlled, and she was a professional.
As the flame point teased the bottom of the pipe, I saw the hot crystal liquid pooling in her hands. Slowly she inhaled and equally measured she breathed out. I watched the glow wash over her.
My turn.
I was sitting on the counter facing the door of the motel room. As I put the pipe to my lips I saw small flecks of sunshine, piercing through the external room wall.
I inhaled slowly.
They were two bullet holes.
What the fuck happened to my life?
Just smoked a delicious joint,and i could imagine alll of that as perfect as could be,it was like a fuckin trip to bad it ended quick :-\
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Is this a story your writing?.
Either way I read the first post and it really held me. Good stuff! :D
Yes, this is all mine. It's part of a novel I wrote "Dabbling in Suicide". I'm trying to get it all posted on here It's coming in chunks, there are post size limits that make it necessary to chop it up.
I'm really glad you liked it. It's very close to my heart. I felt like this place was the best environment to release it.
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I thought this was written brilliantly, it was like being on a trip with Hunter S Thomson, i enjoyed the trip ;D
Your comment, though much too generous, is appreciated. I'm trying to find the best way to get it all posted here. On Silk Road itself, I can post much larger chunks at a time, but I feel like there are more eyeballs in here. It will work itself out. I'm really happy to be putting this out on here.
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I actually really liked this, and the fact that I read the whole thing is a good sign because I have a short attention span usually. Subbed.
Ditto...that was awesome!!
Thanks! Glad you are enjoying it. I'm going to keep adding to the thread until the whole book is up.
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There's a definite hierarchy to drug use. The bottom of the pyramid is being held up by people smoking actual crack. Cocaine and baking soda make for a delightful end to a promising life. Slightly above are hillbilly speed freaks, these dregs are not me or mine. Above them are potheads and other collegiate level drug abusers. Dime baggers, frat boy stoners, white rastafari, actual rastafari. Let us not forget the party girls, the ecstasy abusers, MDMA champions, with their serotonin receptors irreparably riddled. That level drifts into mushroom trippers and borders on the LSD and mescaline takers . The spiritualist. Searching for meaning or god. Far too often they detour smack dab into heroine junkies.The path to the golden lap of your creator is only as far as a short hitchhike on your Vasculatory system. That rarely ends well. Next come the prescription drug abusers. Soccer moms with an oxy problem. Lawyers on the partner track with an affinity for adderall. Pill poppers bleeding into the upper echelon, the coke heads.
Coke is still cool.
Don't let anyone fool you.
And people utilizing coke definitely believe they are the tip of the pyramid. But that's a delusion.
At the very tippy, tippy top are meth aficionados.
Captains of industry we are. Leaders of men. With no time for sleep. And we bare about as much resemblance to "faces of meth" as a "companion" does to a “crack whore”..
Gee, I wonder why I get such a kick out of this particular snippet... ::)
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Just smoked a delicious joint,and i could imagine alll of that as perfect as could be,it was like a fuckin trip to bad it ended quick :-\
Hell yeah. I'm glad you were into it. I'm working on getting the rest of it posted in the thread.
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There's a definite hierarchy to drug use. The bottom of the pyramid is being held up by people smoking actual crack. Cocaine and baking soda make for a delightful end to a promising life. Slightly above are hillbilly speed freaks, these dregs are not me or mine. Above them are potheads and other collegiate level drug abusers. Dime baggers, frat boy stoners, white rastafari, actual rastafari. Let us not forget the party girls, the ecstasy abusers, MDMA champions, with their serotonin receptors irreparably riddled. That level drifts into mushroom trippers and borders on the LSD and mescaline takers . The spiritualist. Searching for meaning or god. Far too often they detour smack dab into heroine junkies.The path to the golden lap of your creator is only as far as a short hitchhike on your Vasculatory system. That rarely ends well. Next come the prescription drug abusers. Soccer moms with an oxy problem. Lawyers on the partner track with an affinity for adderall. Pill poppers bleeding into the upper echelon, the coke heads.
Coke is still cool.
Don't let anyone fool you.
And people utilizing coke definitely believe they are the tip of the pyramid. But that's a delusion.
At the very tippy, tippy top are meth aficionados.
Captains of industry we are. Leaders of men. With no time for sleep. And we bare about as much resemblance to "faces of meth" as a "companion" does to a “crack whore”..
Gee, I wonder why I get such a kick out of this particular snippet... ::)
I'm actually working on an illustration of this particular paragraph. It's going to be a communist propaganda-esque pyramid, substituting the levels of drug use bleeding into each other.
Glad you can relate ;-)
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PART 4
WORDS WITH SUBS
“I didn’t think I would ever see you again.”
“I was pretty sure you never wanted too.”
She wasn’t wrong. Long before she “dismissed herself I had decided to cut her out of my life. She repeatedly had proven herself to have difficulty with keeping her life segregated. Little bits of the girl bled over from every part of her life. She was brilliant and ignorant at once. A post high school superposition.
Cali wasn’t careful. She was both naive and over confident. Mixed with the pockets of my life she was a formula for carefully constructing absolute destruction.
God she was beautiful.
“How have you been?”
“I’ve been good.”
That’s the appropriate formality. Right?
She sure looked good.
This was going nowhere.
“I’m really sorry.”
“For what?”
“I feel like I really disapointed you in February. I guess I was just looking for more of a “boy
friend” who happened to be into the same sort of kinky fuckery as I was.”
I wasn’t disappointed at all. I was ambivalent at best. People make a habit of assuming equal emotional investment is a relationship. I have a friend named Jarrod who thinks I’m his best friend. He calls me daily. I very rarely answer. I think I was suppose to be the best man at his wedding. I didn’t go to it because it conflicted with the opening of a Harry Potter movie. I think he’s calling me now, I’ll let it go to voicemail.
Why was I here again? Did she say “kinky fuckery”?
“My name is not Joseph. “
“That’s not funny.”
