You know the routine. Crank this bitch up.
There are many certain things that you must never, ever, do.
If you decide to do them anyways,
...well,
either you are stupid, or crazy, or a bit of both.
There are only a couple of safe ways in which you may go about doing these bad things.
If you don't? Probably because you are quite stupid or crazy or both.
God Help You.
In that case,
there are certain things
for which
You
Simply
Must
Be
Prepared.
In this here true tale, I will show you how to stand on broken glass.
+++++++++++++++++++++
I woke up, upside down.
CHHHHK.
There is only one other sound in the world that sounds like a breaking bone.
No, not the splintery "CRRRSSHHNNAAACHSSS" of a frayed, bent ulnar.
The sound of a clean snap sounds exactly like the chop of fresh Cocai--- ...ummm, pearls from a small brick of really pure shit.
Razor blade to the mirror.
Chhhhk. Chhhk. Chhk. Chk. Chk. Chk.... Etc.
Finally, fluffy.
Swipe it into lines.
Grab a straw or a dollar bill, tightly twisted in to a straw, and inhale. You must press against the other nostril to close your nose from errant and wasteful inhalation.
If you were expert, the lower end of your straw would be cut at an angle to maximize inhalation flowage.
There is geometry involved, and there will be a test after.
But, you suck.
You suck deeply, and never, ever sneeze on the mirror.
Faux Pas. And wasted Coke.
Repeat as needed.
Dollar bills are nasty. People do some ass-wipingly bad things with them. Always get a fresh straw, and do not share.
This was what was going on in Little Joey's bedroom, where he had his decks, his vinyl, and his massive speakers.
Joey still spins, but not during this here night.
He was out here, on the kitchen table, and I was on the couch, legs up against the wall, when I regained consciousness and composure, realizing that all of these hot skanks had come through the front door, past me and Joey.
Who the fuck let them in? And, what the hell? They must have walked by quietly so as not to disturb us, nor rummage through our pockets?
Kindly skanks, from good ole Fuckno, CA. They knew what they wanted. They knew what they didn't want.
Those other fuckers had invited these Fuckno Skanks to the After Punk Fight Partay, and the door was unlocked when they arrived.
I only awoke when the loud booming from Little Joey's room woke me the hell up.
FAIL.
But,
Chhhk Chhhk Chhhk.
It was a sound that was quite alluring.
I went down the hall to see what was going on, and found them nasty skanks and my brothers, all of them chopping, snorting, gurgling on the bong, taking shots of white lightning, and fucking up Joey's vinyl on his decks.
But these fuckers were also dusting each bong hit with some powder.
This was known as "Caesar's Salad," or, "Cocoa Puffs."
It was a lurvely sight.
Indeed.
What would you have done?
Of course, you would have gone and participated, I mean, saved Joey's vinyl from becoming totally ruined, dude.
When I opened the door, this is what I saw.
These Fuckno Skanks were all situated in various places around Little Joey's room. A couple of them, dressed to fit a sexy witch Halloween Party were all over Sean.
One young skank, with torn, red fishnets and purple spray-painted combat boots (and a very short black mini, which rode up to show commando skillz), tugged at Tellesco, who was looking a bit dejected and rejected. Tellesco had his coked-out-moony eyes only on Sean.
Bryan held court with a lurvely lass, which means; he was sucking face on this tramp whose nice legs were shanked by yellow leg warmers all curdled around her ankles, and Bryan, that dog...
...well, you knew that he wanted other things around her ankles, like, her panties.
Fat Jery was fucking up Little Joey's records because of a tiny young thing who was a Madonna-Wannabe and she simply wanted to stick her sweet pink tongue into his mouth.
Fat Jerry. Huh. Must have been the copious amounts of coke. That tiny skank would have done anything he may have cared to dream up, simply because he was a bit of a legend. He had girth and weight on more places than his waist, you see.
Two other skanks had control of the mirror. It was toward these fine young damsels I waded, through Joey's mess of clothing.
Joey used the floor like you would use a hamper / drawer / walk-in-closet.
I used to go in his room and scour for change for another forty-oz from the corner store.
Each pay day, I'd artistically pummel several dollars worth of various coins back into his room to settle my bill.
