Blog Archives

You’ll Notice some changes around here

Ok, so, you may be noticing some changes to the blog soon if you haven’t already.

  1. I have gone to a “private” setting so I can better mod things on here. (People seem to think I’m a “dbag” and an “ahole.” (My gut response is to say **** you haters, but…well, I’m trying to make money here, lol.)

  2. If you like the changes, let me know.
  3. If you don’t…let me know. *grits teeth*
  4. I have all the things linked. If a link is broken, TELL ME!
  5. If anything at all doesn’t work (a video, a stream, a telekinetically thrown goat, etc. etc. etc.)… LET ME KNOW!
  6. Don’t be a dbag to me or others on here.
  7. I have the final say in who is a douche and who isn’t…MWHAHAHAHA. This isn’t a democracy, this isn’t a “cheerocracy” (as Chuck Wendig put it *wink wink nudge nudge*), this is a Pagan Republic.
  8. All that being said…
  9. HAVE FUN.
  10. BE SAFE.
  11. …VOICE YOUR OPINIONS!

A White Boy in Downtown – Part 2: At the Trashcan Fire That First Night

I drove my 2001 Chevy Cavalier with the hanging passengerside headlight bulb and smashed bumper to downtown Fresno for the first time (other than for Jury Duty) in late January of 2012.

Why? You might ask. Why would a relatively affluent male WASP (white, anglo saxon, protestant) suddenly decide to go into such a dangerous, impoverished, and crime-ridden area?

Well, I suppose the root cause, dear reader, stretches back deterministically all the way to my childhood. So, because a life-story isn’t really necessary in this context, let’s just leave it at this: I wanted to try LSD or some other kind of “mind-expanding” drug in order to increase my creative and spiritual abilities.

What did I find in Downtown? Well, let’s find out together as I cast myself back in memory and time.


After an initial unsuccessful sojourn yesterday I know pretty much how to find free parking in the heart of Downtown. Passing the drab, dark stature of the Fresno Superior Courthouse and jails, streetlights play beautifully off the white paint of my Cavalier’s butt-imprinted hood. Occupy Fresno tents and signs lay, seemingly abandoned, to my right on the sidewalk of the Courthouse park.

I continue on smoothly thanking the Gods traffic isn’t horrific this time of night in Fresno. Sure, other cars pass by, but I’m so excited and anxious about attempting to buy an illicit substance from a genuine drug dealer for the first time that I just smile and crank the radio.

Brighter lights burst off the windshield and I squint a little before my eyes adjust. “CLUB ONE,” screams the casino sign on the corner of Tulare and old Van Ness. I smile more widely as the Chevy glides past into the relative darkness of Fulton Mall.

Once to H Street, I turn right. Finding an empty parking space is easy in Chinatown. No one really wants to be there other than bangers, hustlers, patrons, residents, and the owners of the shops and restaurants it seems.

I greet and pass by the few that are out in the area at this time. On my way down toward the deep dark of the industrial park on the North I begin to feel even more excited. I walk faster, both to stave off the chill of the night and the jitters of slight fear. Eventually I come across an old black gentleman.

I mention I am looking for LSD and he waves for me to come along. We walk toward the “Pov,” the Poverello House for the homeless and jobless, and I continue to make conversation. The man claims it is only about twenty for the tab of acid and I will have to stop. He succeeds in scaring me into staying away from the Poverello house.

I wait for half an hour just around the corner, hiding in the shadows of houses and trees lining the grungy, trash-heaped sidewalks. When I realize I’ve been played, I decide to venture around the corner.

Passing around the bend in the road to the left I am greeted by a dark street with what appears to be several squat encampments. Closest to me are clearly Mexican and Chicanos. I walk down the street toward the end of the Poverello house and its gates. I am hailed by a large, tall black man who I can’t see properly in the light of a washer-tub fireplace.

Apparently wearing a black leather jacket was a poor choice.

“You a cop white boy?” the man demands in a deep, booming voice.

“Fuck no, man. I’m just trying to score some acid,” I say.

I am invited to join the huddled people around the fire. Subjected to questions and scrutiny I am shortly asked to snort a tiny bump of coke from a key to prove that I am no police officer.

The coke is somewhat gross because of the drip, but it isn’t so repulsive as I heard it is.