“Really?” Bella
She laughed.
“What else don’t I know?”
So much.
Where would I even start?
Why would I tell her anything?
Why was I here again?
We had severed this so completely. But last time was so far from where I was comfortable. Maybe we could be...casual? I could tell her a few things. It couldn’t hurt that much.
I don’t live in Gretna. That’s a start. And the reason you didn’t disappoint me was that you were just an outlet for my sexual and controlling needs. Something I don’t get from my wife of nine years. Did I tell you I was married? Probably shouldn’t start now. I’ll tell you I’m divorced. I can play divorced. I have three kids. Two girls and a boy. Before I had children daddy daughter porn was always in the top of my que. Now it makes me nauseous. But I transitioned to “stepdaughter porn” quite nicely. I have no idea why I’m here. But I really want to be here. Do you have any input on this scenario? What the fuck is so special about you. Maybe I’m just horny. That’s probably not it because I had sex with my wifes oldest friend quite recently. She’s married too. Her husband was still in the house. It was really fucking hot. Are you still following me? I’m lost myself.
I’ll figure out some redacted version of all of that to tell her.
The waiter finally showed. We hadn’t even glanced at the menu.
“Why is it that being a dad is so fucking alluring to me?”
SALAD DAYS
I fucked her in the parking garage of the whole foods. Actually I fucked her in the first floor staircase landing of the whole foods parking garage. Bent over, her skirt gave way so easily. Black thong already soaked with evidence slid politely to the side to allow my abrupt entrance. So thoughtful of them.
She lost her balance and fell forward catching herself against the handle of the doorway. There was no hesitation while she was regaining her footing. I saw the faintest glimpse of a smirk as she looked back over her left shoulder.
We both needed this.
She pushed violently back onto me as we both realized someone was trying to open the door.
“Try the elevator.” I think is what she intended to say. It was slightly muffled by the slapping and panting.
Evidence everywhere.
I collapsed against her. Trying to catch my breath in rhythm with her beating heart.
“So you missed me?”
JANUARY
THE PROMISE OF A NEW YEAR
As a parent, I feel a great deal of dissonance from the behavior I perform and the values I instill in my children. I think that disconnect is there in all parent child relationships, I also think I’m more attuned with the irony in my life.
Maybe it’s just that right now I’m talking to my daughter while I’m waiting for my hooker girlfriend to stop fucking her client while another girl, equally as broken rubs my cock through my pants.
Companion, not hooker.
“Happy New Year beautiful.”
“I love you Daddy.”
“I love you too baby.”
Static.
The phone went silent.
Apparently mommy isn’t in the well wishing mind set right now. Fucking bitch.
“Have I ever told you how hot it is that you are such a good dad?”
Good dad. That’s me. Theres no way you could push me through that peg hole. We have to have some standards or society will just fall apart. Although, if I stop to think about it, Lara’s father was arrested for interstate cocaine trafficking when she was 7.
Everything is relative.
She really is beautiful. What’s one more broken girl?
There’s now another hand on my crotch. Cali is bent over the booth intercepting Lara’s advances. In her other hand she is slowly fellating a teriyaki chicken wing.
“Someone is getting off to a good year.” she giggles.
Saved by the bell. My anxiety level dissipates.
“No reason we can’t all play.” I say half heartedly.
“Ewww. That’s my best friend, you sicko.”
Sicko.
It’s a strange thing where people draw that line in there head. In the previous conversation I had with Lara, she was regaling me with how her boyfriend du jour had convinced her to allow his roommate to fuck her in the ass while he occupied the neighboring orifice. If memory serves, there dorm room door came open in the middle of the ordeal and they couldn’t even be bothered to stop the festivities. There was small a grouping of college hopefuls in the ensuing crowd.
That was kosher.
“No, for the first time of the New Year I want him all to myself.”
“Well, it’ll be your second time”
I’m such a dick.
“11:59. And no Viagra.”
You could practically hear the vagina angels blessing the newly reborn virgin vaginal vestiges. Wiped clean from its numerous, numerous...numerous transgressions from the previous year.
Lara laughed.
Cali joined us at our booth side refuge.
An order of French Doughnuts was placed with our increasingly frazzled waitress. If you speak to someone of or about New Orleans there is a high probability they are going to tell you the best Beignets to be had are at the Cafe Du Monde. That is codswallop. Those people believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone too. The Cafe Du Monde is great, the oldest running restaurant in the Americas. 24/7 fried pastry dough and river black chicory coffee. It serves its purpose. It is the quintessential utility Beignet of this city. An institution. But much like McDonalds, while being methadone to a long night of binge drinking and overindulgence, does not infact serve the best hamburgers. The best Beignets are located outside the tourist trodden rues of the Vieux Carre. They are crafted by underappreciated artisans in the nooks and crannies that weave this city. The best Beignets are served at Cuvee in the CBD. They come with a pear demi glaze that rivals a designer drug. Squeezing in second place, by a very narrow margin is this place.
The Dazy Duke capacity of patrons had swelled appropriately to post New Years proportions. Beignets, Omelettes, and a full bar; you have to love New Orleans.
Powdered sugar wafts in the air here. And it infests every surface and piece of clothing. You can tell the tourist from local by if they bother attempting to dissipate the white powder or just ignore it and concentrate on the other offerings.
So when Cali empties the white dusty contents of a small ziploc baggies onto the table it looks right at home. The rolled dollar bill and the credit card might be a bit odd, but his was New Orleans on New Years. Laissez les bons temps rouler.
Chop another line, like a coda with a curse. Another waft of powdered sugar disappears in the nasal capillaries of a pre-med co-ed.
“You always have the best coke, Cali.”
Cali doesn’t correct her. A little white powdery lie of omission.
People have hang ups about meth.
Meth is for filthy people.
And Nazis.
“Seriously Cali, the best.”