Dude never even knew. But once he asked me how some quarters had become lodged in the wall opposite the door.
Go figure, Joey.
I waded through his silk smoking jackets, leather pants, dress shoes, boots, and muscle shirts to get to these skanks who held the almighty mirror.
It ended up with broken glass.
But first,
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
BEFORE THERE WERE SKANKS
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
FEVER.
We had done Triage. Or, at least, me and Fat Jerry. Simulcast to the events of this choppy night...
Joey had caught a fever, from tetanus, which can at least damage your heart valves, and at the most, kill you slowly, and in pain. The obvious answer would have been to get a precursory tetanus shot. Precursory means that you intend to get into trouble, and since you will be asking medical professionals for a tetanus shot, they will ask you why.
You must already have a wound if you require a tetanus shot, and they would like to treat this wound. If you don't show such a thing to them, or even have anything resembling such a thing,(before you go off to a Machismo Meet) they will raise their eyebrows.
"Raising Of The Eyebrows" will involve the "authorities," which here means "Popo."
If you ask for this sort of hypodermic medicine after you have been to a fight and have been sliced with a less-than-sterile razor-sharp blade, then the Popo will ask you when, where, why, how, and who.
So, you simply have to decide beforehand between possible jail, or possible grave.
Who makes this kind of insane decision before going into a gang fight?
I'm surprised that you would have to ask that question my friend, and quite frankly, I'm a bit disappointed in you now.
I kid.
Of course you know who would make this decision before the fight, don't you, TDC Member?
These sort of folks:
Six heavily-snorted-up-young-bastards, (one was a nose guard and one was an offensive giant, and four others were devious punks of varying sizes and skills) had made this decision for themselves as they lay plastic down on the kitchen table and placed all the triage supplies and liquids and powder stashes nearby.
They were, for no reason at all, confident that they would persevere and become victorious in a possible fracas, (which is French for Some Messed Up Shit).
But this Band of Punks had become victorious.
++++++++++++++++++++++
Little Lion Man Joey kept waking up in pain, for which we had some remedies. It's often been said that the best way to kill a bodily invader (germs) is through Chemo Therapy. We had on hand cocai-- I mean, some sort of magical powder, plus copious amounts of moonshine. One may be taken nasally, the other; orally. I'll leave it up to you to decide where either goes. Yes, there were chemicals aplenty, for everyone, and anyone else who might come in through the front door.
It must suck to have to lay in a single position and not move, as your body fights an eight-hour whole-body infection that, if you survive, narrows down to a single body area for a few days or week thereafter.
At least Little Joey was on the couch cushions on the kitchen table instead of directly on the hard surface of the table.
It must suck when you evacuate your bowels and your bladder, and no one can move you for a few hours after you do this because doing so would cause searing pain all over your body and your head to feel like it is about to exploooooode.
But it truly sucks to have to throw away a perfectly good kitchen table because no one wants to eat on it anymore, plastic sheeting or not, neither as well the couch cushions. Bodily fluids seem to get everywhere, no matter how well you place the poly.
That should be the name of a punk song, "Duct Tape Polly To The Table."
Joey kept pleading to be taken to the Hosstibal whenever we came out and checked on him. He was delirious.
He had known the rules of the agreement, because it was he who'd made them up beforehand.
His groans and crying were really getting to us when we came out to check on him. By which I mean, "Harshing Our High."
So we got him fucking high. Smoke, Powder, White Lightening... why, we loved him like only a scar-faced, torturous, powder-snorting, giggling Ginger drunken-step-father could.
Sean shook coke in Little Joey's little nose between the screams of agony and Fat Jerry drizzled alcohol into Joey's gullet to wash down the drain, after he would cough from the powder.
Tellesco giggled nervously, the giant sycophant who sniveled by Sean's shoulder. You knew who wore the pants in that relationship.
I was the one who blew smoke in his face. Cocoa Puffs, which are delicious with milk.
In a bowl.
On Saturday morning, in time for the cartoons.
Again, I am not and have never professed to be a medical professional.
Eventually Little Joey passed out.
From what, we could not concur. But it seemed pretty obvious.
