I felt it that day I felt it all as I ran up the stairs two at a time. At the top of the third floor I spun a tight u-turn and skipped to the end of the hall . The keys were magically in my hand and I made the special half twist and shake with my hand to silently open the door. I was in the tunnel everything was fine. Shari saw me from the living room couch as I entered her bedroom.
"What the fuck are you doing here Wallace Beaver! I broke up with you a month ago! Get out Get out Get out! " her voice rose in pitch level straight to hysteria.
" I told you I was crazy baby, remember?" I calmly stated though chattering teeth as I pulled the top off a can of red spray paint.
I gave it six rapid speed shakes as my finger found the button on the top of the can and I focused on the beautiful expanse of white wall over her bed. These old buildings with their solid plaster walls heavy with the grime of generations, I love them so.
My arm swept up in a precise arc I could never repeat on purpose if I tried a million times and the can hissed as I liberated myself of the image burning on the inside of the front of my skull. It wasn't a bad word or anything about Shari, but I knew she would understand, I had explained all this on several occasions after I'd fucked her senseless. I'd repeated my mantra enough I'm sure that she could grasp my intention at least subliminally.
A perfect circle! I'd pulled it off in one move! There was a little side spray of paint on the tops of the giant pillow and stuffed animal pile but a little paint thinner would take care of that later, much later.
I reached in my messenger bag for the second can and felt something tugging at my arm and a loud rushing noise in my ear.
"Wallace! Wallace! WALLACE! I'M CALLING THE POLICE YOU SICK BASTARD!"
Shari's voice sounded as if it came from far far away like the galaxy in Star Wars. I had the blue can now and the details began to emerge , the delicate flowers and hearts that covered the skin of the sacred satyr that represented my love for Shari. It didn't matter that she had broken up with me I wasn't upset, but this work was unavoidable , a bullet train of intention that I myself had no power to stop. My feet felt numb my legs were shaking but I kept on, now the green!
I swung the can towards the wall, time for another perfect circle! But my arm jerked and my muscles spasmed and my arm would not rise it was trapped. I turned my head to the side and saw the reflection in the mirror over the dresser. The boys in blue! Two of them behind me holding my arms, they weren't worried, I wasn't worried, we were old friends.
"Wally, are you done now?"
"Yes sir, thank you."
Friday, July 18, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
Thursday, July 10, 2008
chest pain
my heart hurts and i know why
but i'm stuck here for the time being
knowing that is knowing something
doesn't really lessen the pain just makes it real
it's not enough to overwhelm me
no feeling ever will be
and still i want to run
because it's what i do best
damn
down rating myself isn't working either
i'll do what andrew t said so long ago
pray for the willingness to be willing
to accept
freedom through responsibility
Monday, July 7, 2008
twittering, is it real?
Twitter Updates
I am hungry and I must rest there is much to do in preparation for the autumn pig slaughter 3 minutes ago
i once wrote a poem called "sweating lifes blood in the grip of society's mindcrusher" i was 17 or thereabouts 6 minutes ago
i remember once i caught a magic fish that had a yellow tag for which i recieved a 50 dollar savings bond i later bought bad salmon stocks 11 minutes ago
in florence arizona state prison i used all my charm to get librium from the nurse 5 minutes later i was released all charges dropped 14 minutes ago
i was in jail in casa grande arizona with an inmate named betelgeuse if the guards said his name 3 times he went into a rage i was kicking 16 minutes ago
the gangster chronicles were a band of young hoodlums age 8-12 in Landover MD circa 1970 they merged with the crunchberry disciples you see 27 minutes ago from BeTwittered
johnnytoobad yea though i walk the valley of the shadow of death i shall fear no muttonchop wannabe or his petulant children 30 minutes ago from BeTwittered
johnnytoobad The author of the crashberry chronicles was an unknown poet from the upper eastside I channel his wisdom forthnnightly 34 minutes ago from txt
johnnytoobad Shoulda coulda woulda been a reggae superstar bingymon meets the rockers uptown inna dub roots style yes I about 4 hours ago from txt
johnnytoobad My house is the riggity wreckest its ever been the 4th will be a national day of cleaning at my crib 11:45 PM July 03, 2008 from txt