Cali smiles at me as I slant towards the table and one more line of the best coke this college girl has ever had vanishes before our eyes.
With my head still cocked backwards, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the drip, I realize I don’t want to be around people anymore.
“I want to go to the house”
“I want to go home too, baby.”
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Thanks Harvey really enjoyed the sinful read this morning.
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Glad I could accommodate!
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Gripping read man, very good story telling style.
Why the fuck is no one giving this debauchery +1's FFS
Subbed and half chubbed
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Gripping read man, very good story telling style.
Why the fuck is no one giving this debauchery +1's FFS
Subbed and half chubbed
Thanks for the love. I'm still pretty new here. And I know most people are not on here to read a fucked up novel. But I'm still pretty committed to releasing it all on here. Any feedback on how I could better present it on the forum would be appreciated.
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Gripping read man, very good story telling style.
Why the fuck is no one giving this debauchery +1's FFS
Subbed and half chubbed
Thanks for the love. I'm still pretty new here. And I know most people are not on here to read a fucked up novel.
You might be surprised. A lot of us are here because there isn't really anywhere else we can admit to doing things like -- well, like your story -- and maintain our freedom. Nobody says everything here absolutely must be about drugs and their acquisition. It just... often is, that's all :P
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Man I'm so down for something like this. Subbed. Thank you immensely for your creation.
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Truly a great read. cant wait to read more.
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Gripping read man, very good story telling style.
Why the fuck is no one giving this debauchery +1's FFS
Subbed and half chubbed
Thanks for the love. I'm still pretty new here. And I know most people are not on here to read a fucked up novel.
You might be surprised. A lot of us are here because there isn't really anywhere else we can admit to doing things like -- well, like your story -- and maintain our freedom. Nobody says everything here absolutely must be about drugs and their acquisition. It just... often is, that's all :P
You know, that's what I had hoped. I know I feel no remorse letting it all hang out on here. Even the people I feel very close to, have little in the way of truly identifying with me on alot of this. I hoped that posting on here might translate that anonymous commradary into the readers of my book. It seems so far so good on that front. Thanks everyone for being so positive.
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Man I'm so down for something like this. Subbed. Thank you immensely for your creation.
I didn't create it as much as it tore itself from my brain. But I'm glad you like it all the same.
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Truly a great read. cant wait to read more.
Aww, schucks :-) Thank ya kindly
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PART 5
WOOD AND GLASS
Cali and I have a house together.
Did you know that?
Sometimes we are more “Barbie and Ken” than “Bonnie and Clyde”. we were in that mode when we decided to lease this house.
Ludicrous. Was how are friends described the house when we first took them on a tour. And that’s a pretty good summation. First there was it’s size. Immense. 6,374 square feet. Immense. But the scale and girth of the place were the bow and ribbon on the insanity. There is so much more.
Where to start?
Location. It was in the Garden District, proper. Not a bordering neighborhood, not alluding to the proximity of the Garden district, not a ploy in a real estate agents advertisement. Right here in the epicenter of the muckety mucks of the Crescent City. Ann Rice had owned a bordering property. When she was still a slut. Before she found Jesus.
Being in this neighborhood was a reach for us. We didn’t belong here.
You know what. That is not true.
I didn’t belong here. Cali was right at home.
If you catch me in the right mood, I am proud of how well I’ve done as a business owner and entrepreneur. I have sold two companies. If I choose to stop now, never do another business or employment-esque activity for the rest of my life, I will not starve and my children will be well taken care of. I speak at startup conferences. I have been on staff with some of the greatest tech accelerator programs in the country. I can hold my own. Just not to Cali’s family.
The Folkestad’s were in a different circle than my money. They weren’t old money themselves. But they had the level of wealth and privilege that comes from a lifetime of making yourself very useful to those who were old money. Membership has its privileges. And there is a visceral reaction to ordinary people referring to the father of your girlfriend as “Congressman”.
This house had been our attempt to contend with the shadow of her parents status. Partially. Mostly, maybe. Our fumbling, over ambitious “me too”.
This house was unimpeachable.
And yet, there is still more. The neighboring houses were traditional. Antebellum plantations manners, column laden white washed mansions, and Queen Anne restoration styled works of architecture fit for the pages and cover of southern Living magazine. In fact there was not one of our neighbors that had not been prominently featured in Southern Living. We were the beautiful black swans of the neighborhood. Our house was very modern in form. An angular construct of Wood and Glass. More so, we were not crowded on our property. The original builders of this house had purchase three spacious houses and associated land plots. They were all demolished to make way for our swan. The house sat on well over an acre of private, wooded and innately gardened grandeur. Absolutely, unheard of.
We had a leased a compound. And at least for the remainder of the month, this haven was ours.
This was base.
When rent came due in February. That was still fuzzy.
KITCHENS FOR VAGRANTS
It was nearly 4am by the time we actually made it thru the front doors of the compound. Inside the front door was the reminder that while we may have a house, we were still functionally homeless.
Clothes. Everywhere. Scattered haphazard reminders of how little planning had gone into our trip to Key West. Suitcases and gym bags. Garbage bags full of random possessions that had not found a home or their way into the trash yet. Bins of junk. CD’s, DVD’s, the Playstation 3 I had given Cali as an attempt at a thoughtful gift. Cords and cables.
Sometimes you see a homeless person pushing a shopping cart down the road. Our house was what it would look like if you flipped the cart in your living room.
And we had no furniture.
We had forgotten that part in our excitement to “come home”
The house had come unfurnished. When we viewed the house together Cali prattled on about the elaborate furniture shopping adventures we would have. There was a trendy salvage wholesaler in Slidell. We were to pick thru rows and rows of once treasured heirlooms that had floated away in Katrina. Give them new life. Make them ours. We would find a talented street artist to decorate. Someone with a substance abuse problem Maybe someone we could pay in drugs or a girlfriend experience. Plans and Adventures with our name on everyone.
