A Mind Infinite

Infinity: The Views of a Dreamer

You Know I Wonder If They Fed Crank To Space Monkeys

‘ “I Wonder If They Fed Crank To Space Monkeys” follows the musings and antics of the protagonist Willie as he finds himself drifting through society as if he were a fly — or is he the bee? It is all for the reader to decide, whether Willie is the predator, the prey, the slick, the deceptive or a kind of anti-hero for a generation that has been left behind and disenfranchised. It is both a criticism of post-modern society, futility and expose of sex, debauchery, drug abuse and hedonism. Brace yourself folks, you’re in for a ride with this one.’

You Know I Wonder If They Fed Crank To Space Monkeys

                                                               

                “You Know I Wonder If They Fed Crank to Space Monkeys” is a dedication to all the lost, aliened souls that have continually entertained and inspired me throughout my life: This tale of madness goes out to you all, the drugged, sociopathic and deranged.                               

                            The Flame Always Starts Somewhere…

Like a fly buzzing by, isn’t it so clear that we’re just one little piece of the puzzle in a pointless little universe, is what so often I can’t help but think to myself. Every damn day I go through the same process of waking up in the morning, stretching around a bit, pouring myself a splash of the bitter liquid from the whiskey jug and retreating back into my bed. Desperately hiding from the terror of reality and life itself, but something about life just feels absurd doesn’t it? You wake up, the television is on and you hear the commercials constantly repeating their advertising, brain washing the populace with the mentality of “buy this buy that, do this, do that”. Anti-depressants, vagasil, genital herpes creams, car advertisements. Every single time it’s the same. Same old story every single day, followed by the same mind numbing show that still although, I want to look away I can’t.  Within an hour of waking up I just can’t help but, reach towards the pill bottle lying on the dark oak nightstand beside the bed, it’s an orange little bottle, with a worn out prescription labeling on it, “Diazepam – use as prescribed”. Use as prescribed? It should be a necessity just to cope with this world, with all it’s shit constantly raining down on you. The way things are and the mockery of a so-called Western culture that is degradingly, emotionally and intellectually stunting. Hell son, it isn’t getting better I keep telling myself.  An hour or so will pass by and then I’ll finally be stoned enough to get through the next two hours of reality. The artificially created haze of ambition sets in. Normal self-defense barriers rapidly disappear like clouds in the sky being chased away by the sun.  This is when the true nihilistic reality sets in, the world is a void; the people are little more than tiny black ants in their ant hill being controlled by the larger queen bitch ant.

                My name is Willie, if you were wondering which you aren’t because one things for sure kids, we all die alone. On my grave there will be a little epitaph stating, “Here lies Willie T.” No loved ones, friends or family to pay their respects or visit, just the destiny of rotting away and decaying with time. One day, nuclear bombs will rain from the sky and rinse away this entire planet out with atomic hellfire. Death is the natural process for which we are born; we are born to die. You know what they say with statistics; there are all these things that could happen to you. But one thing is certain, you’re going to die. No matter how healthy you eat, whether you smoke two packs of Camels 100’s every day for the next thirty years. Or fill your nasal cavity with the crank that a geeked out hillbilly shook up in his trailer. Face the fact, the only reason that we’re all here is to die. Maybe, I’m a bit apathetic but, when you live in a shithole off of government money with your old woman constantly bitching at you in your little shit shack of a trailer with your little shit shack of a life you have to be. You know where it went wrong? Conception, we are given no say in whether those who fuck are to conceive us into this world. Forced from a vagina I popped out a bloody little mess that would be beaten, scarred and bruised for the next eighteen years. How I ended up getting stuck with this cunt of a wife in this shit shack of trailer is a completely different story.

                You know, how they say those who work hard and make the correct choices will succeed? Let me tell you right off the bat, that’s bullshit. There’s no more venomous of a lie to feed children of tomorrow than that idea. A child right now is starving in Ethiopia, or is it Somalia? Who the hell cares, I say, they’re still starving and nothing is going to change that. All while an obese man sitting in his computer chair at home strokes his hot sticky load of sperm into a sock watching internet pornography. It doesn’t matter if Bill Gates donates a few million or if Bono pretends to care in his self-righteous voice about the African children. Here I am getting off track again, you know they say around town, “Willie, what are you rambling about you crazy bastard, you’re doing it again.” I just sit there spitting at them while I walk around in my drunken stupor. It wasn’t always like this though, once upon some twinkling supernova that’s burst by now and annihilated an unknown planet with life on it, I was one of the “successful” of society. I was considered to be a discovery making scientist on his rise to fame. I made patents for life saving drugs, helped them corporatize these discoveries into products and all I received in return was a big dick in the ass.

