American Grafilthy

Posted: October 16, 2010 in Short Stories
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

American Grafilthy

Edaurdo Jones

11:00 am – I’m Awakened; by an angry Verbs bitching, about being behind schedule.

“Wake up you yellow -bellied bastard we’re way behind schedule! Pack a bulb for me and Slimmy. Oh, by the way Catlin spilled the last of your ether all over the blackjack table.”

This is neither the voice nor the statement I want dragging me out of my dreams. Its Verbs, and I can tell by his tone it’s going to be one of those days. He’s one of my closest friends, a fun character who honestly doesn’t give a flying fuck about anything but having fun, writing graffiti, and getting high.  Slimmy is my other partner in crime. He’s a DJ/music producer who also happens to really not give a fuck about much besides music, fun, and drugs either. The three of us are kind of a match made in hell. We’re constantly on some sort of epic misadventure. Why this is? I don’t know. It probably has something to do with the fact we are rarely, if ever, sober for more than a couple of hours a day. The three of us have pushed debauchery and mischief to other levels as long as we’ve known one another. We’re a volatile cocktail of personalities. Slimmy has always been the sort of voice of reason in the group. Verbs and I are rarely, if ever, allowed to venture off alone together. Two loose cannons with no supervision is two too many for sure.  So, it’s kind of up to Slimmy to provide balance. Verbs and I probably would have ended up in jail for the rest of our lives on too many occasions, if not for Slimmy’s objections and interjections to our plans. Such is the way of the universe, a constant karmic juggling act. Catlin is more of my business partner. We cook amphetamines together in a basement lab at my house. He’s a paranoid freak, prone to conspiracy theories.  I’ll get into that later, but for now back to the meat of the situation.

I hadn’t slept in four or five days before this short nap. So my head is swimming with visions of homicide. I open my eyes and the beam of sunlight shining through my window might as well be a million fire ants chewing on my retinas.

“Behind schedule for what you fat fuck? If you just woke me up so you and Slimmy can get high, I’m going to fucking cut your hands off!”  I scream as I pull the hatchet out from under my pillow.

“Scribble is today you idiot!”

Mother Mary sucking cock for wooden nickels! I’d lost track of days. What the fuck happened to Thursday and Friday? Had I traveled through some kind of worm hole? It didn’t matter; I really did need to get up. There’s only one way to do that. I reach under my mattress and pull my head stash out.

“Go in my closet and grab me that bulb and get Slimmy.”

I throw more than a little bit of shards into the bulb. Flick my Bic and watch crossed eyed down the barrel of the beast at the magic happening in the bottom.

“Hurry up and melt!” The demon screams in my head.

“Ssssssshhhhh, little demon it’ll be in soon.”

The shards melt into a puddle in the bottom of my chosen weapon of self destruction and the devil’s breath fogs the glass. I inhale deeply and roll it to avoid scorching this precious fuel. The static engulfs my brain, and my bowels twist into knots. Some invisible force is twisting a bayonet in my guts. I hand the evil contraption to Verbs and make my way to the shitter.

By the time I’m through shitting and showering my room has been turned into a smokehouse. I find Slimmy and Verbs sitting in the middle of a toxic cloud of amphetamine as they’re passing our little friend back and forth like a cheap slut. Verbs has the eyes of a begging dog as he impatiently waits for his turn to blast off. I take my place in this pow-wow. Between pulls on this dirty beast, we discuss our game plan, the whereabouts of the other members of our traveling party, and the fact Slimmy still needs to make 100 copies of his mixtape before we actually hit the road. This could present a problem.

11:30 A.M. – Hurry up and wait

I hear the front door burst open and the voices of our missing comrades filling the air.   I take a last hit off the bulb and pass it to Slimmy. I’m so high from the healthy hits I’ve taken from this monster it feels if I’ve broken the space time continuum and I’m rocketing through space at fifty times the  pace of the rest of the universe. The next two hours pass like seconds. I’ve paced the wood off the floor boards in some places. Slimmy and Verbs haven’t left my bedroom and Catlin has joined them. I can see this whole situation running threadbare in Bern’s eyes. He’s a stickler for punctuality and sticking to a game plan.

“What the fuck! Are we ever going leave? Eddie stop fucking pacing you’re driving me nuts!”

I hand him the blunt I’m smoking and tell him to calm down and I’ll figure out what the hell’s going on. Even though we both know what the deal is. The three fiends upstairs have become submerged inside of methamphetamine dream and aren’t coming up for air anytime soon.

I head upstairs and after a brief discussion, followed by three more rounds of cannon blasts off of this smoking gun; we’re ready to hatch a plan to go get Slimmy’s precious mix-tapes made so he can hock them to the masses at Scribble Jam.

For those of you who don’t know what Scribble Jam is. It was the annual two day Hip Hop event in Middle America, or to Midwest Hip Hop heads, the equivalent of a Muslim’s pilgrimage to Mecca, something a true follower of the faith must do at least once in their lives. It’s since gone belly up in the water and its rotten stench still hangs heavy in the nostrils of more than a few people I know.

1:00 P.M. Back to the task at hand

By the time we come down stairs, Bern is ready to explode. Eska doesn’t seem to mind so much. He’s busy drawing in a book. That’s the thing about Eska is he’s a really easy- going mellow cat, who happens to be on vacation from Baltimore in order to attend Scribble. Our habits aren’t exactly the norm to him so he’s more entertained by the situation than anything else. Bern, on the other hand, while usually quiet, is a ticking time bomb. He’s had more than his fill of our bullshit on a regular basis and is 3-2-1- seconds away from….