After taking the little hit of cocaine, Teardrop, as I now know the first tall man to be, insists that even an undercover cop might snort coke. He demands me try crack. Perhaps it was the cocaine beginning to hit, but I feel very good and invincible. Shrugging, I take the pipe and follow his instructions.

I hold the lighter a little bit from the end of the “horn” and begin to inhale. It doesn’t taste bad at all. Except for a chemical flavor there isn’t much taste at all aside from an afterglow of butteriness.

It hits immediately and I understand why people enjoy the feeling, but the hit was no where near my best of the beginning days of my travels into Downtown. I feel faster, more intelligent, and elated. This is a form of flying.

I spend a few hours with Teardrop, just driving around to various hoods and to the motels. I am not offered another hit of crack the rest of that first night. Teardrop seems to want to keep me off the stuff when he realizes I truly had never tried the junk before.

After around 2 in the morning I announce it is time to go home. Teardrop demands I drop him back off at his particle board shanty and I do so before hitting the freeways to go home.

Why Modern Activism Is Often Merely Lip Service To Bullshit Ideals

NOTE: This is opinion,and personal analysis. I am usually a fairly accepting, friendly, respectful, and kind-hearted individual so: Take what you will from this, but watch the fuck out when dealing with me in person. If you can’t quite understand what I mean by that last…you will shortly or you won’t at all.

I am an Anarchist. No bullshit. No façades or delusions there.

366px-Anarchist_black_cross_logo

Long Live Anarchist Black Cross! Хай живе Нестор Махно! Vive la Résistance! ¡Viva la Revolución!

The problem with announcing anarchic politics is that Anarchy, true Anarchy, is not political at all. True Anarchy is the insanity of believing and espousing the belief that individual living things should have the basic right to do pretty much anything they want.

Anarchism becomes political because, and only because, we live in a politically governed system of linked sociological groups. A true Anarchist is, by the very definition, incapable of overlooking the vileness of politics imposed on inherently non-political species.

Most politicians, political analysts, philosophers, and activists want to make the ways of nature into some kind of political system.

NATURE IS NOT A FUCKING POLITICAL ENGINE YOU IGNORANT STATIST MORONS

*Ahem* Now, with that microrant off my chest we may resume this soap-box proselytization.

At some point you, reader, might wonder why I seem to take things so personally.

It. Is. Personal.

Whoever you are, no matter what philosophical, political, national, regional, or familial allegiances you might have, read carefully and buyer beware:

YOU have NO right to tell me how to live MY life. YOU have NO right to tell ANYONE how to live THEIR life. YOU have NO right to impose YOUR moral/philosophical/political ideals, rules, laws, and/or regulations on ME or ANYONE ELSE.

Grow the fuck up. Stop making things that absolutely DO NOT matter into personal attacks in your own twisted and brainwashed mind.

The next time someone with no direct authority, under the law or not, tries to enforce their own ideals on me someone is leaving either in a body bag or on a stretcher whether its me or not. That in mind: Be careful what you say. Words have meaning people. I am a snake in the fucking grass: Tread On Me At Thine Own Risk.

Human beings are human beings. Living things are living things. Regardless of any other observed status given to or accepted by an individual, everything living has a natural and unalienable right to three things: life, personal liberty, and the pursit of happiness. Your regional/national/state governments, laws, politics, and customs CAN NOT take that away from me and I will fight to the death to defend those rights in others if forced to do so.

I would rather die than live any other way.

If you don’t see things the way I do…get behind me or otherwise stay the fuck out of my way. Period. There are worse fates than death and some things more than worth enduring any possible outcome of fate.

Anarchy, libertarianism, non-Marxist socialism, anti-establishmentarianism, anarcho-socialism, anarcho-capitalism, equality, love, righteous anger, vigilante, punk, hippy, tree-hugger, world citizen, American, Native American, European, tolerance, peace, spirituality, collectivism, activism and humanism defined is me. (Assuming you must label me with anything as useless as human labels and words.) Economics, politics, and other contrived human bullshit has nothing to do with it. I don’t care what socio-politics we all end up with on this planet just keep your racism, sexism, misogyny, patriarchy, matriarchy, statism, liberalism, and conservatism away from me. Capitalist? Fine…be the best capitalist you can be. Communist? Same to you. Socialist? OK by me. Something else entirely? EVEN BETTER. We aren’t a conglomeration of labels and hash tags. We are human fucking beings. We are Alive. So live mother fuckers!

