You might want to get yourself prepared for the following Chapter of ZID, however you go about it.
This is a Chapter of the ZID series called PACT.
Here's a very old song called, "Servitude," by Fishbone, because at this time, we young Punk Rockers were servants to addiction. And we served this addiction bitch quite well...
All set? Let's do it.
The small block of cocai-- I mean white loveliness sat in its doubled-up plastic sandwich bags on the edge of Little Lion Man's record-deck table, which was captained by Fat Jerry and a hot little Fuckno, CA. skank who wanted to insert her precious, pink tongue in to his fat fucking mouth, as well as do other curious things with it.
I burst in and stumbled through Little Lion Man's Lair across his clothes that everyone had been walking on, heading for the mirror. It was a quite large "compact" mirror, square but without the dust bin any longer.
You TDC Ladies probably use such a thing to check yourself, and also to perhaps apply more powder to make yourself all pretty, continually throughout a night of fancy dress and dinner, but probably not continuously; up all night partying.
The phrase "powder your nose" can mean many things.
I was always saddened by the visage of a scary, youthful, yet somehow fraught person looking back up at me when I bent over a mirror with a clean two-and-a-half-inch fresh straw (angled at the bottom) in order to decide which line I would take on the subway.
I'd always wondered how the "pretty boy" Little Lion Man Joey had obtained that there mirror. Had it been for himself: such a pretty-boy punk; or was it simply a souvenir of a one-night escapade with a sweet, young floozy?
Yes, at one time, skanks were called floozies. This was 25 years ago, understand. Now go grab me my walker so I can get up and make us a nice pot of tea.
Those two chicks with the mirror freaked out at me bursting in, and the one holding it flung the mother fucking mirror.
A cloud of powder, a razor blade going off somewhere, and straws went into the air.
It was time for these bitches to leave.
I grabbed what was left of the tiny brick in the doubled-up bags from the deck table and Roared.
I fucking Roared. I grabbed one of Joey's combat boots and threw it over them. It went through the window, which was not open at the time.
Now it was. Glass flew everywhere, in and out.
All those skanks got the message and booted themselves the hell out, angling past me with big, red-rimmed eyes and runny noses.
They even left behind two purses, which we went though after, only to find condoms, lipstick, eyeshadow, and, yes, money. No ID. This means that they knew what might happen, going to a post-punk-fight-after-party.
And it had happened.
Don't look at me that way.
I was a broke-ass punk, and they were poseurs. Fuck 'em.
After we had made sure that those skanks were gone, I went quietly down and grabbed Joey's boot from the grass on the ground level, and gingerly placed the large shards of glass into the dumpster in the weak light of the walkway lamposts.
"Gingerly" here does not mean, "With Red Hair."
The birds were not awake just yet, and an accusing, sneering sliver of waning crescent moon eyed me suspiciously as I skulked about in the blackness of late night.
I was stealthful.
Lord knows the skanks had created a ruckus for the neighbors below with their speedy exit down the outside stairs.
Thump Thump Bang Bang slip stumble Screech. "Omigawd!"
But our neighbors knew well enough not to fuck with us.
I crept back up and bolted the door.
I was polite, first time this evening.
The other brothers were too coked-out to go outside, but I'd been passed out on the couch, legs up on the wall most of the evening.
We took down one of the few pictures hung on the wall from back when Little Joey had first moved in the year before.
Its glass surface lent itself a new purpose. We snorted lines on baby Joey's face.
That sentence right there, out of context, is enough to get you investigated by the police. Come get me.
Statute of limitations has run out.
We held a discussion.
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Music for the following part; it starts with static, just enough time to refresh your altitude adjustment.
This is what we discussed:
We would have to get a new apartment. Cover our tracks. We would need to replace the window that I'd just fucked up, in order to get the rental deposit back.
Sean made his odd, giant bitch Tellesco promise to pick all of the glass shards out of Joey's clothes hamper: the floor.