 What dick in the ass? The one of corporate America spying on you, pushing you down and kicking the ever loving shit out of you with it’s products and stupefying the masses. I was one of those lab geeks who published a major scientific breakthrough that kicked off big time, allowing those corporate big wig fucks to cash in on through the pharmaceutical market. The business men in their suits, made it so that it was no longer about saving lives and just a mere tool to profit off. Just as they did with oxycodone, ritalin and every other fucking drug, they could use as an endless means to stuff money in their pockets. Problem is, I sold it off for a few thousand dollars, had weeks of strong drink and snorted endless mountains of blow for nights at a time off the asses of call girls, I found off a sleazy escort company.

                It didn’t take long for that few thousand dollars to run down to a single thousand. With no refuge in sight, I wandered until I reached the nearest shit dump in the middle of nowhere, which so kindly is Yuma, Arizona. You ever wonder what hell would feel like. It gets over 120 degrees here in the summer, meth labs are exploding on a more regular basis than bombs in a warzone and one of the local ingrates always manages to die off. The people are brainless but, they’re just products of this culture, so what can you expect? No less, than this. You know what it is? It’s the culture of the bus people. The people who ride the buses, obnoxiously spouting on about things which they have no idea of, with their blubbers of lard rolling around as they waddle out of their seat with an ‘America #1’ hat on their head. That’s the average American and they don’t drive American made cars anymore, they ride Chinese made motor scooters because they’re too fat to walk. Which they use to go back to their Japanese made, mass produced cars because they’re too poor to afford anything other than that mass produced garbage. Like I said though, it didn’t take long to end up this way. It just took the promise of a coyote out near the Mexican border, that if I hauled some dope into Yuma with him, I’d be rich. What a futile joke that turned out to be.

                                                We’ve Only Just Begun

                I went down there to the Sonoran desert alright, it was filled with a caravan of midnight black SUV’s parked in a ring, along with brown skinned Mexican men waving around their shiny flamboyantly polished AK’s around as if they were toys. No wonder these guys can’t resist the urge killing one another. It’s just a macho activity to these narco cowboys, no business about it. No strategy in sight, just a bunch of cowboys playing around in the desert with automatic rifles shooting each other and sitting on mountains of coke, grass and crystal meth.

So I get out there right and by my side, there’s Jose. Jose is short, a little stub of a man, a Mexican Napoleon, shorter in size and larger than life. Jose is s a coyote who hauls bushels of grass and bricks of cocaine across the border. The word on the street is that his uncle is some big shot Juarez cartel player. It’s what all these Latino dope boys say to make themselves more macho sounding than the rest. He has a noticeably busted out tooth which is, more than likely from mouthing off one too many times. Jose has real thick eyebrows, black hair and a plain shaven face. The kicks he wears are these black skater type sneakers and the shirt he is wearing is gold and black, loose fitting and thug like. I suppose it really goes along with the whole culture of the criminal life that he’s devoted himself to.

                We’re standing there in the middle of the Sonoran desert while another caravan of red trucks, many with bullet holes and scratch marks on their side, kick up dust, circling around the black SUV’s. Ending, with these narco cowboys of Sinaloa out in the Sonora desert waving around their rifles and shouting at each other in an attempt to show who is in charge. One of them, a tall man with darker hair than the rest and a real scruffy unshaven facial hair, starts harshly yelling out words in Spanish. It’s getting tense fast and you can see the look in the eye of the guy holding the brick of the dope. He has that stare in his eye. The cold blank stare of fear lies in his eyes as if; he’s going to snap at any moment, starting a whole load of bloodshed.  Adversely,  you have Jose on the other hand who is just calmly walking up with his torn up leather suitcase in hand to the guy who has the dope brick in his hand surrounded by the other cowboys with the AK’s. Jose walks up to this guy like he’s peacefully strutting his way through a meadow, there’s nothing at all stressful about the situation to him.  You can tell by Jose’s strutting that he couldn’t give a fuck about the guns being waved around or the look in the dope man’s eyes. The two exchange their goods, the suitcase of money for the dope, and the dope for the money. The swap is done and they part ways, standing back from a distance, all I can hear are rough sounding Spanish words echoing from the mouths of some bad looking Mexican fellows. After that Jose and I just walk back without a word said, to the beaten up rusted out and now dust ridden silver Oldsmobile like it’s been a normal day. The beginning of the journey back towards the Mexican-American border crossing.