My rights, your rights, and the rights of those humans and other living things around you are divinely given. Pandora trapped Hope in the jar for all of humanity.

Stepping down from the soap box now.

Have an unbelievable day! 😀

In Earnest,

King Pollux ~ Adam Kristofer Walkingstick King

P.S. For the other activists out there:

If you aren’t willing to die for your cause and your ideals why do you have them? Think on that. Hard. And with feeling.

Good Prompt Today! Daily Prompt: Fast Forward

Today’s prompt is another one I can really sink my metaphorical creative teeth into as a sci-fi/fantasy/horror writer. (OK, OK, I didn’t see the prompt itself first…I saw this post [great pic by the way, Vic!] then found the prompt, so my response is a little skewed because of that inspiration.)

four_horsemen

Vasnetsov’s Four Horsement of the Apocalypse in all its splendor!

My most recent completed draft is a future dystopic utopian sci-fi novel. It is set mostly in the year 2063 aboard an interplanetary science/exploratory vessel. The world governments have conglomerated into three major “imperial” state-systems each with colonies on either the Moon, Mars, or both.

In that novel, entitled 2063: Odyssey of the Krasivaya Vesh, the protagonist comes to realize (through various transmissions and reports from other SpaceEx – members of the “Space Explorer” culture) that the utopian placidity enforced on Earth and in the colonies is merely a facade.

Other than that, I write a lot of poetry and fiction, both in short story and novel format, about death, apocalyptic warfare, and similar morbid/dark topics. I don’t really know the why behind this tendency… but I theorize that it relates back mostly to personal experience and knowledge.

Here is an apocalyptic poem (I’m very proud of this one, but, as always, could still use some comments if anyone notices a flaw in meter or any other aspect of poetry.) I wrote that I think a lot of people have tended to enjoy. Hope you enjoy as well, dear reader.

NOTE: This was carefully constructed, but was not written with any intentioned meter, format, or other poetic structure. There is, in places, a rhyming pattern and a meter that I think might be called iambic pentameter (or other similar pentameter or iambic rhythm…I don’t know, all I know is it sounds better read aloud than it does in my head, lol), but it is more fluid than most of the hard poetry that I’ve personally read. So, that said – happy reading!

Ending of Endings

Tensions gather: world in a trance

emblazoned leaves begin a dance

in the winds that sweep our Mother

{Gaea to all Hellenes;

“Earth” she be to other dress}

and dry the faces of the men

and women who brave the tosséd mess.

Soldiers training for the fall

in the war that will enthrall

the Earth and Peoples of the earth

and all the living in its berth.

Captains calling for a drill

in harshest freeze – Boreal Chill

that burns the faces of the men.

Soldiers all, march towards an end;

(An Ending Ends all Endings!)

Armies moving out to meet;

Anthropoi seek the shield or sheet;

{Perchance them luck allows avoid

a tempest raging on geoid}

and scorch the homes and towns and lands

of all that live upon the brand –

Herakles but overlay,

the Titan Lord the weight {wait?} betray.

Things are coming to a head

as winter cloudbanks: shadow steles

now are built ‘twixt Zeus and ‘Ellas.

All cower in the roll of thunder,

no Messenger now Basilei needs,

Announces Grim {his sky’s asunder}

FINAL WAR!: our hasted blunder.

Questions {myriad their number}

breech the minds

in wizened skulls:

those Few who seek now to preserve

some measure of our lost reserve.

Alas their charge came overdue

impotent force sees now this true.

Ares marches to consume

All that can {and can’t in gloom}

take up arms against his might!

Hades marching in the night,

Thanatos the grim he joins

in solemn, cold, unfeeling step;

Forge the rivers!

Smash the damns!

Hell is loose upon our lands!

Fires burning!

Bombs explode!

Earth had been his sick demand!;

This Ending Ends all Endings!