And, we would stop with the fucking powder. This tiny part of a brick was to be the last for us, for a while. We would look into something other than this, something that might even be better, and less addictive.
All would be better. We'd get a new party pad, we'd start to deal again, in a new arena of enjoyment, and we would absolutely rock in this new realty.
ZID is, indeed, a whole 'nother realty.
But by "Realty," I am speaking of a new land. Sunny Side Realty, that is.
So we hoped.
In the next chapter, you will see how we were told that we would not be getting our deposit back, and, being punk assholes, how we went over-board and completely trashed this place.
Assholes. (I say that now, looking back.) There will be descriptions that are not intended to be a guide. They were pretty bad.
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MORNING
Joey survived. With our medicinal approach to his pain, we actually helped him out quite well.
We managed to get him to take the antibiotics we'd filched from Sean's mom's medicine cabinet for such a possible need, as well as get him to chew and swallow many Flintstone vitamins and mucho fruit juices.
Fruit juices are best with Moonshine, but we held him from off that tincture for a bit. 100% Fruit juice only. We spared no expense, except for a Hosstibal stay.
It was a bitch to help him get up, inspect his wound, re-pack with 3-way ointment, gauze, cover with plastic, duct tape, and then help him wash off his nastiness in the shower.
The couch cushions appreared to have been involved in a torture and murder, and the once-orange-now-brown shag carpet beneath the fouled kitchen table was a witness.
It began to appear that we might not get the rental deposit back.
No one wanted to use the kitchen table again, for anything, ever.
The cushions and table ended up first in my own room, in plastic sheeting, and then, later on, in a dumpster on the other end of town.
It was just too damn freaky.
At that time, perhaps, we had thought a bit too much about the disposal of crime scene evidence.
But we'd killed no one.
I guess it it simply what you do to cover your tracks.
+++++++++++++++++++++++
HEALING
Joey healed. Tellesco cleaned. Brian cooked. Sean and Fat Jerry drank. I helped Joey into his bed.
I do not and never will understand how anyone can eat after snorting a small brick.
But tomorrow would be a new day. Actually, it was a new day, already, with the birds chirping, dogs barking, and all of us coming down, wasting a whole day by sleeping it off.
When we awoke again, we were like vampires. We were vampires with a plan.
The plan was ZID.
Join us next time, same channel, for The ZID Plan.
It was Fat Jerry who came through with the connections this time.
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LINKS
Dog Fetch Robot.
Another pet that plays by itself. "Whenever it has a bit of free time, it will stand up and dance in a circle and even shake hands with visitors," he said. No, it is not an Penthouse Pet.
This is a Penthouse Pet.
Poor? Can't afford some rope to hang yourself, or even play some Double Scotch? Why not use a neighbor?
Walmart store tells all black people to leave.
Unhappy endings to fairy tales. In the TDC Forums, TDC Member "Laz" originated this thread of thought.
And here is something I found from three years ago to match that train of thought, here, today.
Let's move on, shall we? To one of my favorite and creepy subjects: Robots.
MmmHmmmmmm. Smart Robot. This may bode well for humans, actually. This one made a scientific discovery that had baffled scientists for years, bud.
Yet, computer bots can fuck up.
Antidote: Cool places to eat food around the world. Instead of standing up in your kitchen over the sink.
Feed me, feed me Seymour! (See More?) creepy plant looks like some sort of Little Shop Of Horrors flower... Click on the random for some more oddness.
Do not eat this. Not good.
Antidote:
Short video to explore new art.
Here's one for new gear. Explore.
Here's something for those of us who can remember the eighties and nineties. One man, singing Queen songs in various artists' voices. Holy Fucking Shit.
Gundam Legs.
GunDamn!
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Now you know I would never leave you hanging from such dastardly words that were written for you above without something to make you get all dancing.
I know, I can't help it. The beat got me. Sue me to get your money back, baby.
God Help You.
God Help Your Pact.
---willies out.
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