Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
in rudy's basement park fairfax
in rudy's basement park fairfax
In between rehabs I was crashing in my childhood bedroom back in Alex. VA. Smoking weed on the DL and drinking beer when I could. Rudy Rodan would call me up and we'd smoke hash out of a meerschaum pipe and listen to Lee Scratch Perry. Rudy took Perry's lyrics literally unfortunately, and would proclaim to all and sundry that he was a "Black Jew". He was neither, he was however schizophrenic and spending more and more time in locked psych wards throughout Northern Virginia. In manic episodes he would try and walk to Richmond from DC and would be found incoherent on the side of the road. I remember his hands were clammy from the side effects of Haldol and the constant chain smoking of Marlboro reds.
We would ride around listening to GO GO and Old School Rap on KISS FM going to various spots to cop weed often without success. ( I believe I was supposed to be at 12 step meetings, forgive me Mom and Dad)If no cannabis could be found we would catch a buzz by scraping every used smoking device we could find until a pile of resin was produced and then smoked holding every nasty cloud of foul smoke deep in our lungs.There are times when I miss that feeling of complete and utter aimlessness. I was just waiting to for the smoke to clear from my latest drug fueled disaster so I could go out and do it again. Rudy Rodan was waiting until he could stop taking his psych meds long enough to let his mind fly away again. We were brothers in this state, listening to Rastafarian chants hoping for a clue that would give us both meaning.I'm not sure what happened to Rudy Rodan, last I saw him was on the porch of his Mom's new condo, smoking one cig after another, asking if he could come live with me in California. A tall white man with a strong southern accent, thick beard, shaved head, white oxford shirt, black jeans, doc martens, who would swear he was a member of the lost tribe of Israel. I'm sorry I lost touch brother, schizophrenia's just another word for nothing left to lose.
Monday, July 28, 2008
presumption
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
presumption
I keep thinking you are thinking about me but it cannot be true. I remember the day your husband found my motorcycle parked out front of your childhood home. You told me it was over but you never told him and now it's too late. You will lose everything and your children will hate you. I know it's not my fault but I should have loved you from afar. I was in prison for 4 years two weeks after we met and thought of you every waking second of every day and dreamed of you all night. I was amazed when you found me in my uncles hotel bar and took me home where we fucked and cried all night. Your husband caught us and he beat you as I watched. I wanted to kill him but I won't go back to prison even for the love of my life. I should have loved you from afar, now I know for sure. Adios amiga.
Posted by Original_JLO at 1:52 AM
presumption
I keep thinking you are thinking about me but it cannot be true. I remember the day your husband found my motorcycle parked out front of your childhood home. You told me it was over but you never told him and now it's too late. You will lose everything and your children will hate you. I know it's not my fault but I should have loved you from afar. I was in prison for 4 years two weeks after we met and thought of you every waking second of every day and dreamed of you all night. I was amazed when you found me in my uncles hotel bar and took me home where we fucked and cried all night. Your husband caught us and he beat you as I watched. I wanted to kill him but I won't go back to prison even for the love of my life. I should have loved you from afar, now I know for sure. Adios amiga.
Posted by Original_JLO at 1:52 AM
Yes Doctor!
Lea told me that in the end she could no longer hit herself and had to pay "The Hit Doctor" down on 14th and R St. NW to inject her with the ten or more speedballs she did a day while hooking on the streets of DC. "The Hit Doctor" was missing a leg herself and eventually an arm, but people still payed her 5 dollars a hit or in drugs for her unerring accuracy in finding a vein in even the most abused of bodies. Her patients were forever grateful and shouts of "Yes Doctor!" could be heard on the street outside. You had to watch the doctor though as she was known to squirt a little of your dose mixed with blood into a bottle on the shelf for her to accumulate a stash to inject later when all the customers were gone. Perhaps this is why she lost her limbs at the early age of 47. People who injected into exposed wounds were not uncommon, some said that using a cut of quinine which was particular to the heroin scenes of DC and Baltimore contributed to a premature burning of the flesh. The truth will set you free, sayeth the bingy, amen.