johnnytoobad @ HenryRollins you're a long way from hagen daz in georgetown where I first saw you and Ian I thought you were marines gone awol 12:33 AM July 03, 2008 from txt in reply to HenryRollins
I am hungry and I must rest there is much to do in preparation for the autumn pig slaughter 3 minutes ago
i once wrote a poem called "sweating lifes blood in the grip of society's mindcrusher" i was 17 or thereabouts 6 minutes ago
i remember once i caught a magic fish that had a yellow tag for which i recieved a 50 dollar savings bond i later bought bad salmon stocks 11 minutes ago
in florence arizona state prison i used all my charm to get librium from the nurse 5 minutes later i was released all charges dropped 14 minutes ago
i was in jail in casa grande arizona with an inmate named betelgeuse if the guards said his name 3 times he went into a rage i was kicking 16 minutes ago
the gangster chronicles were a band of young hoodlums age 8-12 in Landover MD circa 1970 they merged with the crunchberry disciples you see 27 minutes ago from BeTwittered
johnnytoobad yea though i walk the valley of the shadow of death i shall fear no muttonchop wannabe or his petulant children 30 minutes ago from BeTwittered
johnnytoobad The author of the crashberry chronicles was an unknown poet from the upper eastside I channel his wisdom forthnnightly 34 minutes ago from txt
johnnytoobad Shoulda coulda woulda been a reggae superstar bingymon meets the rockers uptown inna dub roots style yes I about 4 hours ago from txt
johnnytoobad My house is the riggity wreckest its ever been the 4th will be a national day of cleaning at my crib 11:45 PM July 03, 2008 from txt
johnnytoobad @ HenryRollins you're a long way from hagen daz in georgetown where I first saw you and Ian I thought you were marines gone awol 12:33 AM July 03, 2008 from txt in reply to HenryRollins
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
More French Versions of Live Free or Die
The French have got the spirit no wonder this phrase has been in my mind for so long.
Vivre libre ou mourir
"French for "Live Free or Die" is inscribed on the centerpiece monument at the Pantheon in Paris"
Horace Andy "Spying Glass"
You live in the city
You mind your own business
What you see you don't see
But some people they always see
They never mind their own business
You move to the country
You live in the hills
You think you're far from the wicked
When you check it them a use spying glass
They want to know all your business
You live in the city
You stay by yourself
You avoid their company
Still some people are prying you out
Just because you are rasta
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Why I did it
Live Free or Die
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Jump to: navigation, search
This article is about the state motto. For other uses, see Live Free or Die (disambiguation).
"Live Free or Die" is the official motto of the U.S. state of New Hampshire, adopted by the General Court in 1945. It is possibly the best-known of all state mottos, partly because it speaks to an aggressive independence inherent in American political philosophy and partly because of its contrast to the milder sentiments usually found in such mottos.
The phrase comes from a toast written by General John Stark on July 31, 1809. Poor health forced Stark, New Hampshire's most famous soldier of the American Revolutionary War, to decline an invitation to an anniversary reunion of the Battle of Bennington and to send his toast by letter:
"Live free or die: Death is not the worst of evils. "
It may have an earlier origin, as mentioned in Burke's 1758 The Annual Register of World Events: A Review of the Year, q.v. at google books.
The motto was enacted at the same time as the state emblem, on which it appears.
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Jump to: navigation, search
This article is about the state motto. For other uses, see Live Free or Die (disambiguation).
"Live Free or Die" is the official motto of the U.S. state of New Hampshire, adopted by the General Court in 1945. It is possibly the best-known of all state mottos, partly because it speaks to an aggressive independence inherent in American political philosophy and partly because of its contrast to the milder sentiments usually found in such mottos.
The phrase comes from a toast written by General John Stark on July 31, 1809. Poor health forced Stark, New Hampshire's most famous soldier of the American Revolutionary War, to decline an invitation to an anniversary reunion of the Battle of Bennington and to send his toast by letter:
"Live free or die: Death is not the worst of evils. "
It may have an earlier origin, as mentioned in Burke's 1758 The Annual Register of World Events: A Review of the Year, q.v. at google books.