                Now beware, this getting across the border with a trunk load of illicit narcotics, isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’s an arduous process, you have, the drug sniffing dogs and those fascist pigs that look at you as just another smuggler, just because you’re crossing the border back into the “land of the free”. It’s the racist attitude they have which is ever so present in their mentality. Sure, we might be hauling a cargo load of dope in the back of the trunk of our car, but what does race even matter? Do you think only brown people and their degenerate poor white washed up friends can traffic drugs? What about those business men pricks that go out of the airport with condom loads of cocaine and heroin up their asses?  No one gives a shit about them and because of their connections; they usually get out of prison faster too. It’s all because those business men assholes have big fat cat business connections ensuring they remain immune and held on a golden pedestal. Guys like us though, if we are caught with this amount of dope in the trunk of the car, we’re fucked and we know that. The only reason, I’m doing this bullshit to begin with is out of hope that maybe I’ll get just enough money to survive another year. Just enough money in order not to drown my sorrows in the depths of a whiskey bottle and perhaps hang myself, later to be found by a Hispanic maid in a trashy motel.

                Those dogs are sniffing, but they’re can’t smell anything from the trunk of our car. The bricks back there are vacuum packed with all the air removed from them, no dog is going to smell that no matter how good old yeller’s canine nose is.  Here, we sit there jammed up in the traffic with people walking towards our windows trying to sell us everything under the sun. Until we reach the Lukeville processing booth where they check your passports and make sure what’s what. This fascist pig asks me to “state your business in Mexico”. So I tell him how I’ve been on vacation and went down to Rocky Point, getting drunk on the beach. He has the audacity to inquire further with, “any drugs or contraband with you today?” I sit at the steering wheel tapping my hands against it, thinking to myself; yes I might have some bricks of dope in the back.  In any regard though, do you think I would just say “yes, officer I have a felony quantity of Mexican dope in the back of the trunk that could get me sent away for 20 years?”  It’s exactly these types of things that just make me lose my faith in humanity just a bit more. Naturally, I innocently reply with a straight face and bright smile, “No, I don’t, you’re free to check if you want.” The bluff works and he lets us pass through. “Welcome to the United States” the sign says, all along the way out of there you can see border patrol cars everywhere. Little SUV’s marked border patrol just dot the area harassing people trying to flee the shitty conditions in their home country to a marginally less shitty life in the United States working for slave wages from a crooked old white businessman.

                Hauling down the burning black pavement at 80 MPH, it’s only a few more miles until I get to Yuma. Then finally Jose and I, who has fallen asleep by this point with an open can of beer spilled on the floor board of the car, can finally go our separate ways. The little magical drug dealer, drug buyer and now drug mule relationship can be over. If it weren’t for me buying some dope off him to begin with, I wouldn’t even be hauling this amount of dope out to Yuma. Why fucking Yuma to begin with I’m thinking to myself, why not Phoenix or even Tucson? What the hell is in Yuma is beyond me. At last, we get there just as the tank on this ’87 worn out Oldsmobile has finally almost reached it’s minimum, I get out noticing the tail light has died completely by this point and the bumper is almost falling off. Again, just how didn’t we get arrested?

                 Jose mouths off that there is some little bar and we’re best just walking to it because it’s only a few blocks up the street from this gas station we’re stopped at right now which looks rusted out and like it hasn’t serviced a soul in years. On the walk up there, I can feel the sun beating against my back and it burns like all hell. Jose’s striding along telling me about how we’ve hit the big one and man this man that. I’m telling him personally I’ll see it when it happens. We get to this rat’s nest of a bar after a two mile walk in this blazing sun. The place is called The Twister and would you believe it, it has a little graphic of a tornado on one side and breasts on the other. The place is dead when we get inside, no one is there and it’s dusty and dirty looking you can see flies swarming on the counter where there’s spilled beer. Surprisingly this place hasn’t been shut down by a health inspector, but then again is there even a health inspector out here? Jose opens his mouth again just barely and says the place we need to go is an office located upstairs and talk to the guy who owns the bar.  He assures me his name is Carlos and he’ll be taking this brick, which we’ve hauled all this way here like a dung beetle off of our hands and giving us a large load of cash.

                Up the stairs to the right is where I’m heading with Jose and I can see the office door at the end of the hall. I push it open and there’s Carlos. He’s a thick man in his mid-50’s with this 80’s styled porn star mustache and buckle boots, blue jeans and some Hawaiian shirt on. The guy just looks like a mess and doesn’t even greet us or anything. Jose asks him where the cash is and Carlos asks where the dope is, they swap back and forth these words in a pretty angry tone until Jose slides the dope out of his bag and sets it down on the table.  Now this is where things go bad, well as if they weren’t bad already but they’re about to get worse.

Out of nowhere Carlos pulls this old revolver out of a drawer, one of those old steel looking ones with the long barrel. He’s cocking it back and you can see that it’s filled to the brim with bullets.  Six bullets exactly are loaded in the revolver, enough to shoot us both three times once in the head, in the stomach and the kneecaps. Carlos shouts for Jose to “Hand over the fucking dope” and there’s an altercation as Jose perhaps out of pride or sheer stupidity attempts to reach for the gun and knock it out of his hand. My ears instantly ring and I can’t hear a thing, it’s as if my ear drums were blown out. The gun cracked and went off, I look beside me and I see next to me Jose laying there with a gaping hole the size of a melon in his thick skull. Poor stupid bastard, what a way to go ripped off by some has been washed up coke head.