“What the fuck! Are we going or what! Jesus fucking Christ we’re already a fucking hour past the time we said we planned on leaving, and it’s a two hour drive!”

I can’t really blame him. I mean who the hell wants to wait around for, not one, but four tweakers? None of which are even close to being on the same page when it comes to being prepared. Honestly, I don’t even know how the hell we ever accomplish anything thing between the drugs and procrastination that plague this group of rejects from the isle of misfit toys. The only time we ever really even have the motivation to really get something done or go somewhere is when it involves getting high or laid. Something about the tweaker mind, it’s only wired for substance abuse, taking things apart, cleaning, scheming, and perversity.

Once we explain Slimmy still needs to make mixtapes Bern loses it and curses seven generations of Slimmy’s family for this shit. He then scribbles down directions to Scribble on a page of the book Eska had been drawing in and storms out the door screaming words I’ve never heard in my life before or even know the meanings of, but I’m pretty sure they aren’t complimentary terms. Eska shrugs, smiles and says “Well I guess I’m riding with Bern.” Within seconds, we hear the screams of rubber meeting asphalt at maximum RPM‘s.

“So, are you going pack that thing one more time before we go or what?” Verbs asks, chuckling.

1:30 P.M. Four blunts and zero mix-tapes later

For the next 40 minutes, Slimmy is frantically calling every person he knows with a CD burner, but everybody has already left for Scribble hours ago. The rest of us seem to be trying to break the world record for most amounts of hits taken from a bulb in an hour. Roughly 25 hits a piece, 4 blunts, and zero mixtapes later, we’re piling in the Cougar and heading towards I-71 South.

It’s a long, boring two hour drive from the Bus to Cinci. Nothing but cornfields and the smell of manure for about an hour, then Dayton, then more cornfields until Cinci. That’s what always amazed me about mid western states compared to the East coast. Back home, everything’s heavily settled on the North shore of Massachusetts. You go to the Midwest and it’s strange, a sprawling city then desolation for a hundred miles. The four of us have enough liquid lightning coursing through our veins that we could jog the hundred plus miles without batting an eyelash.  High octane heavy metal is blaring through the speakers as Verbs pushes the Cougar to speeds that rattle her frame. Catlin decides in order for us to truly be in the right state of mind for this event, only a marathon blunt session will get us there. In turn, we leave a hundred mile long smoke screen pouring from the cougar the whole way to our supposed destination.

3:30 P.M. Payback’s a bitch!

Something just isn’t sitting right about Bern’s directions as we get into the Nati. No one is quite clear on it, but something about these directions just isn’t right.  It becomes crystal clear the fucker gave us the wrong directions when we pull up in front of Top Cat’s bar. Scribble is held at Annie’s Disco not Top Cat’s. That bastard Bern had duped us as payback for holding him up. He was going to pay dearly for this one. I watch as Verb’s eyes bulge from their sockets and his skin turns fire engine red.

“Cock sucking mother fucker cunt whore shit bag! This isn’t even the right place! I’m going to kill that asshole when I get my hands on him!”

Verbs is frothing at the mouth. He’s transformed into a rabid pit-bull violently pounding his point into the Cougar’s steering wheel.

This is just the type of thing all of us have come to expect from Bern over the years. So it really isn’t so much shocking, as it is irritating, that we were big enough fools to have not asked someone else for directions. We all knew Bern is quite possibly the most passive-aggressive bastard to have ever walked the planet.  For some reason, Verbs has now turned his anger towards me, and I’m the one to blame for our current situation, for being stupid enough to get directions from Bern.

It’s always like this with Verbs though and I’m used to it by now. Verbs is fun and all, but he’s very short-tempered and at times extremely selfish. He acts like he’s the only person on the planet. He’s constantly blaming someone else for everything, it‘s never Verbs fault we get into any of these situations, in his eyes at least it isn’t.

With this, I decide I need to stretch my legs and exit the Cougar, until Verbs’ little temper tantrum subsides. I light a cigarette and take a look around at my surroundings. Verbs is still in some form of berzerker rage. I spy a fellow fiend out of the corner of my eye. His eyes are wild, shifty and bulging from their sockets like a toad. His jaw seems to have a mind of its own and its violently shifting back and forth. This is the type of guy I can feel comfortable asking for directions from. John Qs honestly never want to stop and help people in my state of mind out of fear of being dragged down an alley mugged, sodomized, and pissed upon. I really can’t blame them. Who the hell wants to explain to little Johnny why daddy was on the evening news, why he smells like Grandma’s “new” house, and exactly where and why he got those five stitches?

“Hey chief, you know how to get to Annie’s Disco?”

“Shit, boss man, you on the wrong side a town, Annie’s is on the other side. Tell you what playboy, I’ll tell you how to get there for five dollars.”

“Five dollars! Are you out your fucking mind? I’m not paying for fucking directions!”

“You want to get there or what, you gots to pay to play big man.”

I gaze over at the Cougar. Verb’s is still going nuts and I can hear the symphony of profanity he’s conducting filling the air. I carefully weigh my options and decide perhaps paying for this fiend’s next rock is better than dealing with an angry Verbs. So after five minutes of listening to the fiend’s directions I think I have them down. Neither of us is able to look the other in the eye during our entire conversation. I suppose this is the norm when shady meets shadier on a street corner anywhere in the world. I give him his five dollars and head back towards the Cougar. Then I hear him ask. “Yo, Playboy, you got an extra cigarette?”

I feel my blood begin boil. Is this asshole really asking me for a cigarette on top of the five spot he just hustled me for? See this is the thing about crack heads and junkies, enough is never enough, they want to get you for every last freebie they possibly can. I know exactly how to handle this though without causing too much of a problem and tell him to fuck off in his own tongue. “Nah, only twenty came in this pack Playboy.”