That was before we had fled. The adventures had been shelved.
Did I say we had no furniture? That’s not quite accurate. The previous tenant had left two of the largest, chocolate brown “Luv Sacs” you could imagine. Bean bag blobs, covered in valourish microfiber. A few cigarette burns but nothing you couldn’t roll over to cover.
Cali plopped down in the closest of the mammoth brown monstrosities.
“I’m starving”
I was too. Odd. The trailing stages of a bender are unpredictable.
I turned right. 10 steps. And turned on the lights in the kitchen.
What we lacked in furnishings we made up for in food. The previous tenant had run a catering and event business out of the compound. They had also left rather abruptly and not bothered to un-stock the kitchen. This was the kitchen from the Shining. Stocked for an imaginary army of guests that were never to materialize.
A kitchen appropriate to lose your mind in.
Stainless steel and brushed aluminum as far as the eye could see. 16 burners worth of Viking Stove tops and matching french opening sub zero fridges and freezers. The preparations from whatever event the catering company had skipped town on were still on the shelves.
More food than the two of us could ever eat. Some of it would surely spoil. The rotten smell would add nicely to the vagrant motif we were going for in the rest of the house. It’s the little details that make all the difference.
Cali had followed me in. She appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. Whatever assemblance of Amanda she had worn into the compound had been left on the Luv Sac. Tank top. A grey tank top, hello kitty pajamas, and toe socks. This was my Cali. And she was ready to place her order.
“Beef stew please.”
I shook my head and pulled down a cast iron dutch oven from the wall. It hadn’t been cleaned well, there were remnants of carrot fibers mashed on the rim. I turned on the faucet, began to scrub.
She didn’t mean beef stew. I make great beef stew, but that is not that she wanted. She wanted Beef Bourguignon. A la Julia Child. It had been the first meal I had ever cooked for her. A lifetime ago, In the kitchen of her parents house. They had foolishly left her home alone for a weekend.
Her request was not like a turkey sandwich. If you rush it, cut corners, play fast and loose with the preparation, Beef Bourguignon takes about three hours to make. But sleep would not be coming soon. Our sessions of “New Coke” with Lara had seen to that. Complex, repetitive, time consuming tasks were well within the wheelhouse of a meth bender. Sticking with our strengths, Cali would clean. Considering the circumstances, this was a delightful idea.
BEEF STEW AND FAIRYTALES
It all starts with lardons.
Whatever the fuck a lardon is.
Don’t panic. If you read lardon in a recipe, they are referring to a chunk of cured pork fat. Usually cubed are sliced into thick oblong strips. Most famous is the bacon lardon. That’s what we were using here. Chopped and chunked. Scattered into the bottom of the dutch oven, smothering the cast iron with the flavor only bacon fat can impart.
“They can come here you know.”
“Who can?”
“Your kids.”
“It’s hard to see that.”
“It’s hard to see that now. It won’t always be like this. You two are just so fucking mad at each other now. One day you will get the fuck over it.”
“Can’t wait.”
“That’ why we have this place, right? So the kids will like Daddy’s House more than Mommy’s House.”
“It sounds so vain and sadistic when you say it like that.”
Strain out the lardons, leave nothing but the aromatic bacon oil behind. This is the crux of the dish. The flavor of bacon, permeated into every other ingredient. Starting with the beef. You can use stew meat if you wish. Maybe that’s your thing.
Houses are only as strong as the bricks they are made from.
I grab a clever and tear into a still tied beef tenderloin. Whole shank...tenderloin...fillet...strips...tips. Patted dry and placed purposely into the waiting sea of bacony goodness. Don’t crowd. Food gets fucked up without space. People too.
The bacon grease spattered up. A projectile of the hot oil burned my right forearm.
“If you don’t burn the place down they can each have their own room. We have the space. We can go to Ikea and let them go wild picking out their own decor. we can get Sebastian one of those fire truck beds. He would look adorable in it.”
“He wants a boat bed. He’s like his dad, the idea of water calms him.”
“Then a boat bed he shall have. A Navy boy. Like his grand dad.”
I went Army, specifically because I grew up a Navy brat. I didn’t like the fact that that all of the girls in my high school would prefer to date a swab then one of their peers. So I became all I can be, still never shook my love of the water.
Remove the beef. Place aside with the Lardons. Time for your vegetables turn in the oil. Cali, placed her arm around me. Mimicking my movements, a sensuous puppet master, marionette-ing the sliced onions and garlic in the bacon covered playground. Stirring slowly as she unfolded her plans softly into my ear
“A nautical theme. Anchors away. Adorable. And the girls can have their own rooms too. One painted yellow and one painted purple. Or we could get them bunk beds, and let them thro the best slumber parties. I will never make them call me mom.”
“You would be the best mom.”
“You are the most amazing dad.”
We were great at lying to each other like this. In the moment it seemed possible, even plausible.
We kissed. Slowly. A moment with no weight and no expectation.
“We could have our own you know. We would have the most beautiful babies. Little babies.”
I smiled and stirred.
A bottle of Mouton Cadet, 2002-ish. Half in the dutch oven half passed back and forth between the two of us like seventeen year olds with their first bottle of strawberry hill. I joined the ingredients and put the oven inside the oven. We both looked around for somewhere to sit. As if furniture would have sprouted in the last hour. We decided on a blank wall in the back of the kitchen. Cali fell asleep on my shoulder, bottle in hand. The first real sleep in 5 days.
The smell of crystal meth vapors, beef, and bordeaux is a heady mix. The white smoke trickled from my mouth and formed a patchwork veil around Cali’s sleeping head. For a moment, the smoke contemplated rousing the exhausted beauty, thought better of it and drifted out the exhaust vent with the other aromas. I could feel the meth again. Not vividly, but enough to let me know it still cared. That it would not let me fall asleep braising pearl onions and be engulfed in flames. That would be unfortunate.
