Ultra Fucked (Part 2)

Well, its been however long it has since I had that crazy night whose hangover was so awful it inspired me to start a blog. I still haven't showered since then, and god oh god do I need to. I deserve to. I owe it to the world and society that I take a shower, but i still haven't. I'll take one tomorrow.

I've been sleeping in my insanely sad, dirty excuse art studio since that night, on a hammock strung from wall to wall in front of the low-brow interview stage I've built. I threw a pillow and some memory foam on top of it, and even in the cold Florida winter, I'd have to say its pretty damn heavenly when you put a goose-feather comforter over it. The comforter is starting to smell, though, and so am I. I could use a good meal, too. Last night I emptied out a can of baked beans and heated them in a pot, gulping down the entire can out of the pot with the help of a plastic spoon. Tomorrow night I shall go out for sushi, or fillet, perhaps. Or perhaps I will just sit around drinking coffee, thinking about painting, or writing, or drinking alone. Or drinking in the scuzziest bar I can find just to see what sort of riff raff I encounter trying to gain a fresh perspective on things.

Either way, I still have not paid my rent for the month. I haven't heard from the landlord of the small warehouse garage I call my art studio, yet, either. I'm not sure if he hasn't noticed or if he just doesn't care. Either way, hopefully I will hear nothing from him. On the first of the coming month, I'll give write him an extra fifty bucks on the check and leave a little note with it in his mailbox to let him know I'll at least give him a monthly extra ten percent of my outstanding balance until I can repay him the principle in full. He has my phone number, even though I screen all calls and don't return calls for days. Exclusive telephone communication is a privilege, not a right!

I believe I trailed off from my story of ultra-fucking myself last week somewhere between the strip club and the bottle club. I'll get back to that in a moment. This past week I have only been leaving the studio via skateboard to collect beer and living supplies from the gas station down the street or to The Mental Lounge for coffee breaks from doing hardly anything you can call constructive.. Despite that, I have some interesting experiences. In my experience I have found strange places attract strange people. If they're truly strange, they bring out the odd quirks in everyone instead of scaring them away. Some people just aren't ready to let go, though. Fear is a hungry beast, and some people don't know what it feels like to be its lunch. Do you? Have you ever been Fear's lunch? Sometimes it just picks you up and gobbles you down before there's anything you can do about it. Sometimes, you still walk away. Sometimes, your changed forever. You can love it, embrace it, or you can run from it, and try to hide. Those who have been there, though, will know that constant look of the fear of fear in your eye. Some of us will try to help you, the others will poke at it, and laugh, and try to force you to face it. We know you don't to, but god help us, we'll show you the mirror.

So the bondsman, one big black man, and myself went to the bottle club. All of the last calls had come and gone through the rest of the city and here we were at the place that kept on drinking and doing whatever the hell it was they did all night. I had never been. I always imagined a place where you  brought your own bottle of booze, paid a cover at the door, and sat around in a nice drinking environment sharing booze with the other flies who ended up there that night. It was sort of like that, but still not quite what I would call parallel with my vision.

There was a cover, but the bondsman and his crew apparently don't have to pay it, the door was held open and we stepped inside. The amount of cigarette smoke hanging in the air mixed with the black lights to make the place look a bit like a haunted house. Music was playing, but all I remember hearing, or feeling rather, are the heavy thuds, rolls and hums of large, loud bass smacking my chest with blasts of low frequencies. I usually seek out scuzzy places, but I try to find them when I'm still at least half sober so I can feel the place out so I how to handle things before I am a blithering drunk. I still wasn't quite blithering, yet, though. However, it wouldn't be long before I staggered across that line.

The three of us walked up to the bar, and the bondsman asked what I wanted. I asked for a tall glass of wild turkey with a splash of coke, but they didn't have it. I settled for Jack, instead. While the bartender made my drink I tried to surmise how the whole after-hours drinking club thing worked, the Jack came out of a stand-up fridge with a Pepsi logo on the side filled with various other open bottles of booze capped with cone paper cups. I have no idea if people are traditionally supposed to bring their own bottles of booze to contribute or what, but the bartender asked the bondsman if my drink was going on his tab and he said it was. I do know that much. They also have draft beers, which confused me further, as the place was known as a bottle club.

The woman in the place looked like some of the same ones you could find standing on the street corners in a not so far away part of town. Perhaps they were indeed some of the same ones. Before I even made it through my first drink the bondsman ushered me over and asked me if I wanted to get some blow with him; it was expensive, and supposed to be really good. I had heard the ol' "this is really amazing shit" line before, and had my doubts as to the quality of the product, but I didn't give one bit of a care. "fuckin a," I told him. "I could use a little up and up." I had been drinking steadily for five hours and all the excitement was wearing me out, and I didn't know how long we were going to be at this strange place, it was the bondsman's birthday, and I didn't really have any fucks to give about much of anything. It all seemed perfectly reasonable to me at the time, and it gives me a little bit of a chuckle in hindsight.  "Come on, follow me into the bathroom to meet this guy," the bondsman said. Oh yes, it was clear the glamor of the night was beginning to shine through.