stream
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
stream
could this be dynamite the cooling water for my mind
I've got reason to believe that the warmth of my blood is cooling 1 degree a year and will prove to be my undoing
They entered the room a group of men with bulging muscles anger in their eyes the abilty to hurt maim and kill in their souls
Posted by Original_JLO at 2:12 PM
stream
could this be dynamite the cooling water for my mind
I've got reason to believe that the warmth of my blood is cooling 1 degree a year and will prove to be my undoing
They entered the room a group of men with bulging muscles anger in their eyes the abilty to hurt maim and kill in their souls
Posted by Original_JLO at 2:12 PM
sleepless in vallejo
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
sleepless in vallejo
horrible village of hell
bankrupt of positive anything
people here are stupid and
getting what they so righteously
deserve
I guess that includes me and
I can't fucking sleep
Posted by Original_JLO at 12:52 AM
sleepless in vallejo
horrible village of hell
bankrupt of positive anything
people here are stupid and
getting what they so righteously
deserve
I guess that includes me and
I can't fucking sleep
Posted by Original_JLO at 12:52 AM
My confirmation saint was St Louis
Thursday, March 6, 2008
My confirmation saint was St Louis
People laughed in the church when I said it, but I was confirmed. Turns out St.Louis was more than a bit of a douche bag, who bought his sainthood with the blood of peasants. Technically that means I'm still a catholic boy and I definitely still get turned on by catholic girls. My goddaughter has asked me to be present at her baptism, which I am happy to do, but I'm anything but a christian in my heart. Christianity as defined by modern society is a total fucking crock if you ask me. Based on a bible directed by an English king with an agenda of subjugation it is generally rotten. Anyone who claims to take that version or any version of the bible literally should go to hell just for believing that crap. So I suppose I am a lapsed catholic or so far gone I'm a prolapsed catholic.
My first confession the priest was drunk and yelled at me for stumbling over the words saying something like "Goddamnit your supposed to know this fore you come in here!"In his slurry Irish brogue. Thank you Father Casey, I hope you died of cirrhosis.
Posted by Original_JLO at 2:59 PM
My confirmation saint was St Louis
People laughed in the church when I said it, but I was confirmed. Turns out St.Louis was more than a bit of a douche bag, who bought his sainthood with the blood of peasants. Technically that means I'm still a catholic boy and I definitely still get turned on by catholic girls. My goddaughter has asked me to be present at her baptism, which I am happy to do, but I'm anything but a christian in my heart. Christianity as defined by modern society is a total fucking crock if you ask me. Based on a bible directed by an English king with an agenda of subjugation it is generally rotten. Anyone who claims to take that version or any version of the bible literally should go to hell just for believing that crap. So I suppose I am a lapsed catholic or so far gone I'm a prolapsed catholic.
My first confession the priest was drunk and yelled at me for stumbling over the words saying something like "Goddamnit your supposed to know this fore you come in here!"In his slurry Irish brogue. Thank you Father Casey, I hope you died of cirrhosis.
Posted by Original_JLO at 2:59 PM
that damn adrenaline
Oh no it's that damn adrenaline
back in the early 80's there were a group of dopefiends that hung out in DC's Dupont Circle, shooting dope in the bushes while government workers walked to theor jobs at the embassies on Mass ave or the various Federal goernment extensions. Dupont Circle is a beautiful stately circle park with a classic round multitired fountain in the middle. You had to be pretty freaking hot to swim in that water but if you were loaded enough on a super muggy DC day you might go for it. The guys who shot dope in the park ranged from white boys sneaking in from the burbs to hardcore lifelong heroin addicts who could'nt hang down at 14th and T or (th and O because of some transgression or lack of hussle due tpo age. It was easier for them to fix a 10 or 20 dollar bag in the morning come to the park and drink all day to stay loaded than to manage a hundred dollar a day habit. Copping dope for white people in DC was especially hard for white people, you were either attracting cops cause you stuck out so bad or getting nothing but powdered aspirin. If you got to know one of the veteran dope fiends you might get an arrangement going to go halves on a speedball or a dilaudid. "Going halves" meant you gave up half the dope to the the "flyer" (aka you buy I fly). 75% of the time the flyer never came back or came back loaded and nodding just to laugh in your face. This situation left those on the fringes of this arrangement to engage in experimentation.