I hop back in the Cougar, grab the freshly rolled blunt Catlin has just sparked and begin giving Verbs directions. Several minutes, well 50 minutes, into our little journey and judging by our surroundings, we begin to smell something fishy about my newfound friend’s directions. We’ve traveled directly into the heart of crack town. That no good bastard fiend had probably directed me straight into the waiting hands of a rabid pack of horrible tooth smoking junk boxes on the lookout for a blue Cougar packed with blunt smoking idiots ripe for the plundering. Verbs’ face is contorting into a horrible grimace and his eyes are alive with fury. I watch him slowly begin to tremble like volcano ready to erupt and then…

“You fucking idiot! I can’t fucking believe you got directions from that asshole! I swear to God you have to be the stupidest fucking asshole to ever walk the face of the planet! I swear to God you must be retarded!”

I’m really in no position to argue, but neither is Verbs, since I’m the one footing the bill as usual for this little adventure. He just needs to shut up the fuck up and drive. What care should he have when we get there? I begin to think to myself, he wouldn’t even been able to go if it wasn’t for me.  A few more moments pass and we find a gas station. We need gas anyways after burning all we had driving aimlessly around looking for a spot I was beginning to think may not even actually exist.

Its funny how the stress of being lost, locked in a car and smothering in the heat can turn even the closest of friends on one another like rats in a cage.

4:25 P.M. – The Sugar Dick Daddy From Cincinnati.

The mood has somewhat settled now that we’re all out of the claustrophobic confines of the Cougar and can breathe actual air rather than recycled Taco Hell and blunt breath. Slimmy is staggering up and down the aisles of the store aimlessly eyeballing chocolate covered mini donuts. I can hear Verbs cackling in that evil schoolgirl giggle of his. He and Catlin are holding these water bottles with the heads of Powder Puff Girls on them and picking out the different characters to match our party’s different personalities He hands me the professor. I think to myself. “Hey it’s better than being branded a Powder Puff Girl.” I pay for the gas and ask the attendant for directions to Annie’s. She’s a short pudgy little troll with hair and skin that looks as if she toweled herself off with old greasy pizza boxes every morning after taking a Crisco mud bath.

“Uh, no I dun’t I’m new round these purts.” She answers in a Kentucky dry country drawl so thick that it lets you know her family tree is more trunk than branches. She’s probably just come down from the hills fresh off her shift guarding her Paw’s still no doubt. Jesus why are you doing this to me? What on earth did I do to deserve this? Was I Hitler’s right hand man at Auschwitz in my last life? These are the question my angry inner voice is asking as I listen to this poster child for inbreeding try and answer my questions the best she can.

I walk out the door with a little less faith in evolution. I see Catlin leaning against the Cougar pumping gas. He looks like a giant clown. He’s a great friend and a good hearted gentle giant but has not a lick of fashion sense. He’s wearing an oversized silk shirt with a scene of some people playing a game of Cee-lo across the entire thing with a pair of jeans with horrible graffiti scrawled across his right thigh. Verbs is no doubt getting ups in the bathroom. While Slimmy, is still inside debating on donut and beef jerky brands.

I’m left shaking my head and still asking what the hell I did to deserve this. Suddenly a candy apple red Cadillac long as a city block with a vanity plate that reads SGRDKDDY pulls in. “Super freak, Super freak, she’s very freaky” is blaring out the speakers. My eyes watch in amusement as a very slick yet loudly dressed man about 70 years old and about 7’ tall climbs out from behind the wheel. Upon further inspection I notice his automobile is chock full o’ sluts. Something tells me this guy has to know where Annie’s Disco is without a doubt.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Yeah, Playa what can I do you for? You interested in the company of one my elegant ladies, because there are none finer from China all the way to North Carolina.” He answers in a booming baritone.

“No, no, that’s ok, not at the moment anyways. You wouldn’t happen to know how to get to Annie’s Disco would you?”

“Shit Playa, can a hoe with no teeth still suck a dick?”

A few minutes of conversation and we finally have directions we all feel comfortable could actually be correct. We all pile into the Cougar and thank him, compliment him on his car, stable of hoes and ask his name. He replies “Everybody knows the only Mac with all the hoes an a Caddy this Candy is the Mac they call the Sugar Dick Daddy From Cincinnati!”

5:00 P.M. Filet Of Sole or Then WHY The Fuck Am I Talking To You?

It’s just about 5:00 when we pull into the parking lot of Annie’s. “Thank you Sugar Dick thank you! God bless you and all your hoes! You wonderful bastard!” Its unspoken gratitude but you can see it beaming out of everyone in the Cougar’s eye sockets. This road trip to Hades is finally complete. Now the hunt for parking begins. The air of the parking lot is alive with the electric break beats booming from the outdoor stage behind Annie’s, as various crews of graffiti writers are applying the finishing touches on the murals covering every bit of every wall surrounding Annie’s.  They’ve been working on these masterpieces since early in the morning without a doubt.  Once we acquire a parking spot, and the doors to the Cougar open, we pop out like spring loaded snakes from a novelty can of nuts.

As we venture to the gates we see a very familiar face. It’s that tree humping bastard Sole of Anticon. No doubt he’s just gone out to his car to grab some insect sting ointment to rub on his needle dick to soothe the stings of the angry hornets he acquired from accidentally invading their nest while fornicating with the knothole in the mighty oak tree behind Annie’s. Some people’s perversions are even beyond me.