At least he would shut the hell up for a couple of hours.
When we came back out from his bedroom, the newly christened "Skank Room," we followed the prescription again for his health.
And again.
And again.
Don't look at me that way. He survived.
Turn this one down. It gets loud after a bit. Don't want to hurt your ears.
After the party wore down, (which means we had done the last of the coke), the birds started chirping, dogs stared barking, and the world outside began to awaken. These sounds are the worst things to hear when you have been up all night, partying.
They are even worse, when you have survived a gang fight, but are wondering if one of your own might not.
Daylight sucks, in either case. I guess we had finally grew a collective conscience.
While Joey slept and fought off a serious bodily infection that could have killed him and put us in the awkward position of burying him in the orchards that following night, we bastards discussed this new consideration I'd come up with earlier.
Or later. It's all perspective.
You see, "Early" means that you are waking up. "Later" means that you are still up.
+++++++++++++++++++++++
NEW CONSIDERATION
This New Consideration involved an interesting concept, which is this:
Drugs travel in Circles. If you want Smoke, you know from whom to get it. Someone you know. Stupid to buy it from a stranger. Everyone had it, some had the good stuff.
If you want Powder, well, those higher up on the ladder don't seem to be able to deal it for all that long, and you will constantly be meeting "new friends."
Zid? Well, that's a whole 'nother realty, so to speak.
But the idea of Circles is that folks who deal in an addiction supply are only tight with those who also enjoy the same addictive material.
The higher up you go, the more in danger you are, and this risk escalates exponentially when you combine other addiction supplies into your cache, your stash.
The point here is this: If we decided to give powder a break, sad as that was at the time, we might avoid some angry Messicans for a bit, until they became incarcerated, which was inevitable.
Hell, we'd made it this far without incarceration, why risk it more?
Maybe there was something else we could partake of, and it would introduce us to a safer crowd?
This actually sounded like a good idea to us, all whacked up on smoke, powder, and white lightening.
Some of the best ideas come this way.
Or Not.
Joey had rented this apartment which he liked to call the "Pussy Palace." This apartment was now being used for post-triage healing, but it was a hell of a bachelor pad, if you were a poor Punk Rocker in the old days.
Once-orange-now-brown matted-shag carpeting with bare pathways worn-in lined the whole place, which consisted of the living room, the tiny kitchen, and the hallway down to the two bedrooms off from each other, and the bathroom at the rear, where we first learned how to rock up powder.
Another chapter, later. Be patient. It all comes out in the wash.
Except for the blood.
+++++++++++++++++++++++=
LINKS
Speaking of crazy, let's see what has been happening in the outside world, shall we?
willies' style.
After taking her eye off the toddler for two minutes, Kyra turned to discover Cohen had become one of the prizes to be won among the sweets and soft teddy bears.
Move over, Las Vegas. After two years of national doldrums, crazy cities are on the rise again. Sadly, Hartford, Conn., came out only #53. Bangor, ME. didn't even place.
Talk about crazy: thieves have been stealing 200-pound highway drainage grates that cost the Georgia DOT 300-dollars apiece to replace. For money for drugs. These are in the friggin road. How does hitting a five-foot-deep hole at 75 mph sound to you?
Charles Woodson was seen by neighbors wearing the skin of a guinea pig on his head.
Caught in the act at his local Walmart on Wednesday night, Conone admitted that for months he'd been punching children on the backs of their heads with his keys in his fist.
When 89-year-old Nancy Underwood of Chideock in Dorset, England needs to cross the street, she is forced to take a 14-mile bus ride to accomplish the task. (This is not from an Onion article.)
Obama accepted his peace prize just days after announcing he was ramping up U.S. involvement in the war in Afghanistan.
This might help with the craziness: a telepathic computer can read your mind.
Smile, you're at a strip club, Some pics are NSFW. These are by a creepy old man. Thought you'd like it, even if it is one of those annoying slideshows where you have to manually click, no auto-run. This interrupts stroking.
This one, from the same site, has the auto-run, so no interruption. But these are innocent pics taken by a serial killer of his soon-to-be victims. No stroking here.
Thank you for partaking of my stories.
Now listen, baby.
---willies out.
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