This Carlos fella’ is screaming at me though telling me I ought to hand over the dope if I know what’s right , not wanting to get my face blown off or maybe just being too much of a coward to stand up and fight back at this point I kick it over. Now the guy’s kind enough to throw a thousand bucks or so my way, maybe out of sympathy that the guy I was here with had his head blown off.  Oddly comparable to the system of qisas in Islam where an individual who is responsible for damages which they have caused is ordered pay blood money to the family.

                                                Out Of the Fire and Into the Frying Pan

                A thousand bucks though, that isn’t a thing to me. It isn’t going to get me anywhere; I won’t even be able to get a decent apartment with this money. A month’s rent at the maximum and no food, so I’ll be sitting in an apartment with no electricity or anything else just starving and rotting away. I head out of that place like I’m a Kenyan distance runner, right out the door and I’m gone. The car is ruined, so there’s no leaving this town that way. I wander around on my feet and I can see a block up the street some strip club called the “Kitty Cat”. Figuring that it might be the best idea at this point to get a stiff drink and see some wet pussy and firm tits; maybe if I’m lucky enough, I’ll be able to buy myself a quick fuck. That’s of course if I play my cards correctly. I head into this joint, it’s pretty run down and there’s only one girl dancing right now. She has long blonde hair, lips that you know have more than likely sucked their fair share of dicks in their time; no really they’re quite fuckable looking and give me a stiffy thinking about it. What you can tell though directly off the bat is that she’s been around the block more than a few times; she has a rough face, but distinctive blue eyes.

                I’m sitting at the front of the pole she’s dancing at in a little cushioned booth putting dollar bills up the string of her thong right on her ass crack while she’s dancing in front of me shaking her sweet little ass right in my face, almost close enough to taste the asshole. It doesn’t take long until she asks me if I’d like to go somewhere a bit more private and judging by the hardness of my cock at this point I figure it wouldn’t be a mistake to let it loose and stick it in her.

                Who would’ve thought after fucking her in the nastiest ways possible from her ass, mouth to stinky pussy with either blemished skin or warts on it that this lady would become my cunt of a wife? It only took a couple weeks and my cash for the whole marriage thing to come about. She wanted Ol’ Willie T to live in her trailer and stick around for the rest of the money I had. So I moved into the shit dump of the trailer, bought her all the crystal meth she wanted and would live off the money she ended up getting on a daily basis from sucking dick and stripping. It was the life; you know the American dream finally came true for me. Here I was sitting on this couch watching Jerry Springer like an ordinary piece of white trash, taking hits out of the pizzo with each one, it getting more burnt on the bottom and more crystal smoke coming out of my mouth. I still thought about swallowing all the whiskey in the bottle and hanging myself, but maybe it was the pussy that stopped me from doing it. Perhaps, even it was the acceptance of this mundane life that really was the lowest of the low that stopped me from doing it.

                Friedrich Nietzsche once said “to live is to suffer; to survive is to find some meaning in suffering.”  Somehow I don’t think that Nietzsche in his life sat in a trailer on the outskirts of town with the sun blazing down at 120 degrees, turning this little metal box into a toaster oven. No air conditioning either, just a little hole in the roof. The hole in the roof has it’s purpose, beneath it there’s a little lab with some worn out glassware that’s been all used up. Most of it is clogged and filled with dirty remnants from being burnt and there’s black goo in it. Don’t be fooled it isn’t for a science project. In this part of the country there’s only three industries and that’s the human smuggling business, the drug smuggling business and the meth lab business. You could call me a jack of all trades if you want, I was employed in the drug smuggling business and now I’m an entrepreneur in the meth lab business. If my wife didn’t smoke it all I’d be just a bit more successful but that’s the cost of rent and getting her to fuck. That’s just the way with women no matter how many teeth they have, how cute their smile is or if there skin isn’t filled with scabs from scratching all over, you still have to pay for a good fuck. Even if you’re in a relationship you have to pay for companionship that might even include the ever-so bulging tip of your prick not even getting wet. It’s just the way it is and that’s the way it will always be.

                So the old bitch comes back tonight strutting around in those skank heels from a night of doing god knows what, but the way I see it, it most likely involved denominations in bills around the 20 range and sexual favors being exchanged. She’s in such a mood at this point I don’t think she’s had her fix yet, because she’s bitching a storm at me asking how long it’s going to take me to cook up the next batch. I’m trying to explain to her that things take time, it’s a process. Of course she isn’t comprehending one bit. The bitch has the audacity to tell me that I’m a fuck up, at this point screaming at me as loud as she can causing a stir and knocking some books over off a shelf.