But from the ash

We’ll rise again

A thorn to mock the dreaded crash

And live to see the land restored:

Our time here never left deplored

Well, that’s that! I really do hope you enjoy it! I’ll keep posting poetry since I seem to be getting only encouragement and positive comments when I do so! Haha. Power of positive reinforcement there, I suppose. If you DO, however, see an error or something that you feel could be improved, please, by all means, point it out to me publicly OR privately. That kind of honesty and advice is always as welcome as compliments or other general comments. Whether you liked or not…I’d love to hear about it!

Have an unbelievable day/night!

In Earnest,

King Pollux ~ Adam Kristofer Walkingstick King

On Being a Misfit, an Outsider, a Lone Wolf

I saw this post on “vic briggs | a writer adrift” and it inspired me to write on the topic too. I saw that daily prompt (from yesterday the ninth) but didn’t really feel moved to post on the topic with how I was feeling that day. Frankly, yesterday (Thursday, Jan 9th) was just a shit day in most aspects.

In any event, I felt that it would be great to post a sort of personal response to Vic Briggs’ post explaining how I feel about being a writer and a weirdo (“weirdo” is my own addition and shouldn’t be misconstrued as calling all writers “weirdos”… though many are, 😛 neener-neener).

I’ll begin with a bit of a cliche. I always felt different.

In my case, however, that feeling different felt normal and I never felt as if I did not “fit in” as a child. That may not make a whole lot of sense to you presently, but, please, hear me out and I can explain.

You know that feeling, in the summer, when you go inside from the screeching heat? That feeling of complete and utter relief? When the thermostat may be turned up to a mere couple degrees below the outdoor temperature and it doesn’t fucking matter, you still feel relief?

That’s kind of how “feeling different” from all the other kids felt like when I was young.

I accepted the fact that I was different and also the fact that I could still fit into the social groups I was expected to fit in with. I could still “succeed” by the standards of my parents and teachers while remaining true to the fact that I was unique. Yea, even at a young age I could get a little grandiose and overly cocky.

Once, in the Third Grade, another boy and I made a game of prank calling the police from the pay phone (sorry, kids, many of you younger folks probably haven’t even seen one of those 😛 ) just outside the office. It was a blast! We knew deep below the surface that what we were doing was wrong. We knew this was forbidden. Someone had taught us this lesson already: calling the police when there is no danger is dangerous for other people. That was the FUN part about the game!

J.J. and I got away with prank calling for a few days just fine. The office personnel were always inside or far from the office during recesses. We figured as long as no one caught us in the act, it would be fine. Of course that meant I had to go off on my own and push the envelope just a hair too far and get caught in the act. (I usually knew/know when to call something quits, but in that case I completely misjudged the location of the stopping line.)

That was embarrassing! That single event, I’m sure, is the reason I tried so hard in the years stretching from then to now to do whatever I wanted without getting caught doing the things authorities looked poorly upon. I managed to cute-ify* and manipulate my way out of the prank calling incident and if I could do that I figured I could do it again in other situations.

See, from a very young age I was a rebel. A punk. A misfit prince of thieves and deception. Even as a toddler I was 95% pure mischief. Its that outer 5% of cuteness, innocence, and wit that kept me from ever getting into serious trouble.

I always had a relatively large group of friends and never had any trouble getting along with anyone, adult or child. My mother supposes that my learning to talk and read at a young age coupled with her own propensity to speak to me as if I were an adult while I was still in my crib helped me to learn excellent social skills in general. I am grateful (more than I can ever say) for my parents both, for their encouragement and nurturing. It sure wasn’t expected that I’d do anything other than what I wanted within the household. They just did their best to teach me how to want and like the things that would kill me, harm me, and do neither of those things to others.

Upon reaching junior year in High School (I believe it is generally also called “secondary school”, for non-American readers) I met her. That girl that I thought I would marry in my youth and naivete. Yea, well… dedicating everything of myself to anyone at that age and in the ensuing years was a major mistake.

So, it happened, that at the times I wanted to rebel the most I wound up with someone who opened my eyes to many truths I’d never had to face before. We were so different and so bull-headed and determined that somehow the relationship worked for us. Sadly, it didn’t work for any of my large family or enormous friend base.

Now, just over 8 years later, my life is only just beginning to regain some semblance of togetherness and health.