The particular incident to which I am referring was told to me by Red Haired John, a transplanted North Carolinian who had been running around DC's worst streets since he returned from the Army to live with his grandmother. John told me that one of the regulars down at Dupont Circle was another white boy named Doug the Wino, who dressed like Dave Vanian from the Damned, probably before anybody knew who that was. (Doug later jumped out of a window while high on PCP over on Belmont Street, but thats another story)
Doug the Wino was really more of a junkie than a drunk but that varied with the seasons. Doug and John were some of the few white guys who had the cojones to walk down to 9th and O sts and cop dope for people. They were in demand because they tended to return with some dope and if they wre high enogh on heroin would make a run just for 10 bucks or a vial of "shake caine" aka powdered coke specially formulated for injecting. One of the people they ran for was guy they called "Ali Hajii"
"Ali Hajii" was of course not his real name but back then no one at the park had ever tried to pronounce a middle eastern name and this was as close as they could get to his real name. He was an Iraninan who'd come over after the fall of the Shah with a prodigous opium habit in tow. Black sheep of a rich family he stumbled into Dupont Circle one day recognized the signs and symptoms of his fellow sufferers and would come down and ask John or Doug to make a run for him.
One day Doug who was bit more scandalous than Red Haired John came to the park with something he'd gotten from a chick from Bethesda who's dad was a vternarian. Injectable Beef Adrenaline, or at least they thought it was injectable. Doug really had no idea so when Ali Hajii showed up at the park dope sick and looking for a speedball he offered him something "better" Poor Ali Hajii paid Doug then Stuck his arm into the bushes where John used the leaves to conceal him "hitting Ali in the arm. Red Haired John later said he felt bad about participating in this subterfuge but was just as curious as Doug as to what would happen.
John pushed in the plunger and hid the works in a bag benaeth a pilke of leaves. When he stood up to ask Ali how he was doing all he saw was the back og Ali's black silk shirt as he ran full speed down Pstreet towards George Town, literally bouncing into the air every few steps. Doug and John felt this was a good sign and preceded to give themselves injections of the beef adrenaline too.To be continued this is raw un spell checked
back in the early 80's there were a group of dopefiends that hung out in DC's Dupont Circle, shooting dope in the bushes while government workers walked to theor jobs at the embassies on Mass ave or the various Federal goernment extensions. Dupont Circle is a beautiful stately circle park with a classic round multitired fountain in the middle. You had to be pretty freaking hot to swim in that water but if you were loaded enough on a super muggy DC day you might go for it. The guys who shot dope in the park ranged from white boys sneaking in from the burbs to hardcore lifelong heroin addicts who could'nt hang down at 14th and T or (th and O because of some transgression or lack of hussle due tpo age. It was easier for them to fix a 10 or 20 dollar bag in the morning come to the park and drink all day to stay loaded than to manage a hundred dollar a day habit. Copping dope for white people in DC was especially hard for white people, you were either attracting cops cause you stuck out so bad or getting nothing but powdered aspirin. If you got to know one of the veteran dope fiends you might get an arrangement going to go halves on a speedball or a dilaudid. "Going halves" meant you gave up half the dope to the the "flyer" (aka you buy I fly). 75% of the time the flyer never came back or came back loaded and nodding just to laugh in your face. This situation left those on the fringes of this arrangement to engage in experimentation.
The particular incident to which I am referring was told to me by Red Haired John, a transplanted North Carolinian who had been running around DC's worst streets since he returned from the Army to live with his grandmother. John told me that one of the regulars down at Dupont Circle was another white boy named Doug the Wino, who dressed like Dave Vanian from the Damned, probably before anybody knew who that was. (Doug later jumped out of a window while high on PCP over on Belmont Street, but thats another story)
Doug the Wino was really more of a junkie than a drunk but that varied with the seasons. Doug and John were some of the few white guys who had the cojones to walk down to 9th and O sts and cop dope for people. They were in demand because they tended to return with some dope and if they wre high enogh on heroin would make a run just for 10 bucks or a vial of "shake caine" aka powdered coke specially formulated for injecting. One of the people they ran for was guy they called "Ali Hajii"
"Ali Hajii" was of course not his real name but back then no one at the park had ever tried to pronounce a middle eastern name and this was as close as they could get to his real name. He was an Iraninan who'd come over after the fall of the Shah with a prodigous opium habit in tow. Black sheep of a rich family he stumbled into Dupont Circle one day recognized the signs and symptoms of his fellow sufferers and would come down and ask John or Doug to make a run for him.