 Its reasons like this I watch TV, the volume lets me drone the bitches voice out. The lab is still toxically smoking and if I’m lucky, I’ll have mixed something wrong perhaps, the Sudafed from drug store up the street, the lithium from batteries around the house or the phosphorus off the match strips. Maybe, it will either blow us to hell or send some toxic smoke killing the whole trailer park along with myself and the skank.

                Her bitching has stopped by now since she’s gone back to her room to lay in bed with her eyes glued open like an owl, fidgeting around waiting for more meth to be brewed out of this machine. She hasn’t slept for three days at least and she’s just getting moodier, I can’t stand it when she’s like this

Then all of the sudden, a damn commercial comes on the TV. An insurance commercial is playing, a fucking insurance commercial who would believe it. Insurance commercials constantly being forced into my brain, telling me I need this to be a part of society, as  if I don’t have car insurance or drive somehow I’m disconnected from it all. In order to be a functioning member of this society, it’s telling me you have to be another one of those brainless mindless consuming sheep.  The commercial is still going on it doesn’t stop, it is still torturing me. I can’t stand another second of it. Buy this, buy that; if you don’t own this car which emits carbon in the air and will destroy our planet, you’re not like the rest of us. 

The fact is Karl Marx had the right idea; the poor in the world are the one’s getting fucked in the ass. Perhaps that old bearded man wrote his manifesto after seeing how it all went down; he couldn’t help but stroll down the street one day and see a boss owner fucking the person working for him in the ass. He couldn’t just stand by while it all happened and had to start writing and telling other people how fucked they were getting by those in control. Marx had the right idea; we’re all slaves to this society, I’m just grateful he didn’t have to sit through a car commercial though. If he thought the excesses of the industrial revolution were bad, imagine that poor old man if he sat through his first car commercial. I don’t know how he’d handle it. It would drive him insane just like I am now.  That’s how the Russian Revolution happened. Russian peasants were sick of getting ass fucked by their royal family and bosses, so one day they decided enough was enough when they became so open about it. Look how that ended out, all those royal bastards were shot to death. Look how open they are about it now, it’s a surprise everyone sits still and let’s this shit go on here. Those cheeseburgers, TV’s, video game systems, flashy cars and lottery tickets are really all you need to control the American populace. You don’t need totalitarianism anymore, all you need is this commercialism and everyone just sits by and watches while some poor kid in Afghanistan or Pakistan gets a bomb from drone dropped on his head and is blown to shreds. No one cares and why should they; they’re stuck in their own little worlds doing their own little things. Yet, it surprises them why someone pissed off goes to town and blows everyone away with a bomb or a submachine gun.

 The only real things in this society are the events that cause mass destruction; they give the only real value. It wasn’t until 9/11 that they had their eternal day of mourning still going on straight for over ten years; it took them two towers blowing to smithereens to give their life some kind of meaning.  Those people didn’t care about a thing until then and now they just fake being interested in it. It’s the same with those school shootings, every time some kid shoots a few of his peers everyone panics. When a drone goes off somewhere in Pakistan, a bomb falls in Afghanistan or some kid gets ripped apart from a shell in Syria no one cares. No one even sheds a little real tear; it’s not surprising that’s just daily life.

 

                                                                The Big Batch

Looks like the batch is finished and here comes back that blonde bimbo out of her room in her bra. I really can notice right now in this moment of clarity that her tits are sagging down pretty low and the skin on her face is too. I can’t help but just say out loud how fucking disgusting she looks. She looks back at me with anger rushing all over in her eyes, slaps me down and knocks me off the chair I’m sitting on right onto the ground. The joke is on her though; it wasn’t just me that hit the floor. She knocked over an entire plate filled with shards of the meth that I just spent scraping out and drying under the heat lamp, right on the carpet. I’ve never seen her dive for anything more intensely in her life, not even cock. She drops to the ground for dear life and starts picking through the carpet like she’s a prospector looking for gold picking up whatever little shard she can. She snorts some directly off the floor and her nose starts to bleed and she gets all bitchy again going around the house in a stir blaming the entire incident on me and I can’t help but get back up off where I’m lying on the ground and smack her right across the face. I manage to hit it hard enough so it leaves a loud banging noise and you can see her visibly tear up at this point. Strangely enough, it does the opposite effect that I intended it doesn’t make her go away. In moments both of us are laying on top of each other on top of the shards of crystal meth and the soda stained floor fucking like bunnies during the spring. Intercourse like we’ve never had before as I hump her with my fat cock going in and out of her not-so-tight flappy air filled vagina. It all ends with a cum shot straight inside of her pussy and she’s just laying on her back in ecstasy while I’m scraping crystals off the floor and loading them into a pipe and placing it in her mouth and lighting the bottom of it while she smokes it.