During those 8 years running from 11th grade to November of 2011 I went through the soul crushing experience of morphing from a confident and independent young man into a groveling, lying, thieving, wretched, crack addict. I had no friends. My family had all but given up on me (except my parents, they, of course, always held out hope). I was that lone wolf I always thought I wanted to be. I chose the Wolf and the Wolf chose me.

Moving from conservative Christianity to anti-Christianity to vague neo-paganism to Hellenismos was a hard process alone. I’ve been a Hellenic polytheist since late 2007. (Which happens to be the year I graduated High School and began attending California State University, Fresno and living, for the first time, out of my parent’s home and on campus.) I only just got the courage and fortitude to tell my parents mere weeks ago.

I’ve been a Misfit. I’ve been that Outsider of which true artists and vainglorious frauds speak. I am the Lone Wolf.

The only reason I’ve survived thus far? I also happen to have a pack.

I don’t walk alone as much as I felt I did for so long and as much as I thought I wanted to. Sure, it’s a marvelous feeling to “go your own way,” but humans are social creatures and no amount of lying to yourself will change that. The only way to survive for long as a “misfit,” “outsider,” or “lone wolf” is to find a “pack” of other outliers that you fit in well with.

That’s how I survived when multiple situations should have found me dead or in prison upon reaching their ending.

  • I’ve overdosed on cough syrup (just robo-tripping) and wound up in the hospital on saline IV drips twice then was 5150’d and brought to the Community Behavioral Health Center in east Fresno where I was 5250’d and only released ten days later because my parents signed me out on my own recognizance in their care at my begging and pleading
  • I’ve had guns in the hands of those more than willing to shoot aimed at my car
  • I’ve had people threaten to beat me up or kill me
  • I’ve been surrounded by gang bangers, cutthroats, and dope addicts who might have attacked or murdered me for little more than a sideways glance at the wrong moment
  • I’ve been addicted to opiates (mostly stolen hydrocodone pills, but sometimes oxy if I could get it free) as well as crack cocaine (sometimes using them both within a brief time frame)
  • I’ve been on the verge of murdering other men on more than one occasion (by on the verge I mean “so pissed or otherwise upset that I actually had plans for killing them in cold blood and getting away with it and came very close at least three or four times to actually acting out the plan”)
  • I’ve been handcuffed and arrested (then released) by Clovis PD for having smoking paraphernalia (a little glass crack stem) in my pocket while one of the brake lights in my brother’s jeep was out [NOTE: If you are on or coming down from powerful stimulants, have some drugs or paraphernalia in the car, get pulled over, and have never had to face the police while in such a state before… you’re probably screwed. Sorry, that’s just the way it goes. Those guys are trained to recognize the symptoms.]

I won’t go on here, this post is long enough. Still, if you’ve read this far: Thank you very much.

You few that read this and take something from it…I’d like the message you take from it to be whatever message you need to hear from such a topic at this stage of your life.

In the end, people cannot survive for long or very happily without other people. Even if you never associate with anyone in “mainstream” society somehow and cast yourself out as a misfit/loner/outsider/reject/lone wolf… you need socialization. Sure, you could survive for a while on the company of animals or imaginary friends, but you won’t thrive.

Surviving. is. NOT. living.

So, thanks for reading! I hope you take something out of this even if that one something is the conclusion that I am completely insane! ^_^ I AM!

DING-DING-DING-DING!! We’ve got a winner folks! Give this guy-girl/girl-guy/person (because honestly who can tell these days anyway and why does it really matter in the end when gender is more cultural myth than physical status?) the booby prize for recognizing the obvious!

😛 I learned a few years ago that claiming insanity actually means I’m not crazy. (Run that one through the old noodle and see what shakes out. Bahahahahahahahaha!)

Have an unbelievable day!

In Earnest,

 

King Pollux ~ Adam Kristofer Walkingstick King

King of Delusional Grandeur,

Prince of Thieves on Earth,

Demi-god Son of Zeus and Leda,

did the scribe list “King of Delusional Grandeur”?

Oh…so he did…good

ta-ta for now folks!

*Derp* Here’s the daily prompt!

A Question for You All!

Fairly self explanatory. I just want to know if anyone is even interested to hear my stories in the vein of “A White Boy in Downtown.” Telling my own stories and writing fiction are my ways of venting and getting things off my chest. So, let me know if you even care to see these types of posts. I can always make them private if no one likes to see them.