We rush over to greet him. At first he doesn’t realize I’m there and turns when we call his name. Then once his eyes focus on the facts it’s me standing in front of him, his eyes turn from the happy Oh it’s some fans coming over to lick my asshole clean, to the terrified Oh, Jesus, no, anyone, but this motherfucker look.  To properly appreciate this segment we will have to rewind to the previous evening.

I’m at High Five attempting to drown myself in the bottom of a bottle of rum as I usually do after being awake for approximately five straight days. There’s a show here tonight but it’s still pre- show time and I’m busy conversing with three lady friends of mine Ivus, Erin, and Katrina. We’re all friends on the strictly platonic level so to speak, but don’t get me wrong, as I talk to them my twisted mind is definitely concocting twisted fantasies of the three them stark naked fanning me with palms and feeding me grapes in  between marathon sessions of acts of carnal lust too vivid to share on these pages.  They are all stunning examples of female perfection in their own rights, and any heterosexual male who’s ever laid eyes on these three vixens, and claims these thoughts never raced through his head like a runaway locomotive is a flat out liar!

Enough about my deviant desires for now. As I stand talking to the three amigas, the venue is quickly filling up and we’re joined by other familiar faces. Grizm, who happens to be the epitome of exactly what John Belushi portrayed in animal house, is already nearly five maybe six sheets to the wind, his right hand man and partner in crime, Drew, is busy charming the pants off the ladies with his quick wit and silver tongue.  The infamous Smash Brothers, Metro and Camu, also happen to be in the spot tonight. On the far side of the room, I see DJ Przm and his crew of merry pranksters, the Spitball crew, as well as a few Phonosluts beating groupies off of themselves with sticks.  I spot young Yellow Eyes across the way signaling me to buy his underage ass a drink. He just so happens to bump into his mentor Nasty Nate though in the mean time, and handles the drink situation for the young buck and the rest of the members of 3wa. Big Scott, Bruce Wayne, and the rest of Gotham Asylum are having a cipher in another corner.  I hear Daymon’s larger than life laugh echoing in my ears behind me, while all 400 lbs. of Camron is trying to slip E into unsuspecting girls drinks, Flexner and Greenspin are weaving through the crowded room documenting the entire event as it unfolds on video.

A few more drinks and all the usual suspects are in place. It’s time for the headline act to take the stage. It’s Anticon, and for those of you not familiar with their so -called music let me put it to you this way. Anticon is what happens when some rich kid’s daddy gives him the money to start a record label in hopes it will stop him and the rest of his nerd herd to stop having circle jerks in his basement to episodes of Star Trek, and just maybe allow them to actually get in something’s pants of the human species and stop giving old spot the peanut butter treatment on the weekends while his parents are out of town. It’s basically experimental Shit-Hop. I’d rather floss my brain with rusty barbwire soaking in a pool of Gonaherpasyphilaids than listen to a minute of these idiots steaming mess of brain farts. But it is the night before Scribble and it’s the only thing really going on in the Bus on this night.

The only bigger douche bag in this whole place than the three fucktards on stage is some fuck stick, drunk as a wino doing the backstroke in a vat of Mad Dog. This means he now thinks he’s smoother than Marvin Gaye on a pair of silk sheets. He’s trying to woo the ladies with his dance moves and off the rack irregular Armani suit he bought at a bargain basement discount store, mind you he’s wearing white shoes with the pointy cockroach stomper toes with no socks and a fake gold rhinestone encrusted dollar symbol that you buy out of a gumball machine on a tooth floss -thin green copper chain with a ruffled Mexican wedding tuxedo shirt on that‘s hot pink to boot. The sad thing is this bottle of Massengill with legs thinks this outfit should get him on the cover of Italian Vogue.

I can see Broken Back shaking his head in a combination of disbelief and shame that he even knows who this fuck stick is, never mind happens to be his friend.

By the bar I can tell Sickly is alive with his offbeat swagger cracking jokes by the fact Beans and Del are buckled over with tears in their eyes from his commentary on what’s transpiring around them. The show is about roughly 30 minutes of absolute bullshit, but I’ve managed to slam down roughly six Cuba Libres, five shots of God knows what and got down on more than a few patio blunt sessions by the time these shitheads clear the stage. So I’m in prime form to cause some playful trouble. I spy Greenspin and Flexner conducting interviews with several different members of the Hip Hop Community who’ve performed tonight. This gives me a brilliant idea. I con Greenspin into taping me interviewing the members of Anticon. I know their type, filthy fame mongers more than willing to whore themselves in front of a high 8 lens. But these idiots have no clue what’s in store for them.

They’ve separated from one another in order to try and score with a few of Columbus’s infamous Hip -Hop sluts. Basically, a large percentage of the female members of Columbus’s hip hop scene should just wear t-shirts that say if you got a demo or perform at an open mic I’ll suck yo dick. This fact is known across the entire United States by any group that’s ever gone on tour or played a gig in this city. This leaves them without the fellow members of their shit squad to chime in while I’m questioning one of them. It’s the perfect time for me to strike.

I first find the leader of this pack of abortions that lived. I get him to agree to do the interview almost instantaneously; he’s surrounded by a few of the aforementioned cum dumpsters. So of course, he thinks my interview is only going to hype him up. I interrogate him about exactly what age he stopped wetting the bed and to prove to me the rumors he still had plastic sheets on his bed at 17 were in fact false. One down, two to go.

Next up is Why, he’s in a similar situation and happily agrees. Every time I ask him a question, I call him Dose. I know his name is Why but I find it funny. He finally corrects me, which allows me to deliver my punch line. I look him square in the eye and say “Then Why the fuck am I talking to you!” and march off to find my last victim.