Did I really just have sex with the pig beast who invited me into her home, took me in and enjoy it? It isn’t as if I didn’t enjoy the countless times which we fucked before or that it was new, but it was as if there was another spark to it. A sense of power had overflowed me and it was like nothing I’ve had in my life. Maybe all this time I was viewing her wrong, she isn’t my personal savior, nor is she my sped out Jesus Christ. She’s nothing more than a property to me; I’m the one that should be in control. It’s time for me to take back the manhood that was stolen from me. Suddenly rushing over me is empowerment that I haven’t felt before, I feel like a God. I can do anything, I can do whatever I feel like I could go across the street right now find a random homeless bum stomping his head in and knocking his teeth out and not a thing would happen. No one would look ill at such a sight, nor would one even care they would just all sit by bowing and worshiping at my feet because I’m the one in charge. I am finally the man.

A few days pass by after this incident, most of them are spent with me laying on the couch watching re-runs of old shows on the TV, most commonly the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air . The occasional action movie will come on too like Predator; you can’t go wrong with classics. It doesn’t matter though, I can’t make it through a single one, each time a commercial pops up I turn off the television completely and will turn it on minutes later completely, missing the spot I was at killing the continuity of the film or TV show I was previously watching.  The skank hadn’t been home in the past few days I almost was concerned for a split second as to her condition or safety, but then I realized I couldn’t care at all. I can’t stop thinking about what happened last time. I’ve been constantly obsessed with it.

I figure that around 12:30 PM it’s time to go into town. The skank usually drops off the dope I cook in this beat down to shit trailer but because she’s been absent for the last couple days; I assume it’s my duty to do so. “Where’d I put that fucking satchel” I keep muttering to myself over and over again while I search around the room trying to find where I put it. Finally, I manage to find it underneath the bed where some jizz soaked towels are on top of it.  I slide my hand over to the bowl where all the crystal meth has been deposited in and I steadily dump it into the satchel filling it with crystal, then pull a white Hanes tank top over my skinny bare chest and start to head into town.

Walking down the gravel road I pass by ducking my head. Right now, I’m trying to dodge this survivalist, Greg, who lives next door, that is convinced the end of the world is on its way. His trailer is even shittier than mine; it’s mostly used for the purpose of stockpiling weapons. The man has more AR-15’s than a sexually active Hispanic woman in her mid 50’s has pushed babies out of her vagina. “Howdy neighbor” he shouts so smugly.  This is the point where I know I have to say something when he’s telling me what a wonderful day it is, it makes me sick. A good day? The sun is shining down on our shitty metal trailers and I’m standing here hauling around a satchel of crystal meth up to some bikers in town trying to sell some crank just to get by another day. “Fucking perfect day isn’t it, right Greg? There’s nothing better than the sun shining it’s hellfire down on you, you know if I were made of plastic I’d be melting right now.” Greg snips back, “Well lucky you don’t have fake tits like your wife, otherwise you’d be fucked then” This comment gets a little snicker out of me, because it’s true. Too bad her fake tits have sagged all the way down, that’s what happens though when you get the silicon for your fake tits in the back of a hardware store at a bulk price.

We banter back and forth, Greg has been telling me how the majority of politicians are cold blooded reptilians that are planning to kill off 3/4th of the world’s population. I nod my head as if I agree with this ludicrous idea just waiting for the conversation to come to an end, so I can make my way up to town. This conversation with Greg just won’t end, it’s infuriating to the point where I would rather down a gallon of bleach from the hardware store, it doesn’t matter how many times I want to just say “got to get on my way.” Greg will just respond with something else like about this new security flood light he’s getting for his trailer to make sure if anyone creeps up in the night he’ll be prepared for the lawmen that come for his guns. If that flood light manages to shine through my windows ever so slightly, I’ll smash that fucker out. Naturally after the rambling of conspiracies ranging from the federal government, reptilians, claims that 9/11 and the Oklahoma City Bombing were acts committed by the Jews to control America just a little more, the conversation reaches it’s natural conclusion. The conclusion it’s reached isn’t as fulfilling as I’d like it to be, as Greg has invited me back to his trailer later for a few cold beers and the possibility of going out to shoot some wild hogs in the desert. I can’t manage to turn down the offer of cold beer and firing off some rounds to piss off the neighbors around the trailer park, so reluctantly I agree to have dinner with Greg. A sigh of relief rushes through me though because I’m finished talking to this crazy bastard with a bushy survivalist beard wearing camouflage pants and a flack vest, complimenting his beer gut and Budweiser hat.