Thanks!

A White Boy in Downtown – Part 1: The Rock

NOTE: This piece of short “fiction” depicts graphic drug use. If you are a recovering addict and are easily triggered, DO NOT read this. If you are trapped in addiction and want to quit (whatever the substance, including alcohol or tobacco) you can check here, or here, or here (this is the program I happened to use when I got sober), or here, or you can just Google search “addiction recovery” or something similar. All links open in new tabs/windows.

This is the beginning of a catalog of my own experiences in Downtown Fresno. I don’t know why I started it in the middle like this, but I did. Though the exact events and occurrences are not necessarily true, these scenes are accurate to what my life became while addicted to crack cocaine. Some of the scenes are jumbled in my mind, so the specific flow is not strictly correct. However, these events, in one way or another, did happen to and around me.

If you are an addict, I hope to hear from you and see what you think. Whoever you are and whatever your circumstances are, thanks for reading. May  you at least find this interesting.

The man stands there staring at the ground as his girl screams at him. I avert my eyes. This shit is sick. Poor guy has no balls at all. Sure, feminism is great, but that isn’t equality. I can’t stand seeing men just laying down like that. Still, I guess it’s better than laying into the harpy.

As I round the corner onto G I wonder if the man will ever get off the dope. Apparently his habit sparked the explosion of vitriol. I am finding it vaguely amusing that an obvious crackwhore is screaming at her “man” for using too much.

Pushing the scene out of my mind I press on through the chilling wind. It rarely gets really cold in Fresno. Still, February is bitter enough for us California raisins. Probably about 43 degrees out and everyone is bundled up for the day.

I check my phone and curse. It’s already 9:45 A.M. The boys expected me half an hour ago. Quickening my pace, I begin to puff. On the upside, I’ll be warm when I get there.

Looking down Florence St. I see that white Ford Explorer brooding in the dirt lot across from the Gables. The Gables Motel is a hovel. As I turn the corner I confirm the identity of the “Exploder.” It’s definitely Rose’s sugar daddy. No seeing Rose for a while.

Blue, that scandalous bitch, waves from the other end of Florence just past the motel. I dismiss her with a slight wave and flit through the open gate in the chainlink. Doomee says “hey” and I smile.

“Doomee, bro, how ya doin?”

I shake his hand. One of those slide-pound deals where there is no actual shaking involved.

“Not bad, not bad, white boy,” he grunts.

Frowning a bit, “aw, come on now, man. I’m just white boy still? I been ’round for three months now.”

Chuckling and shaking his head, Doomee says, “N’aw, dog, I just can’t ever remember your name.”

Even I laugh at that.

“You like ‘White Chocolate,’ though, yea? I could call ya that,” he adds.

Nodding and forcing away the guffaws I try to get a little more serious. D is a good enough guy as far as Bloods go. More laid back than most of the younger crowd, he looks out for me some. Still, the guy must be only in his early thirties. Short and built like an iron worker Doomee sure looks like bad news. His skin is so dark it’s almost purple.

“Yea, that’s fine. I do like White Chocolate,” I say, “but, names aren’t that important. I got somethin’ for you.”

Doomee’s face goes straight. He turns and waves me into the corner apartment reserved for the manager. In the shadows of the covered hallway between the L shaped buildings, the only part of the motel with shade, we pass through the metal screen.

Once inside, D turns to me and grins.

“Alrigh’, dawg, you got my money then?”

“Aw, shit,” I say, smiling widely, “alright, alright, how much is it again?”

We both know I remember exactly how much I owe.

“Bitch, don’t gimme that shit, its forty an’ you know it!” Doomee says.

I snicker and slap two twenties into his hand.

“Chill, bro, chill. I got you, you know I always got you.”

He laughs a little and turns to the kitchen.

“So whatchu want? I know you ain’t comin’ down here just to pay up,” he said, back turned.

My pulse begins to race again. It always does this when it knows I’m about to score.

“Oh, I dunno, man. What you got? Same as last time?” I say, crinkling my face up slightly.

D turns back around after a tiny scraping noise. He’s holding out his hand. Four shining white rocks sit in the pink of his palm. I lick my lips.