I get to Dose who is again trying to use his celebrity status to get some snail trails on his hotel sheets. This interview isn’t quite as long because his cohorts quickly come to his aid and leave the premises because they’re now being questioned by everyone about their bed wetting habits and hearing “Why would anybody want to talk to Why?” jokes. I do manage to get a few questions in about his masturbatory fantasies but that’s about it.

So this now brings us back to Annie’s parking lot and my good friend Sole. The skies are slightly cloudy and you can smell a good sun shower in the air. So he quickly says “Ah, listen I got to run, my equipment’s about to get wet.” The five of us all know the truth though. He wants no part of me.

5:20P.M. – Death On The Dance Floor

We’re standing in line behind a silicone blonde with a skirt cut so high I swear I can see a tampon string hanging from between her legs like a bloody rat tail. I point it out to Verbs, who begins motioning me to give it a tug. I’m fighting back the urge to just burst out in a hysterical fit when he turns to Slimmy and points out her tail and says “I heard that you can’t eat clams this summer because of the red tide.”  By the time we reach the door and pay the admission fee I’m cackling like a hyena. Bubblehead doesn’t have a clue to what we’re all losing our shit over and is glaring at us with the sneering eyes of someone who just ate a shit sandwich.

By now, I’ve decided the speed has me careening through time at too fast a pace for a crowd of this magnitude and I need to deploy my emergency chute. I’m bouncing my way through the crowd like a pinball rocketing off the people bumpers to the bar. I decide this is a definitely a double -fisted type of day and order a Heineken and a rum and coke. I pour the rum and coke down my throat in one long steady gulp as I make my way towards the dance floor to watch the B-Boy battle.

I find Steve standing on the side of the circle. I haven’t seen her in months and it’s a joyous reunion. Yes Steve is a boy’s name, but this bitch could kick 90% of the men I know’s assholes up through their nostrils. She’s my sister from another mother. If not for Steve and her family I very well may not be sitting here typing this right now.

Enough of this sentimental bullshit! Back to the task at hand, I watch as the two gladiators of the circle do battle. It’s like watching human tops spinning and bouncing around the circle on their heads with vicious precision.

I spy that passive- aggressive fucker Bern standing on the other side of the circle taking in the battle. I slip and slide my way around the circle and sneak up behind him. I give him a firm cuff upside the back of the head. He’s in mid sip of his drink and it flies free from his hands, its contents spilling across the circle. In the same moment this happens another combatant enters the circle. We both watch in what seems like slow motion as the lime that had been floating in Bern’s drink slides under the dancer’s foot, causing both his feet to fly out from under him. His head meets the cement floor with an amazing impact. You can hear the hollow sound of a coconut being shot from a cannon into a cinderblock wall over the booming music. His head splits open like a ripe cantaloupe dropped from a second story window. The entire crowd watches in horror as what seems to be buckets of blood gush from his cracked cranium.

Bern and I take this as our cue to flee before we’re lynched by an angry mob of breakdancing hooligans with hearts over flowing with vengeance and palettes thirsting for our blood.

We take refuge behind a few land whales sucking on chili dogs and hope they provide the necessary cover for us to complete our escape through the crowd and away from the spinning feet of the breakdancing blood fiends.

6:45PM – Drastic sabotaged by unscrupulous Techniques

By this time, the DJ battles are ready to begin and the masses are filing into the stage area by the dozen. Columbus’s hometown hero Drastic is scheduled to do battle. He’s a master Technique technician. He works two turntables and a mixer like Eddie Van Halen works his Frankenstrat. Slicing, dicing, and juggling beats like a master chef and headline star of a three-ring circus rolled up into one. Serving up a menu full of fresh beats for hungry ears and turntable acrobatics to amaze the eyes.

Now like most cultures, the hip -hop music scene has its own brand of politics and politicians. Ohio is a moderately sized state with three major cities all competing to say they put Ohio on the map when it comes to hip-hop. So, there is a bitter rivalry between the ‘Bus and the ‘Nati. So if you know politics, you know politicians are the worst kind of lying, cheating scum known to man. This is a lesson Drastic would learn today.

We’re all standing next to the stage talking to Drastic before his go and checking out the competition. It’s going to be a good battle but Drastic has more than enough skills to pay these bills. Soon, it’s time for him to take the stage versus one of the ‘Nati’s turntablists. He’s directed to a set of tables. One of the tables has a white sticker on it. None of us, including Drastic, think anything of it.  The Nati’s combatant lays down a decent set but Drastic should have him bagged and toe-tagged in no time.   He drops his first record and it’s show time. Then, as he drops the needle on the other record, it skates straight across the record screeching like nails on a chalkboard. Those rotten bastards have deliberately sabotaged him. There’s no way to recover from this. Those rotten fuckers had sent him to the marked tables on purpose. The sticker was on the table that skated. This was dirty pool at its filthiest.

You can see the rage burning in his eyes like the bowels of hell itself. But he handles it like a true champion. He doesn’t flip out and cause a scene or anything. He just collects his records, walks off the stage, and heads for his car to get as far away from this seething pool of despicable pole-greasing deck-stackers as he can get before he loses all control and starts pulling the cards they have lining their sleeves.

1:00 Am- The Gun-Toting Tweaker

I’m really not at liberty to give any further details of the actual event, due to the fact by the time Drastic finished his set; I was about three sheets to the wind.  All I really remember was tormenting those bastards from Anticon every chance I could get, and asking Slug of Atmosphere who would win a rap battle between the Smurfs and Snorks?  He revealed in his opinion Papa Smurf could eat any Snork hands down in lyrical combat.  Verbs had been awol for several hours and it was presumed he was pulling one off to the MSK pieces.  Around the time of last call, I ran into Bubba who gladly supplied me with the proper tune up to get my head back in the game.

