I buy only organic fruits and vegetables with the money I earn from my job serving hamburgers, and on Earth Day, I walked to the bus stop instead of driving to work, and ended up sitting at the bus stop all day. Around 5 pm, I walked back. When I got home, I turned off the lights. I wrote a letter to my local newspaper about the poor bus services, which was probably filed into the shredder upon reception, if we are being generous (no one wants to have their carefully crafted bitch piece merely thrown in the bin, not even removed from its envelope).
Let me tell you about my problems, just in case that introduction there didn't really give much away. Nothing seems to work out, you know? It's a complete fucking mess. I will start at the beginning.
The Beginning
Rocky and I were driving around, looking for a good time (as is often the daily objective). Rocky was enjoying some ice cream, and I was polishing off my fifth beer, when we happened to come across a very friendly man who was stopping to talk to people in traffic with their windows down. Now, this wasn't just any two-bit schmuck asking for “spare change.” No, this man would become a very important factor in our lives. We just didn't know it yet.
He was willing to sell us ten dollars worth of amphetamines because he was quite desperate to purchase an alcoholic beverage. The desperation in his eyes was endearing to us, so we financed his drinking for the entirety of the evening, noting that ten bucks wasn't going to get us very far, especially since the sun had not even gone down yet. We both like to emphasise our shrewd sense of economic wisdom, and anyone worth their salt knows that making a $10 investment in speed is like going to a bar to drink lemon squash. Needless to say, we felt that we had made the right decision, and continued to drive along, making snarky comments about all of the ugly people in their ugly cars with their even uglier dogs.
Seventy-Two Hours Later (written immediately after the occurrences described)
Oh, shit. Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit.
I hate cleaning up blood. Fuck. I asked Randy, who sold us the speed the other day, what to do. But he is not answering his phone. That little fucking prick. He ripped us off, too. Son of a fucking bitch.
Words cannot begin to describe how I feel about the entirety of this episode, except that Rocky looked a lot better before the head amputation. The sort of guy you would feel good about going out to town with, you know? These days, it's kind of a drag. But I don't have the heart to tell him.
I ended up getting to know Randy pretty well, incidentally, because he was in eager need of more cash and I was in need of more stimulants, and like the start of all good friendships, we could do little more than immediately acknowledge the inherent value that we could provide each other. Randy likes to do a lot of cleaning, especially at the beginning of the week, when he picks up litter around our streets. The second half of the week is not quite so dedicated to the public good, because Randy is acutely aware that if he does not smash beer bottles all over the next door cafe, he will not have anything to clean up come Monday. He usually sleeps in the second half of the week, as well.
In between pulling nearly invisible shards of glass out of my pants and cleaning the build-up from the pipe twice daily, I occasionally venture to the kitchen, where I find that Randy has not eaten anything since 1994, except possibly half of a packet of BBQ-flavour instant noodles.
I am in a rut. The vodka is causing me to parse my thoughts with even greater levels of anger and paranoia, but the deceiving sense of coherency only continues to build. It is the feeling one has at the beginning of an evening when they have decided that something terrible is going to happen, but they have not figured out who will instigate the badness. If no one else is willing to do it, then I will have to do it myself.
The kitchen is organised now, probably to a point of tidiness that it may never see again. The matches have been arranged with the intention of great quantity & great distribution. We are looking at something truly outrageous in the making, and the only thing that could possibly stop it would be interference from that conniving, seedy bastard Randall. Where, oh where, have you gone, Randall? It's only a Tuesday, and I know you don't sleep on Tuesdays.
Come out from where you are hiding, Randy. I want to see your facial expression as I extract my revenge on your filthy, hopeless “kitchen.” Never again shall you fancy the thought of boiling some water to make tea, only to keep sitting down, for now you shall not possess a functioning kettle. Eat shit, Randy, and thanks for the drugs.