The motto was enacted at the same time as the state emblem, on which it appears.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
City Boy
This heart of darkness is mine bitch
Don’t you know little girl
You should be careful messing with a man like me
It’s a dirty cold city that I call me
Not meant for lovely things such as yourself
No one here is really sure what will happen next
Mean men lurk on the street corners at night
Trying not to do bad things
But not always winning the battle with glorious failure
So fucking pure
Now I’m back on street level
Comfortable as hell
Not meant for human consumption
Don’t you know little girl
You should be careful messing with a man like me
It’s a dirty cold city that I call me
Not meant for lovely things such as yourself
No one here is really sure what will happen next
Mean men lurk on the street corners at night
Trying not to do bad things
But not always winning the battle with glorious failure
So fucking pure
Now I’m back on street level
Comfortable as hell
Not meant for human consumption
Friday, May 30, 2008
the language of my voice
Only in reflection of what little I write do I get a clearer perspective on who I really am. Some themes keep popping up over and over.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Will Kill for Junk
In someways he was very very tired but he was never really that tired as long as it was present, in his hand, in his ruck sack, or in his veins, especially in his veins. Through 14 foreign conflicts and the armies of four major European powers he had stayed high. It was the thing that made him different why he could lie in a hedge row in the rain with a sniper rifle for 3 days carefully controlling his timed injections of Dexedrine and morphine so he was always awake feeling no pain but never nodding. In the nod he might miss his target and making the shot was only thing that made him feel anything real if only in that brief instant of the muzzle flash and the vaporizing blood cloud around the exploding head of his intended.
His record of confirmed kills (and the whispered rumors of twice as many unconfirmed) kept the brass from wondering why he was in the infirmary getting opiates for a spinal cord injury that never showed up on xray or slowed him down in brutal training exercises. When he began freelancing for the intelligence services was when the blinds on his secret addiction were lifted and he was offered whatever opiate he wanted (pharmaceuticals were recommended as they were easily explained on expense reports) as long as the job got done his reputation preceded him and he was never without IT. Some thought they could control him with it but being forced to seek it on his own only whetted his appetite. He knew where to cop in any country on earth.
Why was he still here? Why stick around on this earth causing mayhem and death with his only purpose to stay loaded and kill the men he was sent to kill? He was waiting for a call, and one day that call came.
"Mr, Louis?"
"Who's calling?"
" We have completed the final test on the machine, we can reach the date in question, your target is John Wilkes Booth"
"Is this line secure?"
"It won't matter if you complete your assignment."
" I guess you're right. I'm on my way"
His record of confirmed kills (and the whispered rumors of twice as many unconfirmed) kept the brass from wondering why he was in the infirmary getting opiates for a spinal cord injury that never showed up on xray or slowed him down in brutal training exercises. When he began freelancing for the intelligence services was when the blinds on his secret addiction were lifted and he was offered whatever opiate he wanted (pharmaceuticals were recommended as they were easily explained on expense reports) as long as the job got done his reputation preceded him and he was never without IT. Some thought they could control him with it but being forced to seek it on his own only whetted his appetite. He knew where to cop in any country on earth.
Why was he still here? Why stick around on this earth causing mayhem and death with his only purpose to stay loaded and kill the men he was sent to kill? He was waiting for a call, and one day that call came.
"Mr, Louis?"
"Who's calling?"
" We have completed the final test on the machine, we can reach the date in question, your target is John Wilkes Booth"
"Is this line secure?"
"It won't matter if you complete your assignment."