I laid Cali on the kitchen floor.
She didn’t stir.
I stirred the onions until they were on the brink of bursting. A fiery death nowhere in sight. When the timer went off I plated Cali’’s beef stew and set an imaginary table on the floor in front of where she slept. Placemats and Napkins. Lots of water.
You can’t sleep long at first. Just cat naps. Short previews of the coming attraction you are desperately trying to see.
We ate in silence. Neither of us wanting to disturb the fragility of the illusion we had created here. When she finished I carried her into the living room and laid her body on the only assemblage of furniture we had. She was exhausted, so her attempts at removing my jeans were like a half determined kitten pawing until they came loose. Her hello kitty pajamas yielded much easier.
When we did this before, on the day we signed the lease, it was much more complicated. There were restraining systems then. Leather and steel. Velcro and an elaborate weaving of 550 paracord. She dared not look me in the eye then.
Currently, we couldn’t stop ourselves from staring. This was a very simple affair. We were both in unfamiliar territory here.
It was a very nice illusion.
“Where’s the sunglass case?”
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Anyone from New Orleans in here?
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Anyone have advice on how I could safely post an ebook version of this?
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Anyone have advice on how I could safely post an ebook version of this?
Just toss it up here and post the link: http://oukryuqqc7ffenin.onion/ :)
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PART 6
SUNRISE
Ring.
Ring. Ring.
It’s not really a ring anymore. No one’s is. Unless they are trying to be ironic. The Phone ring has been replaced with snippets of Madonna's “Get into the groove”, or dogs barking or whatever happy ditty has been selected from the iphones list of innocuous sounds.
Currently mine is playing Strum. And this is the 6th time consecutively I have heard it. Fumbling thru the dark, I find my phone. Apparently my anxious caller has called eleven times, I only being conscious for the past six.
It took me a moment to realize where I was.
After our illusion broke, we were suddenly faced with the fact that we had no furniture to sleep on. We took turns inhaling the last of our methamphetamine, rummaged for clean clothes, and made our way back to the Pere Marquette. “Just Dave” had been gracious enough to leave his suite open to Cali thru the Sugar Bowl festivities. He said he really wanted to take care of her. She pretended that she didn’t know he had rushed off to Dallas to be with Trina, his other favorite Courtesan. Dave pretended he didn’t know that I would be living out of his three thousand dollar a night suite. It all washed out.
The last thing I remember was fumbling with the key card on the door.
That was 19 hours ago.
Sleep had finally showed herself.
Ring.
Jesus Fuck!
Don’t these people know I’m just recovering from a bender?
“Hello”
“Seamus! Jesus Fuck, I thought you had died on a New Years Eve bender. Happy fucking new year soldier.”
Right up until the soldier part, I had no idea who fuck this was. Now I knew it was Blaine.
“Happy new year, Blaine.”
I guess I should tell you about Blaine. Blaine and I are friends of sorts. Not like we grew up with each other, or went to school with each other. And even though Blaine and I were both in the Army, we never served together. He was an officer I was an NCO. Not a lot of common ground. But where our sorted friendship derives is from the fact we both love the hell out of an old koot named Andy Kopitz. Andy was my mentor. Blaine’s too. And we both liked to pretend we were his prized student. Although that’s just how Andy made everyone feel.
He did like both of us though. And thought we should be friends. I just had no idea what the fuck this guy wanted from me right now.
“Seamus. I need you man. I’m down here in New Orleans, specifically to pick your brain about something. I really need your help with a client.”
“I’m still on vacation, Blaine.”
“People like us don’t take vacations.”
I’m not sure how there was an “Us” really. We were nothing alike. People always find the need to group themselves with others. Safety in numbers.
“Let me take you to lunch. I will tell you all about it.”
“It’s going to have to be dinner, man. I’ve got some running around to do.”
“Late lunch, best I can do. I’ve got a plane to catch. 3pm at Commanders.”
I thought he needed me for something?
“Alright, man. 3pm.”
Fucking people.
I needed drugs.
STUCCO IN THE QUARTER
Nothing brings out predators like a natural disaster. Mass chaos and excess government money is like catnip gumbo.
Katrina did a number on this city. And while we were still reeling from the punches, a series of shitty, opportunist, douchebag developers had snuck in to town. New Orleans has typically been conservative when it comes to the architecture it lets be developed. This is the jewel of southern cities after all.
We damn sure better look the part.
Katrina left the city dazed. And Gaudy, monstrous, ultra modern condos and shopping skullduggery had snuck past the zoning board while their pants were down.
.
And the epicenter of this disgrace was one building.
The eclipse.
16 stories of sharp angled, smooth stucco condos, covering a Whole Foods and a 24 hour fitness. This would look at home in Crystal City, VA, but somehow it managed to barge it’s way into the french quarter skyline.
It felt wrong to be in the building. Like you were pissing on Marie Laveau's grave and a plate of muffalettas. But sometimes you have to make exceptions for friends.
And this is where Lee lived.
Lee was my oldest friend.
And he was also my dealer.
Exceptions must be made.
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Good shit man, and yeah if you were to upload a .mobi of the book I'd love to have it on my Kindle.
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Really good read bro, can't wait for more. I'm hooked.
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Really good read bro, can't wait for more. I'm hooked.
You know how this works. You get the first bit for free...
;-)
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+1 ShamelessHarvey (I +1'd you earlier but didn't have the time to post). I've thoroughly enjoyed what you've written so far, I found it intriguing, captivating, and gripping. I eagerly await the next chapter, keep up your excellent writing, you have quite the talent :)
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+1 ShamelessHarvey (I +1'd you earlier but didn't have the time to post). I've thoroughly enjoyed what you've written so far, I found it intriguing, captivating, and gripping. I eagerly await the next chapter, keep up your excellent writing, you have quite the talent :)
Thanks for the love.