One day Doug who was bit more scandalous than Red Haired John came to the park with something he'd gotten from a chick from Bethesda who's dad was a vternarian. Injectable Beef Adrenaline, or at least they thought it was injectable. Doug really had no idea so when Ali Hajii showed up at the park dope sick and looking for a speedball he offered him something "better" Poor Ali Hajii paid Doug then Stuck his arm into the bushes where John used the leaves to conceal him "hitting Ali in the arm. Red Haired John later said he felt bad about participating in this subterfuge but was just as curious as Doug as to what would happen.
John pushed in the plunger and hid the works in a bag benaeth a pilke of leaves. When he stood up to ask Ali how he was doing all he saw was the back og Ali's black silk shirt as he ran full speed down Pstreet towards George Town, literally bouncing into the air every few steps. Doug and John felt this was a good sign and preceded to give themselves injections of the beef adrenaline too.To be continued this is raw un spell checked
Sierra Ronin
I grabbed a pair of binoculars off the sagging Formica table in the kitchen and peered through the dirty screen of the back window splotched with mosquito carcasses. You could glimpse pieces of the trail on the hills above the cabin, tan switchbacks among the dry scrub and pine trees. something or someone was coming down the trail, I was sure of it. I trained the bino's on another gap in the trail where I anticipated the intruder would be revealed and got a millisecond glance of two men in camo moving quickly down the trail. How long did I have, 5 minutes? Probably less, I was glad I had left my back pack unpacked. Looking around quickly I decided that there was nothing here for me, but memories of a time when I had a family, before I made my first kill for the Combine. I knew they would be coming I just thought I'd have more time to rest and let my arm heal. The flechettes had been removed but the muscles still felt weak.
Groaning as I thew the backpack on over my shoulder, I then grabbed my helmet and went out the front door. My bike was thankfully pointed down hill so I just jumped on stuck it in neutral and pointed it down the steep fire road. They would know of my presence the second I started the bike so I waited as long as I could, until I reached the gentle up slope before the spring house. Then I cranked it over and it sounded like a machine gun going off. "Loud Pipes Save Lives" but not when your trying to outrun corporate hit men hired to force you into early retirement. I thought I heard yelling behind me I thought I heard shots but I think I imagined it.
Surprised that there wasn't a roadblock at the two lane highway but thankful somebody had slipped up, I checked my gas gauge and gunned my highly modified sportster up the road. Destination: the Big City, my real home where I could re enter the digital grid, collect my weapons, and make my final stand.
Groaning as I thew the backpack on over my shoulder, I then grabbed my helmet and went out the front door. My bike was thankfully pointed down hill so I just jumped on stuck it in neutral and pointed it down the steep fire road. They would know of my presence the second I started the bike so I waited as long as I could, until I reached the gentle up slope before the spring house. Then I cranked it over and it sounded like a machine gun going off. "Loud Pipes Save Lives" but not when your trying to outrun corporate hit men hired to force you into early retirement. I thought I heard yelling behind me I thought I heard shots but I think I imagined it.
Surprised that there wasn't a roadblock at the two lane highway but thankful somebody had slipped up, I checked my gas gauge and gunned my highly modified sportster up the road. Destination: the Big City, my real home where I could re enter the digital grid, collect my weapons, and make my final stand.
Faded and Jaded
Monday, March 24, 2008
Faded and Jaded
The new kids that came around called them Mr. Faded and Mrs. Jaded they were just glad somebody still came around since most of their friends had gone corporate, or died. They bought the house back in the day when the coke flowed freely and you could make money like that. No one in the avenues noticed them, they were up when the Chinese neighbors were in bed. If anybody asked they said they made their money from a lotto ticket. Coke became too dangerous so they moved into weed and pills, only problem was their mutual benzo habit.
Somewhere deep in the recesses of his valium, xanax, ativan, and clonopin addled brain Danny knew something was severely wrong. He’d seen this look on his mothers face back in 65 and hated the slack skinned face that snidely put him down for being a hippie. Oh how he railed about “mothers little helper” as symptomatic of her whole fucked up generation. Now that same look stared back at him from the mirror and there was no way out.