                                                Ice Man

Here I am finally walking down to town humming to myself “cops smoke crack, get them in a pack, oink oink, throw them poisoned donuts as a snack.” Along my way down the street these hillbilly pricks in an old red jeep manage to nearly plow me down as they pass by. If only I had a rock I could likely have broken one of their windows or taken off the side mirror completely. At last I’ve reached the meet up place where the biker crank trade goes down. It’s this little Vagos club house called “The Play Den.” “The Play Den?” what more of a queer name could they possibly think of? You would assume that bikers known for running and gunning each other down would at least have the self-respect to make their place of business not sound like a homoerotic porn shop or gay bar.  It’s just another product of this sanitized culture, everything is worn down and sanitized away to it’s very core. Apparently not even motorcycle riding outlaws selling crank, vandalizing, raping and killing along their merry way aren’t even immune from it.

The inside of The Play Den is a rats dump, it’s a breeding ground of all the filth imaginable. Two transsexuals bare ass naked which look like twins with glimmering blonde hair are laying on a stage slowly having sex with the other. A group of bikers stand around clapping and cheering them on drooling from their lips while the two have a cock fight hitting their rods against the other. The one with the bigger breasts is wrestling the other with the small petite breasts and manages to get her head in a choke hold with her legs and her penis hitting against her face. The man I’m looking to meet is with the Ho Chi Minh styled beard is George Easton. George is sitting in the back in a booth watching this debauchery unfold. “Willie fucking Lee you motherfucker what brings you around these parts” he shouts at me as I get closer to him. I respond, “The skank’s gone, magically disappeared like Houdini did a magic trick on her. I figure she’s strung out in some crack motel beyond consciousness right now. So I’m here to take her place and do business today.”  He goes on with “Break out the shit, I don’t have all day” letting out a giggle while doing so. Out of my thin light green jacket I manage to pull the shards of meth wrapped in a blue bag and toss in on the table right in the middle of us. He’s pleased when he sees the package of home cooked trailer dope and throws over a wad of hundred dollar bills equaling up to 2,000 dollars to be exact.

At this point I’m a bit distracted by what happening on the stage. One of the rowdy bikers has gotten up on it, broken off a glass beer bottle and slashed her face right open with it. The blood is just everywhere at this point and you can see muscle completely exposed from the face. George is sitting there clapping and cheering him on the entire time while he proceeds to rape and mutilate this poor girl. “Now that’s what I call fucking entertainment” George screams out in what appears to me to be ecstasy, like it’s some type of religious experience. Now, George is the kind of guy who would call up your grandmother politely asking her out for coffee, only for it to end up with her being kidnapped and chained up in his dump of a club. An event with the ever so likely ending of the sadistic fuck snorting a pile of PCP that one of those cranked out Vagos cooked in a bathtub and making a snuff film out of the ordeal. In a nutshell that’s George for you, a man who likes violence for violence sake, just your run of the line sociopath.

The whole scene of the Play Den is giving me bad vibes at this point. I’m finished with my business so it’s time for me to get the hell out of this dump and I couldn’t be happier to be on my way. Along the way home, I find myself stopping off at a liquor store which was a few blocks from the Play Den. I managed to pick up a bottle of Jack Daniels and pay the man his dues with the dirty money I had shoved in my pocket. He gave me an odd stare like he knew there was something about me when I busted out the rolls of hundreds, picked through and handed him a lucky one to break. After that I wandered around town unable to get those visions of violence and sexuality out of my head. I kept thinking to myself as to how shocking it was and strangely erotic at the same time. “Where’s the skank”, I kept asking myself. In a way I’ve been missing the skank’s company and bitching at me. Without the skank I almost feel a little lost, like a puppy left out in the rain just waiting to get run down by a garbage truck swiftly driving by and leaving it there lifeless.

The world is spinning around me and my vision is split into nearly three. I spot a homeless man on the street and heavily vomit along my way because the whiskey is acting up with my stomach. Out of respect from throwing up so close to the man’s little encampment complete with a blanket, cardboard box and shopping cart filled with black garbage bags of his possessions, I share with him some of the whiskey. A bit of the liquid flows down his grey beard getting it all wet. The homeless fellow has a long grey beard, dark silver hair that hasn’t been kept up in possibly years, yellow teeth with a few missing and this wide smile. We sit there drink, remark about life and he’s going on telling me about how it all ended up this way; “I was a Vet, fought the VC and look what I have to show for it. I got nothing, they didn’t give me shit. No paycheck, no thank you. For the entire gook killing I did for those sons of bitches this is what I get.” I sit there silently, smiling and laughing along with him while he drinks the bottle of Jack with me.  The whole encounter confirms to me that this man, who at the deepness of all despair has reached the inevitable conclusion that, everything is pointless. Life doesn’t have a damn reason and you can’t control what happens. It doesn’t matter if the fox takes the road to the left or the right, one way he’ll get hit by a car and the other way a hunter will shoot it down and skin it for fur. There’s no avoiding the inevitable, there’s no destiny, it’s all just a series of random coincidences and sometimes the coincidences put us in the most depraved circumstances.