You have run together a string of descriptors that made me blush. I'm glad you are enjoying it. I will get some more up soon :-)
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Only made It to part 3 so far, but I'm hooked. You have alot of talent, I can tell that this Is much more then just a "novel" for you. Keep It up
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Only made It to part 3 so far, but I'm hooked. You have alot of talent, I can tell that this Is much more then just a "novel" for you. Keep It up
I like to say I didn't write it as much as it tore itself from my brain.
Thanks for the love
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Awesome read. Subbed.
I've crashed cars at day 5 plus (yes, carS, unfortunately), good job making it home.
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Awesome read. Subbed.
I've crashed cars at day 5 plus (yes, carS, unfortunately), good job making it home.
This.
It's probably the biggest mystery to me. How the hell was I never involved in ANY traffic accidents while high/sleep deprived. All of my accidents have been while I was clean and sober and well rested. Maybe if we were all a little faded the roads would be a safer place.
:-)
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Great writing, and great story! It's like one of those serialized novels in the old detective magazines I used to shoplift at the drugstore! I like the tone, too. Shades of HS Thompson.
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Awesome read. Subbed.
I've crashed cars at day 5 plus (yes, carS, unfortunately), good job making it home.
This.
It's probably the biggest mystery to me. How the hell was I never involved in ANY traffic accidents while high/sleep deprived. All of my accidents have been while I was clean and sober and well rested. Maybe if we were all a little faded the roads would be a safer place.
:-)
Yeah, day four is cut off for me since then, mind you bound to happen eventually. Sucks when the whole point becomes to get to real sleep dep since thats where the fun is at. xD
Keep em coming, looking forward to seeing where it goes.
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Great writing, and great story! It's like one of those serialized novels in the old detective magazines I used to shoplift at the drugstore! I like the tone, too. Shades of HS Thompson.
I'm calling the cops now to report you for shoplifting. Fucking criminal
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Love this to bits , are you seriously not to going to have this published , seems a waste of good literature .
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Love this to bits , are you seriously not to going to have this published , seems a waste of good literature .
Who knows what tomorrow may bring.
The publishing industry is really, really fucked up. It's a shit show. And that is doing a disservice to shit shows.
You know, when I first started shopping this around, I got off on how well the reception was from publishers and agents. Then it started getting less satisfying. Then I started to feel like a cross between a piece of meat for a hungry dog and a new cog in an evil fucking machine.
So I just removed myself from the situation.
I didn't write this for anyone. I just needed to write it.
Dribbling it out on here feels pretty good right now. Maybe I'll get enough donations to cover making a print run myself. Maybe I'll put it on Amazon. Who knows.
I'm glad you dig it though. And for right now, at least, the only updates are getting posted here.
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I enjoyed it, but it came off as a bit...conceited? Or maybe contrived in the way it tried to be that easy-peezy everyday relaxed conceit called confidence. I don't think I could get along with Seamus and I don't think I'd be interested to hear him talk at me for even few minutes. The writing was good, though.
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Good read. Thanks!
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I enjoyed it, but it came off as a bit...conceited? Or maybe contrived in the way it tried to be that easy-peezy everyday relaxed conceit called confidence. I don't think I could get along with Seamus and I don't think I'd be interested to hear him talk at me for even few minutes. The writing was good, though.
Honestly I still haven't decided whether or not the intent is as you say, or if it's actually a jibe at those like the protagonist. Perhaps both. I will say this though: you cannot live a lifestyle so contradictory to everything that society says you should be without either hating yourself or thinking you're better than everyone else. What I'm saying is you may want to forgive the character his arrogance; he has to live with himself in the face of severe ostracism.
Knowing that the majority of people would hate you if they really knew you takes its toll.
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I will be buying this for certain when coins allow , It really is a damn good read - thanks for dibbling the first bit - can't find enough good things to say about it .
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I will say this though: you cannot live a lifestyle so contradictory to everything that society says you should be without either hating yourself or thinking you're better than everyone else.
I think a lot of times those two exist in a superposition. You both loath yourself and feel superior in many ways to everyone else. The outlook on the world of someone with that view is...interesting, to say the least.
Or at least I hope it is :-)
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I will be buying this for certain when coins allow , It really is a damn good read - thanks for dibbling the first bit - can't find enough good things to say about it .
I will dribble out the whole damn book, a little at a time on here. At least for a little bit. That much I promise. The thought of certain publishers realizing I gave away my words on a crypto-blackmarket rather than taking the money they offered me is crazy amusing.
A little crazy is good.
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Well I'm hooked , and if you do publish I guess once you get it out and everything's signed , it would be amusing to tell them !
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Good read. Thanks!
Gracias
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THE BIG ROCK CANDY MOUNTAIN
There are two locks on the door to Lee’s apartment. An upper and a lower.
Most of Lee’s customers needed to call to make an appointment. Standard drug dealer shit.
If you were in the trusted circle. You actually had a key to the top lock. Come by anytime, you’re always welcome.
That is, unless the bottom lock was engaged, then you knew you should fuck off.
Usually it just meant he was not home. But I’ve known the bottom lock to get thrown for a new piece of ass. Come to think about it Lee was kind of a slut. Maybe I should say that was the most common reason for the bottom lock being on.
Maybe 50/50?
I’m the only one he’s ever given both keys to.
I’ve always had a key to Lee’s place. When I was in high school, Lee was in college. He gave me a key to facilitate underage drinking and provide a safe, nurturing environment for conning young ladies into losing their virginity.
Lee “accidentally” walking in on those escapades was a small price to pay for a 16 year old pervert to have unfettered access to an entire apartment. If I think about it honestly, this probably isn’t too far removed from why I have keys now. I’ve always been good at bringing over girls.
Lee’s not even into girls. But girls have a way of attracting more boys.
And exploiting the “needs” of boys who prefer girls, that was Lee’s wheelhouse. So Lee tried to keep his house properly stocked with a female or two. Like a straight man would keep a bottle of Alize.