They tried to quit the pills one time and after 4 days Cheryl came after him with a knife saying he was Richard Nixon in a cat suit sent by the DEA to take her plants in the basement. He was so psychotic with his own withdrawal symptoms he looked down to see if he was wearing a cat suit. Luckily he called Fred the Head who had a benzo habit too and he came over with liquid valium to save them and counsel them on the difficulties of benzo detoxification. “It’s taken me three years to get down to 50 milligrams of blue valiums per day. My wife Sarah tried it cold turkey while I was on tour and was in the hospital for a month on an ativan drip.” The plan since then was to taper slowly but somehow that never happened it’s hard to keep track when you’re stoned on the latest strain from Amsterdam.
Posted by Original_JLO at 7:39 PM
Faded and Jaded
The new kids that came around called them Mr. Faded and Mrs. Jaded they were just glad somebody still came around since most of their friends had gone corporate, or died. They bought the house back in the day when the coke flowed freely and you could make money like that. No one in the avenues noticed them, they were up when the Chinese neighbors were in bed. If anybody asked they said they made their money from a lotto ticket. Coke became too dangerous so they moved into weed and pills, only problem was their mutual benzo habit.
Somewhere deep in the recesses of his valium, xanax, ativan, and clonopin addled brain Danny knew something was severely wrong. He’d seen this look on his mothers face back in 65 and hated the slack skinned face that snidely put him down for being a hippie. Oh how he railed about “mothers little helper” as symptomatic of her whole fucked up generation. Now that same look stared back at him from the mirror and there was no way out.
They tried to quit the pills one time and after 4 days Cheryl came after him with a knife saying he was Richard Nixon in a cat suit sent by the DEA to take her plants in the basement. He was so psychotic with his own withdrawal symptoms he looked down to see if he was wearing a cat suit. Luckily he called Fred the Head who had a benzo habit too and he came over with liquid valium to save them and counsel them on the difficulties of benzo detoxification. “It’s taken me three years to get down to 50 milligrams of blue valiums per day. My wife Sarah tried it cold turkey while I was on tour and was in the hospital for a month on an ativan drip.” The plan since then was to taper slowly but somehow that never happened it’s hard to keep track when you’re stoned on the latest strain from Amsterdam.
Posted by Original_JLO at 7:39 PM
el veterano
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
el veterano
beautiful tan suede fedora
beautiful black and white checkered wool coat
fat and classy gold rings with onyx inlays
wing tips
slacks with killer crease
wire rim glasses
motherfucker was shit sharp
eating four grams of black tar heroin per day
cannot inject via intra muscular anymore
too tore up from abcesses
does not smoke
does not drink
67 years old
5o years of heroin addiction
the original
original gangster
Posted by Original_JLO at 10:26 PM
el veterano
beautiful tan suede fedora
beautiful black and white checkered wool coat
fat and classy gold rings with onyx inlays
wing tips
slacks with killer crease
wire rim glasses
motherfucker was shit sharp
eating four grams of black tar heroin per day
cannot inject via intra muscular anymore
too tore up from abcesses
does not smoke
does not drink
67 years old
5o years of heroin addiction
the original
original gangster
Posted by Original_JLO at 10:26 PM
neurotic dreams of the never be Rich never be Famous
Monday, April 14, 2008
neurotic dreams of the never be Rich never be Famous
Gonna get these mothers
no drama no dreams of Ethiopia sitting in a lounge waiting for the injera to arrive
swaddled in silk
I'll never see that
wishing for things I don't want like tours of every Podunk pitiful nightclub in the USA
motorcycles that tear down buildings with their exhaust
french girls that cry when I leave
disposable Rolex watches
and diamond laser lights shooting out of my eyes toward the heavens as I am internationally known
for being "Lost in Prayer"
Posted by Original_JLO at 3:38 PM
neurotic dreams of the never be Rich never be Famous
Gonna get these mothers
no drama no dreams of Ethiopia sitting in a lounge waiting for the injera to arrive
swaddled in silk
I'll never see that
wishing for things I don't want like tours of every Podunk pitiful nightclub in the USA
motorcycles that tear down buildings with their exhaust
french girls that cry when I leave
disposable Rolex watches
and diamond laser lights shooting out of my eyes toward the heavens as I am internationally known
for being "Lost in Prayer"
Posted by Original_JLO at 3:38 PM
Padded Window Punch
Friday, May 9, 2008
Padded Window Punch