" I guess you're right. I'm on my way"
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Friday, May 9, 2008
Padded Window Punch
Cold foggy night in the Mission, Folsom and 20Th. Mark's brother keeps walking around the first floor flat of the old Victorian punching his hand and cursing. Psyching himself up for something I'm not sure what. Grey bushy hair in a classic Manson mane frames his angry face. He's the one who keeps asking who we are and if we're cool. Mark keeps reminding him that Running Bear is the guy who did his tattoos. Mark is bouncing around the apartment too rubbing his back and telling Bear that his back always aches when he's coming down. I run out for a couple 40's of Rainier Ale. We kicked in on some beans and tacos that Mark's toothless girlfriend is cooking up in the kitchen rapping to herself or any of us that wander in there. Mark has that classic biker metal head look motorcycle jacket black jeans and boots, black greasy hair that is pasted to his face because he's sweating alot. He and Bear are telling stories about people I don't know and I'm drinking as much malt liquor as it's polite to do without taking too much and I'm getting buzzed because my stomach is empty. I think we smoked some cheap "bama" weed too. I was wondering if we were going to do some speed but first we sit down to dinner like civilised folk. I was wondering if I wanted to do any speed and knew that if it came out I wouldn't be able to resist even though I hated it. I was in that frame of mind. Eating together was weirdly bonding and I was laughing and thinking these people were pretty cool and they lived around the corner so maybe we could be friends of a sort even though they were tweakers and I was into hop. My stomach was having a bad reaction to the canned re fried beans though, jumping and gurgling something fierce. Lately I'd been resisting and had only broken down and copped a couple times in the past month.Getting high on heroin in a house that was a daycare center during the day was a big no no and I felt pretty fucking shitty about it. But being broke and out of work will put you in that "I'll do any thing if it's free" mode and so chances were I was going to get some speed if I hung out, but these guys probably shot it and I didn't want to deal with using their works. Plus I really didn't like speed but there I was.
After dinner Marks brother got ready to go out and put on a big old navy pea coat and a black wool hat. His right hand had some kind of padding taped to it and he was slamming it into his left palm harder and harder. I finally figured out he was going out to punch car windows and snag car stereos or whatever else he could get. From what I gathered Mark was not going to kick down any speed to his brother for free so he was going out to make his own luck and therefore partake of the bounty of his brothers methamphetamine supply. I also figured out that I was probably not going to get any free speed either and decided to head home rather than hang out looking like a typical drug leech. I can't remember if Running Bear got high with that guy that night I think that although he talked like he was a big time meth dealer that really he was out of dope too and his brother was working to feed the whole houses habit. Marks brother had been grey haired but he was buff and scary and on parole. For the next ten years I saw him pushing a shopping cart around the Mission, looking worse and worse, muttering to himself and the knuckles of his right hand were always padded and at the ready. I was glad I didn't get high with those guys, and soon after I never high again on something I didn't want to do.
After dinner Marks brother got ready to go out and put on a big old navy pea coat and a black wool hat. His right hand had some kind of padding taped to it and he was slamming it into his left palm harder and harder. I finally figured out he was going out to punch car windows and snag car stereos or whatever else he could get. From what I gathered Mark was not going to kick down any speed to his brother for free so he was going out to make his own luck and therefore partake of the bounty of his brothers methamphetamine supply. I also figured out that I was probably not going to get any free speed either and decided to head home rather than hang out looking like a typical drug leech. I can't remember if Running Bear got high with that guy that night I think that although he talked like he was a big time meth dealer that really he was out of dope too and his brother was working to feed the whole houses habit. Marks brother had been grey haired but he was buff and scary and on parole. For the next ten years I saw him pushing a shopping cart around the Mission, looking worse and worse, muttering to himself and the knuckles of his right hand were always padded and at the ready. I was glad I didn't get high with those guys, and soon after I never high again on something I didn't want to do.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Wow, Guess What? Turns Out We Are A Bunch of Racist Fucktards
Have I been in the bubble of a blue state too long? I drank the Kool Aid (why isn't anyone protesting this reference to the Jonestown Massacre, we in the Bay Area should know better) after watching Obama's speeches early this year. He got me he really did and still does. I actually feel inspired to maybe get off my lazy ass and work for his campaign, starting with a bumper sticker and another 5 dollar donation. Unfortunately,(and god knows I, like a bunch of folks white, black and whatever, should have had a clue as to how bad it was going to be)we are still a nation full of racist bastards.
Calling the man a Muslim is the least of his problems. If he hasn't been filled full of sniper rounds (please God do forbid this)he'll have a couple of trumped up rape charges and thousands of illegitimate crack addicted children on his neo con rap sheet by October at the latest. That's if the Clintons haven't stolen the nomination with moves (given freely) from the Karl Rove playbook. The Clintons now have soiled their legacy so badly that it is irreparable. The worst kind of racist to me is one who mouths anti-racist statements but takes racist action on the other. Calling a black American elitist is a hard sell but they did it.