Bubba’s a Yo-yo champion-gorilla pimp with a taste for techno-geekery and fire arms. He also has quite the love affair with all things fast and furious. I’ve known the bastard for years; he’s good people, my kind of people. He’s the only person I’ve ever met in my life who could leave his house with no more than a full tank of gasoline and half ounce of weed and come back a week later with $10,000 dollars in his pocket. The guy’s a natural born hustler.

He’s standing there with his usual flock of hoes whirling his $150.00 yo-yo around like it was a part of him, almost hypnotizing me with it as we talk. I’m in no mood for the party to stop. I know if anybody knows where fiends of my parties’ caliber could get their rocks off, it’s Bubba.

“So, what’s the deal Bubba? Where do we go from here?”

“Well Eddie, you know little Jenny right? She used date B back in the day. Well her and a few of these other little girls should be having an afterhours. I got some things I got to do right quick bubby, but I’ll tell you what. I’ll tell her your coming and to take care of you bubby.”

I knew this glorious bastard wouldn’t let me down. After a few more minutes of small talk, one of his flock scribbles directions down in the palm of my hand and I’m off rounding up the rest of my traveling companions.

The combination of too much booze and healthy doses of methamphetamine have transformed us into reckless savages. The alcohol has drowned any and all of the usual paranoia out of the speed high. This is not a good thing. We now we have 20 times the liquid balls of any drunk. We can’t find the Cougar anywhere and I decide it best if I find higher ground to survey the parking lot for our missing vehicle. I’m just about to the top of a light pole illuminating the parking lot when Verbs begins violently shaking the pole.

“What are you doing?”

“Helping you get a 360 degree view.”

“Stop it! Stop It! If you don’t stop it now I’m going to rip your balls off and feed them to you when I get down from here!”

With that, I heard the scream of snapping metal and I began my white -knuckle descent down into the parking lot riding the lamppost straight down through the windshield of an SUV, parked some twenty feet away from the base of the pole.  The screaming sounds of splintering glass and twisting steel was earth-shattering. Sparks are flying from the base, as if I was riding a missile straight into ground zero. I smashed clean through the windshield and was now stuck head first on the floor board under the steering wheel, which the force of my fall had ripped clean from the column.

“Oh shit, I think you killed him Verbsy!”

“No, you couldn’t kill that bastard with a claw hammer if you bashed him in the brains with it. That fucker’s hard as nails.”

With this I have to interject.

“I’m fine but you’re not going to be if you don’t get me the fuck out of here now, you cock sucking bastard!”

By this time a large crowd of spectators begins to form around the SUV. Verbs and Catlin grab me by an ankle and pull me free.  I came out holding the steering wheel in my hand. Just at this moment, I heard the angry shouts of the vehicle’s owner. We needed to make our escape and quick. Luckily, the Cougar was parked right next to the SUV. It seems I was right in getting to higher ground in order to find the vehicle. We dive in. Verbs cranks the ignition and we peel rubber the fuck out of there with the angry owner of the SUV in hot pursuit on foot. I toss the steering wheel out the window and scream “Here, you may need this asshole!”

Amazingly, I’m unharmed from my little ride, except for a couple scratches and a bruised ego. Something about being totally blitzed leaves your body in such a relaxed state you don’t tense up, you just kind of go with the flow. Think about it. How is it thousands of drunks get in these horrific wrecks and walk away unscathed but everybody else who was sober involved ends up a grease stain? Alcohol makes your mind believe the body is invincible. It’s all mind over matter. Go pick a fight with any drunken bastard staggering down the street and see if he thinks he’s anything but indestructible to test my theory.

Once we’re a safe distance away from the scene of the crime, and the threat of a shiny pair of bracelets reflecting flashing blue lights in the night air is unapparent, Verbs ask me to check my directions to the afterhours. I open my hand and notice the humid air and use of my hands has caused the directions to smear into an undecipherable mess in my palm. I know better than to say anything. This will only cause him to erupt into another fit of blinding rage.  So, my mind is racing to try and remember what the hell Bubba’s flock member had said as she scribbled them in my palm. Unfortunately, I wasn’t paying attention to much else but the beads of sweat coating her cleavage and her diamond-hard glass cutters poking out against the thin fabric of her wet t-shirt.

There’s only one thing to do in situations like this. Lie your ass off and hope for the best. I begin rattling off lefts, rights and exit numbers like nothing was wrong. The next thing I know, we’re pulling into a Greyhound station.  Before I can even say anything, Verbs has me by the neck squeezing the blood up into my brain like a pimple ripe for the popping.

“You stupid fucking bastard! Can’t you do anything right?”

My head begins to feel like I’ve just taken a 5 liter blast of nitrous oxide straight to the dome from the lack of precious oxygen to my brain.  I have to do something before I lose consciousness to save my life and teach this foul  beast to keep his grimy hands to himself. A well placed thumb buried deep in his eye socket should do the trick.

“AAAAAAAAAGGGGGGH! You bastard I’m blind. Why would you do that?”

“Why would I do that? You’re choking the life out of me you fat bastard and you’re asking me why would I do that? You’re lucky I didn’t stab them out of their sockets with that fork on the floor board!”

The idiocy of some people’s reactions to why people do things to them at times is staggering especially in the junky mind. Here this fat bastard is cutting my air off and trying to crush my larynx with all his might in hopes my eyeballs would rocket from skull like cannon balls, and he’s wondering why I just stuck my thumb in his eye.