Cold foggy night in the Mission, Folsom and 20Th. Mark's brother keeps walking around the first floor flat of the old Victorian punching his hand and cursing. Psyching himself up for something I'm not sure what. Grey bushy hair in a classic Manson mane frames his angry face. He's the one who keeps asking who we are and if we're cool. Mark keeps reminding him that Running Bear is the guy who did his tattoos. Mark is bouncing around the apartment too rubbing his back and telling Bear that his back always aches when he's coming down. I run out for a couple 40's of Rainier Ale. We kicked in on some beans and tacos that Mark's toothless girlfriend is cooking up in the kitchen rapping to herself or any of us that wander in there. Mark has that classic biker metal head look motorcycle jacket black jeans and boots, black greasy hair that is pasted to his face because he's sweating alot. He and Bear are telling stories about people I don't know and I'm drinking as much malt liquor as it's polite to do without taking too much and I'm getting buzzed because my stomach is empty. I think we smoked some cheap "bama" weed too. I was wondering if we were going to do some speed but first we sit down to dinner like civilised folk. I was wondering if I wanted to do any speed and knew that if it came out I wouldn't be able to resist even though I hated it. I was in that frame of mind. Eating together was weirdly bonding and I was laughing and thinking these people were pretty cool and they lived around the corner so maybe we could be friends of a sort even though they were tweakers and I was into hop. My stomach was having a bad reaction to the canned re fried beans though, jumping and gurgling something fierce. Lately I'd been resisting and had only broken down and copped a couple times in the past month.Getting high on heroin in a house that was a daycare center during the day was a big no no and I felt pretty fucking shitty about it. But being broke and out of work will put you in that "I'll do any thing if it's free" mode and so chances were I was going to get some speed if I hung out, but these guys probably shot it and I didn't want to deal with using their works. Plus I really didn't like speed but there I was.
After dinner Marks brother got ready to go out and put on a big old navy pea coat and a black wool hat. His right hand had some kind of padding taped to it and he was slamming it into his left palm harder and harder. I finally figured out he was going out to punch car windows and snag car stereos or whatever else he could get. From what I gathered Mark was not going to kick down any speed to his brother for free so he was going out to make his own luck and therefore partake of the bounty of his brothers methamphetamine supply. I also figured out that I was probably not going to get any free speed either and decided to head home rather than hang out looking like a typical drug leech. I can't remember if Running Bear got high with that guy that night I think that although he talked like he was a big time meth dealer that really he was out of dope too and his brother was working to feed the whole houses habit. Marks brother had been grey haired but he was buff and scary and on parole. For the next ten years I saw him pushing a shopping cart around the Mission, looking worse and worse, muttering to himself and the knuckles of his right hand were always padded and at the ready. I was glad I didn't get high with those guys, and soon after I never high again on something I didn't want to do.
Padded Window Punch
Cold foggy night in the Mission, Folsom and 20Th. Mark's brother keeps walking around the first floor flat of the old Victorian punching his hand and cursing. Psyching himself up for something I'm not sure what. Grey bushy hair in a classic Manson mane frames his angry face. He's the one who keeps asking who we are and if we're cool. Mark keeps reminding him that Running Bear is the guy who did his tattoos. Mark is bouncing around the apartment too rubbing his back and telling Bear that his back always aches when he's coming down. I run out for a couple 40's of Rainier Ale. We kicked in on some beans and tacos that Mark's toothless girlfriend is cooking up in the kitchen rapping to herself or any of us that wander in there. Mark has that classic biker metal head look motorcycle jacket black jeans and boots, black greasy hair that is pasted to his face because he's sweating alot. He and Bear are telling stories about people I don't know and I'm drinking as much malt liquor as it's polite to do without taking too much and I'm getting buzzed because my stomach is empty. I think we smoked some cheap "bama" weed too. I was wondering if we were going to do some speed but first we sit down to dinner like civilised folk. I was wondering if I wanted to do any speed and knew that if it came out I wouldn't be able to resist even though I hated it. I was in that frame of mind. Eating together was weirdly bonding and I was laughing and thinking these people were pretty cool and they lived around the corner so maybe we could be friends of a sort even though they were tweakers and I was into hop. My stomach was having a bad reaction to the canned re fried beans though, jumping and gurgling something fierce. Lately I'd been resisting and had only broken down and copped a couple times in the past month.Getting high on heroin in a house that was a daycare center during the day was a big no no and I felt pretty fucking shitty about it. But being broke and out of work will put you in that "I'll do any thing if it's free" mode and so chances were I was going to get some speed if I hung out, but these guys probably shot it and I didn't want to deal with using their works. Plus I really didn't like speed but there I was.
