this is the perfect place to get jumped

Month: June, 2016

worst places to buy crack

It’s true: less people are smoking crack.

Don’t believe me? Go outside and walk to the corner. Wait for fifteen minutes. Did anybody try to sell you crack in those fifteen minutes? Now go back inside. Suddenly its 1983. Try to go outside now. In the hallway of your apartment building a suspicious man approaches you. He is selling crack. You walk down the stairs because you live on the third floor and the wait for the elevator is longer than a walk down the stairs. In the stairwell you come across a crack sale in progress. Finally on the street. It is raining a little bit. A man in a yellow raincoat has an equally yellow rock for sale. You haven’t even reached the corner yet.

We are living back in the present again. Do you understand the differences now? If less crack is sold, then less crack is smoked. This is simple economics, and its not a good thing if you want to try for the first time.

Now don’t be bashful Nancy. I know that I’ve peaked your interest in that good stuff, I can see the crimson in your cheeks and I know what your thinking: if you can’t find crack everywhere, can you find it anywhere?

No.

When you travel to the following places don’t get your hopes up; you won’t be able to buy crack.

The Mountain

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I used to be just like you Nancy, so I know what you’re thinkin’. The Mountain. It’s made of a big rock, just like those yummy nuggets from the early 80s. But…..that rock is not a crack rock. Sorry. There are no dealers on the mountain, trust me. Its too dangerous. Dealers are easily frightened. They are afraid of slippin’ on the way to the top of The Mountain. Yeah, I know it must be cool to buy a rock at the top of a rock, but its not feasible from a business perspective, even if its safe from undercover cops.

And yes, I went to the mountain. I trudged up the muddy path and when I reached the top I did not find any shady Puerto Rican crack dealers asking me if I’m an undercover cop before handing me a $50 rock. Just a majestic forest of pine and the solemn indifference of nature.

Any Family Place

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A family place is safe for children. No cussing, no smokers, plenty of cake and soda and pizza. The backyard of a non-smoking bar is debatably a family place. Sometimes Mommy needs a drink. Mommy might also need a rock, but this is not the place. Basically, a family place is anywhere a family is not threatened with violence. Where we find drugs like crack we usually find poverty and  occasional violence, whether its between two cranky junkies or two beefing dealers. You may never be in fear of getting busted by an undercover cop in a family place though, which might be the only benefit besides the great time you’ll have with your kids. These places might be nice, but even if you have a family don’t expect to be able to buy any new rocks.

That Lighthouse

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It’s pretty at the top, the view is actually really incredible, definitely worth the $15 entry fee and the walk up 113 steps. You can see the entire harbor and the small fishing village behind it where men toil, devoting their lives to fish and family.

Japan

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Good fuckin’ luck Nancy. Crack doesn’t really exist in Japan. Japanese drug users prefer meth. There is some cool stuff to see in Japan though, but I’m not sure how you’re supposed to be high on crack when you do any of it.

Tha Club

Las Vegas, NV, Thursday, A$AP ROCKY performs inside of TAO Nightclub.

You’ll find the worst in designer drugs here, but you won’t find any crack. Whats worse is getting laughed at for asking, if you can hear it over the beat.

The Collegiate School

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You need an appointment to go inside, so already there is a hurdle.

If you make an appointment you’ll be disappointed to find that its not with a crack dealer, because elementary school age children in private school are not interested in smoking crack.

You will be lost. You will look stupid and worse, you won’t be high. Someone might say ‘Can I help you?’ and you’ll get scared and run. And on that run you will not be offered crack by anybody.

This isn’t the heyday. There isn’t anybody at these places that will have crack ready for sale. I’m sorry, but its true. For years I foolishly left the house with a wallet and some cash to prepare myself for the chance that I would come upon a gentleman with crack for sale, and for years I was never approached. Worse, when I asked I was humiliated in front of my colleagues. Even when I visited the rougher neighborhoods, the corner men wouldn’t touch me with a ten foot pole because I looked like a police officer. A tumbleweed floating down an empty Mott Haven road would be an accurate representation of the amount of crack sales currently taking place in NYC.

I know you want to believe otherwise, but I need to be realistic about the war against crack. It hurts everyone that only wants to try it once. Worst of all it hurts the addicts. They will never be able to forget the taste of those nuggets, the billowy ecstasy that engulfs the chest and fills the head place…

BUT–There are absolutely no undercover police officers in the places listed–guaranteed. What reason do they have to be there? Where there is no crack there are no cops, which is promising if you are constantly distracted by the prospect of being watched. Might these places be worth visiting because they are free from the crack rock? Its too early to think about anything else.

Wow. I must really miss smoking crack :/

short fiction

Old Soda Road

You’re a hick Carlo.” Erin snorted like the bull. “Now come over to me, and let me take a look at your lunch please.” She swallowed the mucus in her throat, then made a choking sound.

Carlo made a foolish plea for his honor instead of his lunch. “I’m not a hick Erin! My childhood home had a basement!” Beneath the wet blood Carlo’s hands were schoolboy soft. Erin nodded without looking, then Carlo willingly dumped the contents of his brown paper lunch onto Erin’s desk. Her tits.