Calling the man a Muslim is the least of his problems. If he hasn't been filled full of sniper rounds (please God do forbid this)he'll have a couple of trumped up rape charges and thousands of illegitimate crack addicted children on his neo con rap sheet by October at the latest. That's if the Clintons haven't stolen the nomination with moves (given freely) from the Karl Rove playbook. The Clintons now have soiled their legacy so badly that it is irreparable. The worst kind of racist to me is one who mouths anti-racist statements but takes racist action on the other. Calling a black American elitist is a hard sell but they did it.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Robert Downey Jr.: Back from the Brink -
Robert Downey Jr.: Back from the Brink - ![]()
Robert Downey, Jr., star of the upcoming Iron Man movie, is alive and doing well, which is great news for his fans. This piece begins like many similar profiles of Downey, exploring the actor's resurrection from his well-publicized fall into addiction. But despite the article's title it doesn't pander to tabloid sensibilities. Keegan gets to the heart of the matter: that the actor is no longer defined by the labels of "recovering guy" or "ne'er-do-well."
in Time by Rebecca Winters Keegan, 25 APril 2008
This abstract was edited by Brijit. Read more here...
Robert Downey, Jr., star of the upcoming Iron Man movie, is alive and doing well, which is great news for his fans. This piece begins like many similar profiles of Downey, exploring the actor's resurrection from his well-publicized fall into addiction. But despite the article's title it doesn't pander to tabloid sensibilities. Keegan gets to the heart of the matter: that the actor is no longer defined by the labels of "recovering guy" or "ne'er-do-well."
in Time by Rebecca Winters Keegan, 25 APril 2008
This abstract was edited by Brijit. Read more here...
Monday, April 14, 2008
neurotic dreams of the never be Rich never be Famous
Gonna get these mothers
no drama no dreams of Ethiopia sitting in a lounge waiting for the injera to arrive
swaddled in silk
I'll never see that
wishing for things I don't want like tours of every Podunk pitiful nightclub in the USA
motorcycles that tear down buildings with their exhaust
french girls that cry when I leave
disposable Rolex watches
and diamond laser lights shooting out of my eyes toward the heavens as I am internationally known
for being "Lost in Prayer"
no drama no dreams of Ethiopia sitting in a lounge waiting for the injera to arrive
swaddled in silk
I'll never see that
wishing for things I don't want like tours of every Podunk pitiful nightclub in the USA
motorcycles that tear down buildings with their exhaust
french girls that cry when I leave
disposable Rolex watches
and diamond laser lights shooting out of my eyes toward the heavens as I am internationally known
for being "Lost in Prayer"
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
el veterano
beautiful tan suede fedora
beautiful black and white checkered wool coat
fat and classy gold rings with onyx inlays
wing tips
slacks with killer crease
wire rim glasses
motherfucker was shit sharp
eating four grams of black tar heroin per day
cannot inject via intra muscular anymore
too tore up from abcesses
does not smoke
does not drink
67 years old
5o years of heroin addiction
the original
original gangster
beautiful black and white checkered wool coat
fat and classy gold rings with onyx inlays
wing tips
slacks with killer crease
wire rim glasses
motherfucker was shit sharp
eating four grams of black tar heroin per day
cannot inject via intra muscular anymore
too tore up from abcesses
does not smoke
does not drink
67 years old
5o years of heroin addiction
the original
original gangster
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
death by mistake
a patient who could have been me died of an infection he got during a funfilled 5 day relapse. Death came weeks afterward, after his "wake up call." after his last roll of the junkie dice, thought he'd gotten away with a taste one last time. In his death I am reminded, the game is rigged.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
old story idea no. 2
Legendary Blood Rustlers of the Vallejo BioGen Plant