After dinner Marks brother got ready to go out and put on a big old navy pea coat and a black wool hat. His right hand had some kind of padding taped to it and he was slamming it into his left palm harder and harder. I finally figured out he was going out to punch car windows and snag car stereos or whatever else he could get. From what I gathered Mark was not going to kick down any speed to his brother for free so he was going out to make his own luck and therefore partake of the bounty of his brothers methamphetamine supply. I also figured out that I was probably not going to get any free speed either and decided to head home rather than hang out looking like a typical drug leech. I can't remember if Running Bear got high with that guy that night I think that although he talked like he was a big time meth dealer that really he was out of dope too and his brother was working to feed the whole houses habit. Marks brother had been grey haired but he was buff and scary and on parole. For the next ten years I saw him pushing a shopping cart around the Mission, looking worse and worse, muttering to himself and the knuckles of his right hand were always padded and at the ready. I was glad I didn't get high with those guys, and soon after I never high again on something I didn't want to do.
Will Kill for Junk
In someways he was very very tired but he was never really that tired as long as it was present, in his hand, in his ruck sack, or in his veins, especially in his veins. Through 14 foreign conflicts and the armies of four major European powers he had stayed high. It was the thing that made him different why he could lie in a hedge row in the rain with a sniper rifle for 3 days carefully controlling his timed injections of Dexedrine and morphine so he was always awake feeling no pain but never nodding. In the nod he might miss his target and making the shot was only thing that made him feel anything real if only in that brief instant of the muzzle flash and the vaporizing blood cloud around the exploding head of his intended.
His record of confirmed kills (and the whispered rumors of twice as many unconfirmed) kept the brass from wondering why he was in the infirmary getting opiates for a spinal cord injury that never showed up on xray or slowed him down in brutal training exercises. When he began freelancing for the intelligence services was when the blinds on his secret addiction were lifted and he was offered whatever opiate he wanted (pharmaceuticals were recommended as they were easily explained on expense reports) as long as the job got done his reputation preceded him and he was never without IT. Some thought they could control him with it but being forced to seek it on his own only whetted his appetite. He knew where to cop in any country on earth.
Why was he still here? Why stick around on this earth causing mayhem and death with his only purpose to stay loaded and kill the men he was sent to kill? He was waiting for a call, and one day that call came.
"Mr, Louis?"
"Who's calling?"
" We have completed the final test on the machine, we can reach the date in question, your target is John Wilkes Booth"
"Is this line secure?"
"It won't matter if you complete your assignment."
" I guess you're right. I'm on my way"
His record of confirmed kills (and the whispered rumors of twice as many unconfirmed) kept the brass from wondering why he was in the infirmary getting opiates for a spinal cord injury that never showed up on xray or slowed him down in brutal training exercises. When he began freelancing for the intelligence services was when the blinds on his secret addiction were lifted and he was offered whatever opiate he wanted (pharmaceuticals were recommended as they were easily explained on expense reports) as long as the job got done his reputation preceded him and he was never without IT. Some thought they could control him with it but being forced to seek it on his own only whetted his appetite. He knew where to cop in any country on earth.
Why was he still here? Why stick around on this earth causing mayhem and death with his only purpose to stay loaded and kill the men he was sent to kill? He was waiting for a call, and one day that call came.
"Mr, Louis?"
"Who's calling?"
" We have completed the final test on the machine, we can reach the date in question, your target is John Wilkes Booth"
"Is this line secure?"
"It won't matter if you complete your assignment."