There was always a little bit of trepidation when I turned the lock to his apartment. It was kind of like playing a fucked up game of let’s make a deal.
This anxiety stemmed from the fact that Lee, didn’t really run a drug dealing operation.
He ran a circus.
When Lee first moved to the eclipse, I had helped him move in.
It didn’t happen like you or I would move.
Moving into the eclipse had been a highly iterative process. Nothing could be out of place at the new space. That included piles of moving boxes. That would be distracting.
We didn’t go to uhal, get a big ass truck, pile it to the brim with his stuff and then invade his new condo with it. Infact, there was no moving truck at all. The vehicle of choice for the majority of “the move” was the back seat of my car.
And we brought everything over brick, by brick. Like new american money rebuilding an imported french castle. Lee orchestrated the exact location of everything, it all had to fit together perfectly.
I watched him dispose of ten thousand dollars worth of designer men’s clothing because it didn’t drape correctly off the mahogany hangers he bought.
When apple decided to redesign the mac mini, the new version was 7mm thinner than it’s predecessor. That threw the flow of his entertainment center off kilter and agents were sent to scour craigslist and discount stores for the previous version. The one that looked right.
It seemed arbitrary.
It was actually meticulous. He was building home court advantage.
Everyone wanted to be at Lee’s. Night or day. It was a beautiful space, filled with beautiful slightly slutty people. Parties, orgies, imported European EDM DJ’s. Lee made sure it was always interesting. When he found out about Cali and I, I can only compare it to the pride a parent would feel in their child being accepted to Harvard. Not that he was happy for us as a couple, he just had something new for the menagerie.
He fucking LOVED Cali.
He wasn’t stupid.
Do you want to buy an ounce of crystal meth from the biker under the overpass, or from the party with $1000 an hour escorts in attendance (he might have exaggerated it a bit, guys are dumb).
The drug business is all about appearance and relationships. Lee had mastered both.
I winced a little in opening the door. It was silent inside.
Lee was gathered with a group of regulars around his dining room table. He looked up at me and smiled.
“The prodigal best friend returns.”
“How could I ever stay away.”
“Come over here, we’re giving away trade secret.”
I had walked in on a perversely fantastic science fair.
It consisted of two mason jars, full of clear liquid.
Dangling carefully in the middle of each jar was a old fashion wooden lollipop stick. The tweakers watched the two jars intently. Like they had been promised they were going to spring to life and tap dance any minute.
A piercingly grating voice broke the silence. “Holy fucking shit.”
“The Pixie” had spoken.
I’m sure the pixie had a real name. But I had no desire to ever find out what it was. I generally like most people... but I really disliked her. So did pretty much everybody else, including Lee. She was fucking obnoxious. Shrill in her words, and she always talked way, WAY too loud. Paranoid meth users, and sudden, shrill, deafeningly loud noises don’t generally do well together.
But she was the current sex toy of Josh.
Josh had a $6,000 a month meth habit.
Exceptions have to be made. This was a god damn business, afterall.
She was called “The Pixie” because of her haircut, and the fact that she could be easily confused for an 11 year old boy. Josh really would have prefered an 11 year old boy. He just wasn’t ready to admit that to himself yet. So we all had to suffer through his substitute.
She shrieked again.
“It’s really fucking growing.”
I had seen this experiment before. You may have seen it too.
Lee was famous for his rock candy. Because they were made of crystal meth. Really, really good, crystal meth.
Lee’s supplier gave him pretty good meth. But Lee knew something that so many dealers don’t get.
Good drug dealing is a value business, not a volume business.
So while most dealers would step on their drugs. Lee paid a chemist to wash the impurities out of his, and recrystallize them on little wooden sticks.
They were things of beauty. And they sold for ludicrously overpriced amounts of money.
The chemist, Alford, had come up with the idea. It was elegant really. Most chemicals in a supersaturated solution are really fucking lazy. Sure, they can form crystals on their own. But they would much rather have someone do it for them. Alford would implant one beautiful seed crystal of meth on the end of each dowel. Once immersed in the jar, the free floating methamphetamine would choose to simply copy the seed crystal, by attaching to it rather then figure the whole god damn thing out on it’s own.
“I want to do a big fat fucking line”
The chemistry experiment turned into a cooking show as Lee materialized with a tray of “pre baked” samples of the candy.
“This isn’t coke, you stupid bitch. You can’t just chop up a giant gator tail and run it up your nose.”
Alford had spoken. He was the only person I knew that hated the pixie as much as I did. Unlike the rest of us, he didn’t have to bite his tongue. He was the cook.
Lee diffused the situation.
“Sweety, he just means be careful. You know you’re welcome to do as much as you want. We all love you. Just do a little at a time. This stuff is magic. I think you will find it a lot stronger than what you’re use to.”
Lee broke off a large chunk of candy. He placed it on a small black serving tray. Using a credit card he crushed the crystal into a hefty pile of white powder. Plenty for all of us to partake. From the pile he cut off a beautiful little line. And as a show of good faith, he produced a 100 dollar bill from his wallet, rolled it carefully into a straw and handed it to the pixie.
The pixie took the tray. And smiled.
She placed the rolled 100 to her nose and proceeded to snort the whole fucking pile. She then wiped the line Lee had cut for her with her pinky and wiped it into her gumline.
“You know, I once caramelized an entire 8 ball and took it as a pill.” she handed the tray back to Lee. She then sat down on the couch to resume a game of Mario Party 8, apparently already in progress.
Lee sat the tray down. And stared at the upstart.
“Josh, you know I love you right.” His gaze never left the pixie.
Josh was horrified. He really should have just gotten a 12 year old boy.
“Lee, I’m so sorry.”
“If you leave right now, you can probably get her to Tulane before she strokes out. Take common street.”
Everyone jolted as the video controller hit the ground. The pixie was just staring at the screen. There was almost no white left in her eye. They were gigantic, like an anime schoolgirl.