Lesson #237: when dealing with drug addicts- It’s always someone else’s fault. It doesn’t matter if you’d been choking someone and they stuck their thumb in your eye and blinded you. It’s their fault your blind now. Or let’s say you sent them out to score for you and they came back shorthanded yet high as kite three hours later. “Well you see I sent Bob in to get it and well he must have pinched that shit.” All the while their eyes are bulging from their sockets sweat is pouring down them like they just hopped out of the shower and they seem to be trying to grind their teeth down to the gums. But Bob must have dipped in the bag. There’s just something about the junky mind that refuses to take responsibility for anything. Except credit for having the best dope, or saying “I told you so.”

Once Verbs realizes his eye seems to be fine and the oxygen returns to my brain we send Slimmy off to the payphone in the distance to call Bubba for proper directions to the afterhours spot. A few moments later he returns to report Johnny Law has broken the party up. It’s then decided we might as well just get a hotel room and rest up for tomorrow.

Day two: Femme Nazis, Poop Water, and Deranged Ghetto Youth…

It’s sometime early the next morning when we hear the hotel manager banging on our door and ordering us to either pay up for another night or ship out.  The group consensus is we’d rather have a Jacuzzi room in order to lure some splitties back to our room for an orgy that’d make Caligula blush. So once again we’re packing ourselves into the Cougar and heading out onto the open road.

After a one hour tour of a shanty town we find a motel that not only has a vacancy but also has the desired Jacuzzi suite. After a few moments of negotiation with the front desk man and providing the necessary documents and making a promise that I wouldn’t be using the room for any illegal enterprises, I’m given the key to the supposed suite.

A few moments of fumbling with the key in the lock and we enter our suite. The scent of stale booze, sodomy, and crack hangs heavy in the air of a room that looks more like the set of snuff flick than the advertised Jacuzzi suite. A cockroach as large as Buick is sitting in the heart shaped tub in the corner of this cinder block dungeon smoking a cigarette, while chewing on the corpse of a feral dog.  A single 2 x 2 window is all that is illuminating this pit of despair.

What the fuck is this? They call this a suite? I can literally see where the crabs had chewed through the mattress exposing the rusty hepatitis infested springs poking out through the horse hair filler of this Petri dish.  There’s no way we’re staying here. Slimmy and I opt to climb in the tub for a photo op with the cockroach. It’s not more than five minutes from the time I got the key from the front desk and I’m standing in the lobby demanding my money back.

At this point all of us are saying fuck finding a hotel. We might as well just head over to this park for the Scribble day two barbeque for some nourishment and music.  Surprisingly we arrive at the park with out getting lost or having to ask a dozen or so John Q’s for directions. As our miserable luck will have it, we arrive on the scene to sadly and much to our growling stomach’s dismay discover there is no food left at the BBQ.

As we make our way back to the Cougar to venture off and fill our shriveling bellies we spy a pack of  bull dykes walking along side a very luscious perky tit bubble butt nymph in knee highs and a rather revealing school girl dress. She’s eagerly performing mock fellatio on popsicle. The sight of this is causing my slumbering pocket python to stir in the confines of my shorts. My eyes are violating her in an unspeakable manner. In my mind she’s bare naked spread eagle on the hood of the Cougar feverishly finger fucking her moist cunt and moaning my name begging me to quench the fire in her loins.  We catch eyes and she pushes the popsicle down her throat closes her teeth around the stick and pulls the stick out bare and winks. The head dyke in charge takes notice of this an her eyes angrily snap to mine. She then turns to her cohorts and begins pointing towards. I know nothing good is to come of this.

Suddenly I see a glass bottle she’d been holding barreling at my head. Jesus, what the hell is this beast’s problem? The bottle explodes on a street sign just next to my head. With this the rest of the Bulls begin stampeding towards us. Their sneering eyes alive with hate.    I’ve been down this path before, Dykes despise me. Why? I don’t really know. I believe it has to do with the fact perhaps I have the one thing they wished they had, a cock hanging between my legs. Or perhaps even it’s because their lipstick lesbo friend wished I’d put it between her legs. Whatever the case, these bitches were pissed. No need to grab the bull by the horns.

I took off running with the stampeding beasts in hot pursuit. Bottles screaming past my skull like low flying scud missiles.  I can hear Verbs cackling laughter filling the air as I weaved my way around trees taunting the beasts. I was a matador dodging the goring horns of a thousand pound beast from hell intent on tearing my testicles away from my body.  A dozen or so minutes of ducking, weaving, and bobbing for my life, the beasts lose their steam. I’ve avoided death. I meet the rest of the boys at the Cougar and once again we’re pulling out onto the open road.

Fiery hunger pains are scorching our stomachs, we must extinguish them.  The open road has a habit of doing that to a person. It’s decided a local coffee shop/bagel place will do the job. We’re all sitting drinking coffee and eating bagels, when Catlin decides he needs to use the facilities. He’s gone for quite some time, and it’s believed he may have blown his O-ring, a few more moments and we here some commotion coming from the lavatory. Suddenly a flash flood of vile poop water is flooding from under the door and spilling through the seating area of the restaurant.  The smell is over powering, women begin gagging, a small child picks up what he thinks is a brown boat, his mother’s eyes filled with terror he tries to hand his new found toy to her. A mass exodus to the fresh summer air erupts to the exit. I sit stirring my coffee chuckling as a red faced Catlin exit’s the rest room a stream of sopping wet stream toilet paper, at least 2’ long paper is stuck to his foot, making his entrance even more shameful. There can be no greater embarrassment than over flowing a toilet in a crowded restaurant, of this I’m sure.

