the story of the blunt
i entered the dull yellow light of the vacant teacher’s lounge and approached mr. cross, my hs web design teacher. despite the ten year gap since our last interaction, he scowled as if it had been only ten minutes. i lied and told him that joe muller/cory dillon/curly dillon had suddenly passed, and that i needed to establish a lacrosse club in his name. (the deceased student was never a lacrosse player.) mr. cross asked no further questions, and began the paperwork with a pushover’s confidence; we were the room’s only occupants amongst the half circle of empty, antique desks.
the scam was simple: i used the money from the phone card that mr. cross signed over in his name, and paid the construction team with the funds that i funneled through the lacrosse reserve no-pro. the lacrosse club itself was assembled like a movie set in the high school’s empty auditorium. i supervised a team of construction workers as they built a main street to surround the lacrosse club. to support my growing ponzi scheme i made them build auxiliary small businesses like a grocery store and a nail salon, and swapped funds between mr. cross’s phone card to create the assets.
john farr blew the whistle when he discovered that cory dillon was still alive, trying to take his act to broadway while living in a squat in the wettest part of town. i called jonas and confessed that my scam was deflating, and he was surprisingly unsupportive.
when andrew finished rolling up the nearly empty bags of cheesy curls and sour cream and onion ridges and chocolate cookie crisps, he lay face up in bed in a tomb of blankets, resembling a mummy. he had hidden his bags of snacks in his sister’s room down the hall, trying to quit them cold turkey before company arrived. i was trying to assure him that being a snack addict was ok, that cheesy curls were delicious and he shouldn’t be ashamed of who he was. i looked out from andrew’s window and caught cory dillon singing his songs.
cory dillon was living underneath a “beanie blanket” in the back of an unimog, the transport truck of a rival choir. he was haughtily evicted when they needed to get themselves to play offs, which cory dillon didn’t qualified for.
from andrew’s window i spied cory dillon trying to lift a wet garbage bag from the ground. (his favorite broadway song was a wet stick of lumber wrapped in a dirty blue tarp.)
cory dillon was kicked out of every song school, and became vindictive and jealous of the seeming ease of other songsmiths to collaborate with one another.
cory dillon was stranded on the decimated street in the wettest part of town when he was yanked through a hole in the door behind him by a sexy witch/choir teacher with an ingrown mole on her chin. she smiled at cory dillon, and the light inside her lair was dark brown/yellow.
on another decimated street i noticed a sign for a free hopsin show that pointed towards a dark set of slippery basement stairs. i felt happy for cory dillon and thought, ‘cory dillon is finding himself now.’ everyone at the show was supportive of cory dillon; he wasn’t chasing someone else’s petty broadway dream anymore.
from my spot in the audience i watched an orange tabby named lil’ greasy walk down the stairs and jump through a hole in the ceiling. (it was the spirit of cory dillon.)
dave was rolling a blunt in the audience. i turned to him and said enthusiastically, ‘all we need now is a handle of vodka!’ dave looked around our crowd of friends and laughed, saying, “yo, this one time, me and jonathan got a blunt and…” we left cory dillon’s show and passed a crumbling necropolis on the surface as dave began telling everyone within earshot the story of the blunt.