She started to twitch.
“Josh, get this piece of trash out of my house. Right now.”
Josh scooped her off the couch into his arms. She’d never looked more like a little boy then laying across his arms. Twitching. I opened the door. And Josh started out for the hall. Lee followed them into the doorway.
“Oh and Josh.”
Josh stopped and turned.
“Never come back here again.”
He shut the door.
There was a protest in the hall, but it was muffled.
“Who’s hungry?”
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Love this to bits , are you seriously not to going to have this published , seems a waste of good literature .
Who knows what tomorrow may bring.
The publishing industry is really, really fucked up. It's a shit show. And that is doing a disservice to shit shows.
You know, when I first started shopping this around, I got off on how well the reception was from publishers and agents. Then it started getting less satisfying. Then I started to feel like a cross between a piece of meat for a hungry dog and a new cog in an evil fucking machine.
So I just removed myself from the situation.
I didn't write this for anyone. I just needed to write it.
Dribbling it out on here feels pretty good right now. Maybe I'll get enough donations to cover making a print run myself. Maybe I'll put it on Amazon. Who knows.
I'm glad you dig it though. And for right now, at least, the only updates are getting posted here.
Wow. I just completed 3 years of study in creative writing (undergrad) and find so much truth in this. Thank you for putting the truth out in words. And also for confirming my suspicions. This is the attitude I (and many other writers) need to adopt. This is a new era of writing.
I enjoyed it, but it came off as a bit...conceited? Or maybe contrived in the way it tried to be that easy-peezy everyday relaxed conceit called confidence. I don't think I could get along with Seamus and I don't think I'd be interested to hear him talk at me for even few minutes. The writing was good, though.
Honestly I still haven't decided whether or not the intent is as you say, or if it's actually a jibe at those like the protagonist. Perhaps both. I will say this though: you cannot live a lifestyle so contradictory to everything that society says you should be without either hating yourself or thinking you're better than everyone else. What I'm saying is you may want to forgive the character his arrogance; he has to live with himself in the face of severe ostracism.
Knowing that the majority of people would hate you if they really knew you takes its toll.
Couldn't have been said better. :)
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Love this to bits , are you seriously not to going to have this published , seems a waste of good literature .
Who knows what tomorrow may bring.
The publishing industry is really, really fucked up. It's a shit show. And that is doing a disservice to shit shows.
You know, when I first started shopping this around, I got off on how well the reception was from publishers and agents. Then it started getting less satisfying. Then I started to feel like a cross between a piece of meat for a hungry dog and a new cog in an evil fucking machine.
So I just removed myself from the situation.
I didn't write this for anyone. I just needed to write it.
Dribbling it out on here feels pretty good right now. Maybe I'll get enough donations to cover making a print run myself. Maybe I'll put it on Amazon. Who knows.
I'm glad you dig it though. And for right now, at least, the only updates are getting posted here.
Wow. I just completed 3 years of study in creative writing (undergrad) and find so much truth in this. Thank you for putting the truth out in words. And also for confirming my suspicions. This is the attitude I (and many other writers) need to adopt. This is a new era of writing.
I would like to think it is.
But so many people keep eating that poison apple the industry gives them. It's hard to look at the big picture when you can't see it thru the giant dump truck of cash they have parked on your lawn. We just need more producers and less consumers.
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Anyone upset by the slow posting of pages on here is going to have to take it up with this bag of tan mdpv. She won't let me come out and play much.
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Anyone upset by the slow posting of pages on here is going to have to take it up with this bag of tan mdpv. She won't let me come out and play much.
I have no idea what that means, but far be it from me to criticize someone's romance with their beloved molecule... it would be kinda nice to read some more though :P
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This is a nice find.
Enjoyed the reading and hope for more, thanks. :)
Kinda of weird that it makes me feel slutty though, huh? ;)
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We just need more producers and less consumers.
Word to the bird, yo.
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There's a definite hierarchy to drug use. The bottom of the pyramid is being held up by people smoking actual crack. Cocaine and baking soda make for a delightful end to a promising life. Slightly above are hillbilly speed freaks, these dregs are not me or mine. Above them are potheads and other collegiate level drug abusers. Dime baggers, frat boy stoners, white rastafari, actual rastafari. Let us not forget the party girls, the ecstasy abusers, MDMA champions, with their serotonin receptors irreparably riddled. That level drifts into mushroom trippers and borders on the LSD and mescaline takers . The spiritualist. Searching for meaning or god. Far too often they detour smack dab into heroine junkies.The path to the golden lap of your creator is only as far as a short hitchhike on your Vasculatory system. That rarely ends well. Next come the prescription drug abusers. Soccer moms with an oxy problem. Lawyers on the partner track with an affinity for adderall. Pill poppers bleeding into the upper echelon, the coke heads.
Coke is still cool.
Don't let anyone fool you.
And people utilizing coke definitely believe they are the tip of the pyramid. But that's a delusion.
At the very tippy, tippy top are meth aficionados.
Captains of industry we are. Leaders of men. With no time for sleep. And we bare about as much resemblance to "faces of meth" as a "companion" does to a “crack whore”..
Gee, I wonder why I get such a kick out of this particular snippet... ::)
I'm actually working on an illustration of this particular paragraph. It's going to be a communist propaganda-esque pyramid, substituting the levels of drug use bleeding into each other.
Glad you can relate ;-)
i would love to see that illustration. seriously. i am really enjoying your story so far, and i do a lot of online reading -- most of which ends up being eye-rolled and the page closed before i get to the second chapter. i'm a writer of sorts as well, and i like to think i have fairly high standards of what constitutes good writing. this, my dear, is captivating. and i'm only just through the second page so far. i'll get back to you when i've read more.
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I'm always a little disappointed when I log in and no new post from Harvey.
No pressure though, lol, its just that its a good read.