" I guess you're right. I'm on my way"
Ode to Rudy Rodan
I felt it that day I felt it all as I ran up the stairs two at a time. At the top of the third floor I spun a tight u-turn and skipped to the end of the hall . The keys were magically in my hand and I made the special half twist and shake with my hand to silently open the door. I was in the tunnel everything was fine. Shari saw me from the living room couch as I entered her bedroom.
"What the fuck are you doing here Wallace Beaver! I broke up with you a month ago! Get out Get out Get out! " her voice rose in pitch level straight to hysteria.
" I told you I was crazy baby, remember?" I calmly stated though chattering teeth as I pulled the top off a can of red spray paint.
I gave it six rapid speed shakes as my finger found the button on the top of the can and I focused on the beautiful expanse of white wall over her bed. These old buildings with their solid plaster walls heavy with the grime of generations, I love them so.
My arm swept up in a precise arc I could never repeat on purpose if I tried a million times and the can hissed as I liberated myself of the image burning on the inside of the front of my skull. It wasn't a bad word or anything about Shari, but I knew she would understand, I had explained all this on several occasions after I'd fucked her senseless. I'd repeated my mantra enough I'm sure that she could grasp my intention at least subliminally.
A perfect circle! I'd pulled it off in one move! There was a little side spray of paint on the tops of the giant pillow and stuffed animal pile but a little paint thinner would take care of that later, much later.
I reached in my messenger bag for the second can and felt something tugging at my arm and a loud rushing noise in my ear.
"Wallace! Wallace! WALLACE! I'M CALLING THE POLICE YOU SICK BASTARD!"
Shari's voice sounded as if it came from far far away like the galaxy in Star Wars. I had the blue can now and the details began to emerge , the delicate flowers and hearts that covered the skin of the sacred satyr that represented my love for Shari. It didn't matter that she had broken up with me I wasn't upset, but this work was unavoidable , a bullet train of intention that I myself had no power to stop. My feet felt numb my legs were shaking but I kept on, now the green!
I swung the can towards the wall, time for another perfect circle! But my arm jerked and my muscles spasmed and my arm would not rise it was trapped. I turned my head to the side and saw the reflection in the mirror over the dresser. The boys in blue! Two of them behind me holding my arms, they weren't worried, I wasn't worried, we were old friends.
"Wally, are you done now?"
"Yes sir, thank you."
"What the fuck are you doing here Wallace Beaver! I broke up with you a month ago! Get out Get out Get out! " her voice rose in pitch level straight to hysteria.
" I told you I was crazy baby, remember?" I calmly stated though chattering teeth as I pulled the top off a can of red spray paint.
I gave it six rapid speed shakes as my finger found the button on the top of the can and I focused on the beautiful expanse of white wall over her bed. These old buildings with their solid plaster walls heavy with the grime of generations, I love them so.
My arm swept up in a precise arc I could never repeat on purpose if I tried a million times and the can hissed as I liberated myself of the image burning on the inside of the front of my skull. It wasn't a bad word or anything about Shari, but I knew she would understand, I had explained all this on several occasions after I'd fucked her senseless. I'd repeated my mantra enough I'm sure that she could grasp my intention at least subliminally.
A perfect circle! I'd pulled it off in one move! There was a little side spray of paint on the tops of the giant pillow and stuffed animal pile but a little paint thinner would take care of that later, much later.
I reached in my messenger bag for the second can and felt something tugging at my arm and a loud rushing noise in my ear.
"Wallace! Wallace! WALLACE! I'M CALLING THE POLICE YOU SICK BASTARD!"
Shari's voice sounded as if it came from far far away like the galaxy in Star Wars. I had the blue can now and the details began to emerge , the delicate flowers and hearts that covered the skin of the sacred satyr that represented my love for Shari. It didn't matter that she had broken up with me I wasn't upset, but this work was unavoidable , a bullet train of intention that I myself had no power to stop. My feet felt numb my legs were shaking but I kept on, now the green!
I swung the can towards the wall, time for another perfect circle! But my arm jerked and my muscles spasmed and my arm would not rise it was trapped. I turned my head to the side and saw the reflection in the mirror over the dresser. The boys in blue! Two of them behind me holding my arms, they weren't worried, I wasn't worried, we were old friends.
"Wally, are you done now?"
"Yes sir, thank you."
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