The bondsman, some twitchy bald guy with long hair coming from the back of his head and a fat mustache on his face, and myself huddled in the tiny bathroom and I pulled a fifty out of my wallet. I handed it to the guy and he left. I looked at the bondsman, who apparently already had a the bag. It was a tiny little thing, and I suspected the bondsman had pulled a little out already by the looks of things. I wasn't going to raise any questions about the exact measurement of such a tiny amount of something so vicious, though.

The bondsman asked if I had a knife on me. I hadn't carried one since I broke my switchblade practicing my knife throwing abilities on the green-screen wall in the art studio. I have gotten another and started carrying it again, though.

The loud bass from the speakers penetrated the bathroom and my head. I swayed, and the bondsman told me, "That's alright, we don't need a knife." He pulled out a hard pack of Newport cigarettes, and tore a little piece of stiff paper off of the cover piece. He folded it longways and scooped a little bit of the powder onto it, then holding it out to my face. I hovered over it, then ZIP! Up the snoot-shoot it went.

It was fantastic! Some of my wits instantly came back to me, and something else came with it.  My eyes went wide, a smile spread across my face and I slammed the rest of my drink with one quick gulp.  The bondsman took a scoop for his own nose, and then I took another for mine before heading to the bar for another drink. By the time I left that bathroom, my balls had dropped and I was strutting around like I owned the place.

To be finished soon..

Ultra Fucked (part 1)

The Reasonless Beast broke his chain and went out on the town last night.  He took my wallet and rent money and threw it to the dogs.

Yesterday evening, an associate of mine asked if I would care to meet him for drinks at an Irish pub on Seabreeze Blvd, here in town. Seabreeze is where all the hipsters and cool cats go to jive and force laughter at each other's bullshit jokes and show off their new haircuts and fashionable punk attitudes. Its not a bad street to bring a nice woman to loosen her up for the old heave-ho later in the night after you try to make her giggle at your own bullshit jokes while sipping on poison, waiting for nervous, sexual tension to leave the room while elephants are welcome to stay as long as they'd like.

My associate picked me up at nine o'clock from a private club and music venue I had skateboarded earlier because the starter on my motorcycle had become dysfunctional and I had to smoked too many cigarettes to have the breath to push start that heavy machine.

We had sat and carried on with our Thursday tradition of drinking seventy-five cent PBR and discussing our future endeavors and current aspirations. Dollars were being fed into the jukebox by socialites and pop music kept coming out; not the sort of stuff I prefer to hear drinking in a pub, but that is just the way the cookie crumbles on Seabreeze. By the time I was a three or four pints in to the evening, my associate had a small circle of friends standing around him laughing. Talking. Touching. Kissing. I couldn't detect any valid emotion in any one, just some kind of satisfaction to be near people as desperate for social interaction as they themselves. They stood, clustered near the seat I kept at the bar.

Another three or four pints later, they had found a table large enough to hold the entire group, and so they went to sit and giggle at bullshit. They pulled me to it. I beckoned to the bartender to bring me another one. I started loosening up a little, throwing my own two cents of pure bullshit into conversations. Another hour passed, and my associate asked if I was ready to get out of there, his wife was wondering when he was coming home and the witching hour was already drawing near.

We made our way out of the pub and onto the street. There were at least six bars, or clubs or whatever you want to call them with their doors open between us and the car. Before we passed the first one, my associate leaned to me and said:

"Yo, lets stop in here and get one more drink. Just to see what's poppin'."

I didn't contest and we stepped through the doors, receiving wristbands on the way in. More loud, fresh, computerized pop songs drowned any constructive thoughts one could've had. At the bar, my associate ordered two jager-bombs and went to the bathroom so I would pay. He had been bumming cigarettes from me all night, but I bum them from him when finances are tight. Finances were indeed tight, though, so it was getting on my nerves. Both my cash supply and my nicotine supply were tight. I had over five hundred dollars in my pocket though, but all of it except for a crisp ten dollars were intended to pay the month's rent for my art studio I've been living out of.

The bartender brought our shots. "Four dollars," she said. I asked her if that were for both, and it was. Good god, that is pretty cheap for two shots on Seabreeze. I grumbled at the thought they were watered down. My associate returned and I handed him the little cup of booze and Red Bull.

"To money," he said. "To the future," I replied. Bottoms went up. My head tilted back as the mixture of booze and energy drink slid into my mouth and my tongue went to the roof of my mouth and my eyes fell shut in ecstasy. I swallowed the mouthful and a warmth spread down my throat and into my chest. Comfort spread through my nerves from my scalp down to around my face through the thin muscles, moving like electricity around my chin, down my throat, out my shoulder into my arms, hands, fingertips, through my core into my penis, down my thighs legs, feet and toes. I went to the moon and back in a split second, and when I came back, my cares, concerns, contemplations and judgemental social outlook were all gone. They stayed up there, in space. They would not return from the nether until the morning. The drink was not watered down.