Erin lifted each individually bagged item to her lipps: A cute little sandwich guy in a plastic guy bag. The crusts were cut off around the edges and placed in another cute little plastic guy bag. The sandwich, just white and cheese and white and bread and some mayo white and the meat. The meat please.

In the morning Carlo wrote the words dark world in his foggy bedroom window. Now he was looking at Erin spit her gum into a napkin he had packed to wipe himself at the conclusion of a messy and successful lunch. Erin’s gum was white like the streaks of gel in her short hair. Erin’s grey skin matched her pantsuit.

Erin looked up at Carlo. “What is this?” she demanded.

The bag of carrots was for the sweet. The bag of celery for the veg.

This?”

The water, and he never forgot his fibers.

My lunches are always,” said Carlo.

A root chip, and some of the whey drink for a flavor. And to keep his distance from the sadness.

And this is what I must drink to avoid some of the sadness,” Carlo thought while packing this lunch with his eyes closed in the early morning.

You’re a hick”, Erin repeated. “I’ve got a hot dog in the other room. Go look at it.” Carlo’s dick was out. Everyday his lunch was fibers and crusts.

Carlo called out from the doorway, “I don’t see a hotdog.” There was a sink that said drip. A table, but no chair.

Erin was congested and became busy. With her face, she stared towards a fixed point in the ceiling, but not at it. Her eyes turned grey but they didn’t cross. Hasan walked over to Erin’s desk and held out his hand for a morning shake. Erin’s mouth gaped and hung to one side of her jaw. Hasan left his hand floating in the air, unembarrassed. “It was the morning, and there was no better time for a shake,” he later thought. His face was dopey and his lips were all smooched and smiley-like.

This is so fucked,” said Carlo to himself. He felt himself begin to lose focus, almost about to cry. “I don’t see a the hotd–” Carlo’s dick was like a timid snail, and the hot dog was there, on the top of the floor.

The hot dog was a boiled pink when fresh, but now it had gone grey. The cheese on top was shredded and crusty, like short hair with too much gel. Carlo wasn’t given instructions, so he stared at the hot dog. He stared at it until he saw the resemblance. His eyes were clear, but his glasses were foggy.

I don’t know what to say,” he thought. “I never know what to say.”

Hasan kept that smile and slowly lowered his hand to his waist while Erin thought about an old hat. Hasan wiped it on his stupid corduroys like he was brushing croissant flakes from his fingers. He shook croissant flakes from his dreadlocks. His son was almost fourteen or fifteen. I’m gay.

Carlo appeared from the room. “Where have you been Carlo?” Erin was still sitting in her chair, congested. She drank milk to match the color of her hair.

Carlo thought about why the hot dog. “I was looking at the hot dog,” replied Carlo. His exposed lunch was spread on Erin desk.

The hick cut himself skinnin’ his squirrels.” said Hasan.

I’m not a hick.” Carlo rebutted. “My mother is a librarian.”

Let me take you down to Old Soda Road,” offered Hasan, his fist stuck out for Carlo to pound it. “My boat may be old, but I have a map please.”

Grab that dog, Carlo. I don’t care if it’s a Wednesday.” Erin continued. It was difficult for Erin to stand up, and when she did her back was hunched. As she hobbled to an elevator we sensed her flanks bob beneath her pant suit. She changed into an unflattering two piece.

They bounced and the hot dog.

Erin is a fat bully,” said Hasan.

And I’m a hick without a lunch.” replied Carlo.

Now you’re learning my language.”

Carlo felt his liquid life ebb from his hand into the bun. A mutual energy left the hot dog. They were becoming like one another. Together they were becoming the real dog while Erin was dying.

Hasan drove towards the flat, white sea at the end of Old Soda Road. Carlo didn’t know where they were going, but he knew he must leave.

Carlo left the boat and purposefully walked through a thorn bush to better explore the world around the flat, white sea. His face was cut and his dick was out. Cradled in his arms was the dog, and the crispy cheese became fur as he ankled through the marshes. There was a pulse, and Carlo became a dot on the horizon, by the bed of sharp rocks. When he looked back over himself he saw that an old hat had been following him.

It began to rain so Hasan pulled on his dirty red raincoat. He left the boat and walked over to a man asleep on a bench.

I’ve got to live my life,” the man thought.

Hasan held out his hand to give the man a morning shake. The man continued to sleep but Hasan kept his hand poised in mid air.

another indie

“The days will be very long,” they warned. “But there will be some downtime.”

I try to stay awake, but I’m falling asleep as I write this, in front of Susan no less. She’s tired too, but she continues answering emails past midnight. Who keeps sending her emails at this hour? If she falls asleep she will drown in overages. If I fall asleep I will have to touch a dirty tampon again. It’s worth it.

When my eyes close somebody takes a picture of me, and then I get summoned. My couple hours of promised downtime does not arrive in one solid chunk, but spread over the fourteen-sixteen hour workday. Everybody works hard. I’ll reconsider why I’m doing this in a longer post. For now I’ll head over to set.