It’s decided we should go paint the infamous Cincinnati channels. As par for the course, we spend the better part of two hours lost. We stop at a local BBQ restaurant for directions. There is a gigantic pig on wheels in front of the place. We contemplate hooking it up to the back of the Cougar and riding it around town. It’s secured tightly to the building though. I suppose we aren’t the first bunch of drug crazed assholes who may have thought about doing this. Perhaps we’d come back later with a pair of bolt cutters and do it under the cover of darkness.  Once Slimmy comes back, we find out we’re only two blocks away.

We are soon into the bowels of the channels, carrying a couple gallons of silver paint. It’s Syco’s paint and he isn’t even with us. Fuck it, it only cost him like a hundred dollars for it. Surely he won’t mind that we had the urge to paint and didn’t even bother to include him in our plan.  We pick a spot and begin painting the outline of a monstrosity of a blockbuster.  The letters stand 15’ feet tall and 20’ wide each, HBT in this bright silver paint that’s thick like molten steel with a black outline.

It’s not long before a local crack fiend come rolling up on us with a prostitute.

“Hey, playas I dig this man.”

“Yeah, thanks man.”

“I like coming down here and get my dick sucked, smoke a little rock, and looking at graffiti.”

“Well, don’t mind us do your thing man.”

“No, problem playa’s, you need your dicks sucked she’ll blow all four of you for 30 bucks.”

Verbs, Slimmy, and I are busy painting, but it doesn’t take Catlin long to disappear with his new found friend around the corner.

It’s during this time, that Verbs and Slimmy begin having a difference of artistic opinion. Before I know what is really going on, Verbs is trying to toss Slimmy into the stream of sewer run off that runs through the channels. Slimmy in turn reaches into the paint bucket and hurls a glob of silver paint at him. He misses Verbs, but manages to hit me square upset my head. The next ten minutes is spent hurling paint at one another like chimpanzee’s hurling dung at one another.

By this time Catlin is back wide eyed, but looking relieved.  It’s then decided we all need a proper tune up and we’re away from prying eyes, so why not? I pull a bag of shards out of my pocket along with a pipe, pack it and we’re passing the dirty beast around among us like a peace pipe, in order to put this paint glob war behind us. All I can think is Sergio is going to kill me. He’d special ordered the clothing I was wearing just for me, and I hadn’t even owned it for 36 hours.

I suppose I should explain who the hell Sergio is. He’s who I’d like to refer to as the Godfather of Columbus fashion. He was the manager of this trendy boutique called Avalon, around this time. He did the entire ordering etc. etc. It was way before the days of The Milk Bar or Sole Classics or any other of the boutiques that fill Columbus’s Short North District. Sergio was the guy who was outfitting hipsters before they even knew they were hipsters. He paved the way for the Columbus fashion wave that has overrun her streets. If not for Sergio breaking ground, none of that other stuff would even be around. He was and still remains a good friend of mine. Sergio was always storing shit away in the back room or ordering stuff he knew I’d like.  Stuff like this $200.00 shirt and shorts with matching hat ensemble I had just destroyed.

Around 3:00 we headed back over to the park to meet up with the twins. Syco immediately noticed the silver paint-his silver paint all over us.

“You fucking assholes went and used all my paint, and didn’t even bother to ask if maybe I wanted to go paint with you?”

We felt it best if Verbs explained this to him, after all he was the one who was in possession of said paint.

“Well, bro you know it was just kind of spur of the moment and figured what the fuck would you do, if you were in our shoes? I’ll rack you some more.”

It’s soon decided after to several inquiries as to why we’re all covered in silver paint, that perhaps the park is not the place for people in our state of mind. The twins are hungry. So back into the Cougar again we go, the twins following us in their ride. A local pizzeria seems like the perfect place. The service sucks and it’s presumed the waitress is mentally defected after half of our order arrives 45 minutes after we order, and the other half of the food is MIA leaving half of the table staring at the others like starving dogs. 20 minutes later the rest of the food arrives, sans Slimmy’s garlic knots. He looses it and storms out of the building. Catlin again is in the bathroom. It’s then decided the rest of us will follow Slimmy and stick Catlin with the tab.

Another blunt is rolled and we’re standing around the Cougar smoking, when a group of very young ghetto youth approach us hocking incense.  The head honcho of the group is barely 12 years old and the youngest about 8.

“What you nigga’s smoking on some Bama?” The ring leader asks.

“What the hell do you know about this kid?”

“Man my brother smokes trees with me all time.”


“Hell yeah he does, we puff mad dro everyday.”

A few minutes of contemplation and I decide what the fuck, he’s already wandered down this path, who am I to deny him? I pass the blunt to the ring leader. It’s soon passed around between their entire posse.  Now perhaps I didn’t realize the chemical makeup or the effects THC has on a young mind, but this weed definitely did not have a calming effect on these little bastards. The next thing I know it’s as if I just shot their veins full of amphetamine. They’re running around at light speed. They’re badgering everybody to buy their incense. When we refuse, the ring leader socks Verbs right in the jewels! He doubles over and tears come to his eyes. What the fuck, these little fuckers have turned on us! Within seconds they’re hurling bottles and rocks and whatever they can get their grimy little hands on at us. We jump in the Cougar and head for the open road. These little bastards from hell are pounding on the car and hurling projectiles at us the whole way. It’s a rather embarrassing situation to say the least, being run out of town by a group of drug crazed eight year olds. Verbs has now vowed to never go anywhere with me for the rest of his natural life.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s