I opened my eyes and they felt fierce with energy. I was in the now, in my mind, and nowhere else. I knew what I wanted. "Another?" I asked my associate.

"No man, I'm good," he said. "Fuck that," I said to myself, motioning to the sexy bartender for two more. She brought them, I paid her. A hand clapped against my back. I turned around and the bail bonds slash bounty hunter whose office neighbors my art studio was there. "What's up you crazy motherfucker?" He asked. "Nothing man, what brings you out here?" I asked in return. "Nothing man, its my birthday, and I'm trying to fuck this black chick over there." I offered him a shot, but he declined, holding up a cup of vodka. I handed a shot to the associate I came with. "Well, alright man," he said, like I was twisting his arm. I wasn't. Bottoms went up once more, and it was just as good as the first shot.

By the time my nerves had calmed from the drink, my bondsman friend was leaning into my ear. "Hey bro, we're gonna walk over to the stripclub, you wanna come?" I leaned towards my associate, telling him: "Hey, come on man, lets get out of here," and I started walking towards the exit with an unjustifiable lust for balls-out self indulgence.

My associate caught up with me outside and asked "hey man, where are we going?" We joined up with the bondsman and two big black guys. "The strip club," I replied to him. "The what?" he seemed to exclaim more than ask. "We're going to see some titties," I told him. He didn't seem to know what to say or do, and I could tell he battled with his consciousness for a moment with me, the devil, on one shoulder, and the little Puerto Rican girl he's been cheating on his wife with on the other shoulder, both whispering naughty words of seduction into his poor mind's weak will. "Alright," he said, letting out a little nervous chuckle. "Let's do this."

Before long we were across the street and going through the large double-doors into the windowless building. The bondsman and his group were welcome with fistbumps, my associate and I were asked for a five dollar cover. I paid for both of us and went to the bathroom for a much needed piss. I stood at the urinal, holding my penis, watching my piss splash on the porcelain and hoping none was ricocheting back onto my pants, when an old, frail black man with a bowtie came in and sat on a stool next to the sink behind me. I looked at him and he looked at me as I continued to tap my kidney. What the fuck, I thought. It was an odd moment. I dribbled out the last of my pissings, gave a little jiggle from my knees, and tucked my penis back where it goes, zipping it up for discretion, security and privacy. I went to the sink to wash my hands, but there was no soap dispenser. Instead, the old black man took a pinch of powder from a basket and sprinkled some upon my hands. I gave him a look that said, I'm enjoying this as much as you are, buddy, and scrubbed my hands for a second. Now I found there were no paper towels. The black man produced some from a secret location and offered them to me. "Thanks, pal," I told him. I dug into my pockets and found a dollar. I tossed it into his tip basket. He never said a word, and I am thankful for that. While I am in a dimly lit windowless establishment to pay sad, broken whores to tempt me with their body, I prefer not to have an old black man in a bowtie to oversee my pissing and hand washing or to make sure I am not doing anything illicit in the restroom. 

I joined the others at the bar. "Where'd you go, get a dance?" the bondsman asked me. "No, no, just took a piss while a black man watched." His big black buddies furred their brows towards me. I gave them a little wink before ordering a beer from a young woman in a g-string. She brought my beer and I handed her a one hundred dollar bill, asking her for some singles in my change. I gave five or ten of those singles to my associate and took my beer to the stage. He did not follow. I stuck two dollars in the collar of my shirt and sat there like a pervert for a bit, watching naked, young women shove their pussies and tits into other men's faces while sipped my beer and sucked on a cigarette like it was my own cock and only friend, until I grew tired of waiting for my turn with the ladies and went back to the bar.

I remained at the bar, mostly naked women came and went, trying to hustle drinks out of me or to get me to pay them bring me to the back room and take off the rest of their clothes and grind on me and clap their tall heels together in front of my face, but I blocked their attempts just for the fun and sport of telling whores no.

Somewhere around here I remember receding into my mind just long enough to find a nice comfy intertube to climb in and shove off to drift along the lazy river in my mental paradise as I sipped on another fresh, delicious beer. I lit a cigarette and took sweet, slow drags as I surveyed the room through my glasses. There was finally some good music coming out of the speakers, whatever it was, and there were at least four sets of fine, suckable titties up on the stage, all accompanied by curving little asses, tight bodies, and a pair of hands gripping long, shiny poles, hoisting the rest of the packages up into the air to thrust, seduce, satisfy, luring cash right out of pockets. Can't swipe a credit card in any stripper's ass that I've ever seen, not that I've got any working plastic, anyhow.

The next wave of events is still a little hazy, but things clear up after I started drinking bourbon. My bondsman friend said he was leaving the strip club, and I asked where the birthday boy was going. He said he was off to the bottle club. I asked my associate if he wanted to go, but he was throwing in the towel. Last calls were about to start echoing through bars and clubs all over town, and the bottle club was just opening it's doors. I grabbed my longboard out of my associate's car and hitched a ride with the bondsman and the big black dudes. We dropped off one black dude along the way.

To be finished soon.