                                                   Whiskey Runs Dry

After polishing off the bottle we part our ways, he pushes his cart with the wheels squeaking its way down the narrow street. Thinking about the entire conversation, I begin embarking to my trailer. I’m just stunned from it all, thinking about events of the day in my drunkenness. I notice when I get back to the dirty hole that I call a home, that the lights are on. I push open the tin can door with my hands; it feels even heavier to open when you’re drunk. I can’t comprehend a thing and when I stumble into the trailer I almost instantly fall down on the couch right in the front and pass out on it. Hours later I’m awoken to sounds of really loud moans and thumping in the back of the trailer. In sheer curiosity of what the hell is going on, I rush to the back of the trailer opening the little wooden door to the bedroom. All my eyes can see are my wife being defiled by some random hillbilly looking asshole, the skank this time has taken it too far. I’m almost sickened as she shrugs me off “Baby, close the door on your way out”

A man with respect and values at times gets to the point of doing irrational things out of pride. Under certain conditions with the proper catalyst, he’ll do the most unreasonable act, no matter how heinous it might be. I reach into the dark wooden night stand at the side of the couch and pull out the slick metallic silver black gripped Ruger SR45, which I have inside of the drawer. Grasping it in my hand I pace my way towards the door, my mind is filled with rage, everything is rushing around in it and not a single thought comes out clear. I shove open the door to the bedroom, waving inside the semi-automatic Ruger SR45 pistol.  Her legs are still stretched apart and he’s thrusting inside of her while I’m gripping the pistol inside of my palms and aiming down the sights straight at the skank’s head. The pistol goes off as my finger smoothly tugs the trigger leaving a .45 bullet spiraling right in the back of her skull, splitting it open. The man on top of her at this point is covered in blood and skull fragments, he’s panicking trying to rush towards the window and possibly get out. He sits there screaming “Please God don’t fucking kill me, I have children. You don’t have to do this man. I didn’t know she was your wife. I didn’t know”. The words just go straight through my ears and out the other end as I send a bullet from the pistol ending in a cracking shot straight into his left eyeball. Brain matter gushes out like it’s jelly and he’s lying there in a pool of his own blood dead.  It was me; I shot down the skank and one of her late night fucks. I’ve never felt so mad, my mind completely twisted like a thick thorny vine.

Walking towards the ammonia smelling laboratory, I turn some of the knobs on it which control the gas, disconnect the hose and start it up on full blast. The only thing I grab to take with me out the door is a bag of the trailer dope, that I slaved over to make while the skank fucked around and went wherever she pleased and a sack of clothes. The metallic trailer bursts into flames when I get out of the door with the skank’s car keys in my hands to her white 2002 Toyota Sequoia. Parked next to the Toyota, is none other than that fucking red jeep from the other day what are the damn chances of that?  Greg rushes out of his shit can of a trailer screaming his head off that “It’s fucking happening what did I tell you Willie. Fucking Waco, the ATF is doing it again. They’re coming for my guns and I’ll blow all those bastards to hell. From my cold dead hands those motherfuckers will get my guns. It’s my constitutional right, my constitutional right!” He’s too taken up in his own psychosis to realize what actually happened and he goes into the barricaded bunker he spent years building up and stockpiling weapons in discreetly.  Meanwhile, I start the ignition of the Toyota and slide my way across the endless black pavement past that damned red hillbilly jeep parked next to the trailer in flames. I have no idea where I’m going, if I stay here I’m fucked, those fascist pigs won’t think a thing to incarcerate me behind bars for the rest of my life for this deed I’ve done. Mexico, I tell myself rambling on, Mexico is where I’m going they won’t get me there. They won’t have a chance of capturing me there, that’s where I’m going straight to Mexico. I have a few thousand dollars, the dope sitting in the passenger’s seat of the car and the skank’s blowjob money in the glove box. It ought to be enough to get me all the way straight to Mexico.

Passing me by are police vehicles with their blue and red sirens flashing on and off, following behind them a red fire truck rolling down the pavement with its horn loudly blaring. They don’t have a clue while I drive by with a little smirk on my face that it was me who did the deed they’re about to find. They haven’t the faintest clue that the man driving past them right now on the right side of the road is the monster that blew the skank’s head off with the metallic black gripped pistol and shot down her man in the night. 

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This entry was posted on March 19, 2014 by in Creative writing and tagged , , , , , , , , .
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