Inside, I’m writhing. Every bit of my body is screaming “BUY IT ALL!” The small part of my rational brain that’s left, is whispering a saner refrain. “No, this is bad for all of us. Don’t waste your money. Get off this stuff.”

As I always do, I punch that tiny voice in the face and pull my wallet out.

“Shit, dog. That looks like good shit this time. Last twenty you gave me on that credit was whack,” I say, smiling.

My voice is still calm, but a little strained. This is the voice I hate to hear coming out of my mouth. It’s the addict’s voice. The drop of adrenalin pumping through me says it doesn’t matter. Still, I know that voice. Every dope fiend has it and every dealer knows it.

“Yea, dawg. Waddn’t no good that day. Don’ matter though, this is some cream. I watched Rob cook it, no soda at all,” D says.

I nod. Its bullshit, all crack has some baking soda, but probably not much in this case. Doomee usually gives it to me straight. Besides, I’ve been buying rock long enough to know that the little air holes in this stuff means it’s some good.

“Sick, man. What you askin’ for all of it?”

Doomee looks down and fingers a couple of the pieces. Rolling them over and feeling the weight he looks back up.

“This is dry and its real, White Chocolate. Gimme sixty, its worth eighty, but you always come through,” he says.

I smile, swipe the bills out of my deteriorating wallet, and shake his unoccupied hand with them. D tilts his hand and pours the big rocks into a plastic baggy.

“Thanks, D. This looks awesome. It alright if I step next door with Uncle Armin and hit this shit?”

I always ask. Sometimes Rob doesn’t like me hanging around too much. He’s the boss man ’round the Gables. Doomee shakes his head to show its alright if I stay for now. The younger guys all like me a lot. I guess Rob isn’t too fond of me for some reason. Probably doesn’t want a white boy standing around lookin’ stupid with no money. That’s what I was a couple of times.

After we shake hands and say our goodbyes I slide out the screen door. A breeze frisks me down as I round the corner in the shorter side of the L.

“Hey, Uncle! You there?” I say through the door as I knock on the red, peeling paint.

I hear shuffling from inside and the door pulls open.

“Oh, its you. Yea, I’m here, White Chocolate. Come on in!”

I walk into the little motel room. Armin gestures to the couch and I sit. The thin crescent around his shining dome always makes me smile. This guy is older than most of the people here at the Gables. He sits down in a chair to my left and looks at me then at the table.

Following his gaze, I see a pipe and some crumbs in a clean ash tray. With that little look of his, he’s asking if I brought some favors. I pull a rock out of my pocket and twist the bag back up without revealing how much I have left.

Uncle’s eyes widen a bit and he smiles.

“Damn, son, you got some cream there, huh?” he asks.

Chuckling, I say, “only the best, Uncle. Got a razor? Oh, nevermind, it’s here.”

I pull my own, clean pipe out and set it next to the cracked, blacked one on the table. Cutting four pieces off the large hunk of dope, I pass one to Armin. He loads his pipe and looks around for a Bic.

The lighter flashes into my hand from my jacket pocket and I pass it. Loading my own rock onto the brillo in the pipe, I breathe in relief and get another lighter.

Holding the pipes up toward the ceiling we nod to each other. Our lighters flick on and we begin to melt the pieces into the brass puffs of brillo. That familiar sizzling noise greets me and I wink at Uncle. Thin, tiny wisps of smoke waft up from the two pipes. We both turn the horns to get an even melt.

When that’s done we lift the pipes to our lips. They stick out, horizontal now, and we flick the Bics again. The tip of the flame hovers slightly below and forward of the barely quivering pipe-tip.

I begin to inhale through the pipe. Smooth and deep and the flame is sucked onto the brillo inside my piece. That crackle starts immediately and pure white smoke shoots into my mouth. I take a big hit. After about ten seconds of twisting the pipe and moving the flame to varying distances from the pipe I stop.

This is the best part for me. Holding the smoke in until I see spots and that ringing starts in my ears. It will hit hard when I breath out, for now I just sit back on the couch and look to Uncle. He’s already breathing out a thin cloud of smoke. I nod and he gives me an approving look. That buttery taste hangs in my throat.

My breath explodes with dopesmoke and I am rocketed skyward as the ringing begins in my ears.

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