You could live longer, stronger, bigger and faster but you had to get the right batch of blood. Slimey and The General found frozen bags deep in the cryo storage warehouses on Mare island in the north east section that the Navy claimed to own but really rented space to the gene police feds. Just cause your a janitor does'nt mean your stupid, especially if you took the job on pourpose after failing out of Stanford. They thought they could be like Steve Jobs and skip school, but bioengineering does'nt allow such slackeresque success and so after going broke after investing student loan money in a melanin enhancer that did not work at all they resorted to petty crime to keep the server farm in their rented shitbox warehouse going. The plan was to use passwords bought from an oldschool silicon valley hacker, now crankster addict to access the experimental database at BioGen identify dna enhanced blood that was tested but not being used and "borrow" it while they were supposed to be following a germ killer robot through the dark frozen tumnnels of the cryo warehouse. The whole thing was tricky, very tricky but if they pulled it off they could sell it for plenty o' EFT Electronic Funds Transfer to a not so picky gene fence in El Cerrito. "Whose gonna play gueina pig tonight generalissimo'." loudly whispered Slimey to the general as they rode the hydrofoil ferry from Heyward to Vallejo. The General looked over at his friend in the seat next to him and observed him with a critical eye, wondering if his crime partners appearance would give them away. Slimey got his name from the lavender pomade he insisted on wearing big gobs of in his jet black hair swept back fom his high aztec forehead, but it was all the peircings that got him noticed. His eyebrows , nose , lips and hairline were lumpy with clear crystal "zeppelin' style peircings that streched his facial skin tightly, not your average janitor look these days. At least his jump suit was plain enough silver metallic green though it was. If only he was'nt 5 foot two to boot. "You sound hyped up did you use some of that go fast from Marcos? You know you cant inject the dna bags with meth in your system ,taints the final product, Jesus Fucking Christ! Whats with you that shits bathtub crank by the way I know I can smell it a mile away." 'Just enough to write some code for that sideways helix matrix last night whats it to you I carried last weeek," snarled Slimey. "Maybe you did but you brought out the wrong shit and it took two weeks to get rid of those four extra breasts, it was supposed to be a Grow Tall variant you'd be 6ft 2 by now if you paid attention you fake ass criminal" "Shit, wait'll you try to identify those bags on the fly and then inject in the pisser just hoping it's not a Parkinsons batch, my hands shook for days after wards"
The general grunted assent and popped up out his seat heading for the bathroom to complete his dusguise. He did'nt really need it with his shaved head and red ahired goatee, he looked like 90 percent of the other Janitorial engineers at BioGen, except he wasn't a racist meth smoking bastard like they were. At 6 ft 190 lbs of gene enhanced muscle and neuro boost electronics in his head the general fit in almost too well at BioGen. Sometimes the counter intel software at the plant scanned your profile even harder if it seemed too perfect. you'd hear about it, soon.
You could live longer, stronger, bigger and faster but you had to get the right batch of blood. Slimey and The General found frozen bags deep in the cryo storage warehouses on Mare island in the north east section that the Navy claimed to own but really rented space to the gene police feds. Just cause your a janitor does'nt mean your stupid, especially if you took the job on pourpose after failing out of Stanford. They thought they could be like Steve Jobs and skip school, but bioengineering does'nt allow such slackeresque success and so after going broke after investing student loan money in a melanin enhancer that did not work at all they resorted to petty crime to keep the server farm in their rented shitbox warehouse going. The plan was to use passwords bought from an oldschool silicon valley hacker, now crankster addict to access the experimental database at BioGen identify dna enhanced blood that was tested but not being used and "borrow" it while they were supposed to be following a germ killer robot through the dark frozen tumnnels of the cryo warehouse. The whole thing was tricky, very tricky but if they pulled it off they could sell it for plenty o' EFT Electronic Funds Transfer to a not so picky gene fence in El Cerrito. "Whose gonna play gueina pig tonight generalissimo'." loudly whispered Slimey to the general as they rode the hydrofoil ferry from Heyward to Vallejo. The General looked over at his friend in the seat next to him and observed him with a critical eye, wondering if his crime partners appearance would give them away. Slimey got his name from the lavender pomade he insisted on wearing big gobs of in his jet black hair swept back fom his high aztec forehead, but it was all the peircings that got him noticed. His eyebrows , nose , lips and hairline were lumpy with clear crystal "zeppelin' style peircings that streched his facial skin tightly, not your average janitor look these days. At least his jump suit was plain enough silver metallic green though it was. If only he was'nt 5 foot two to boot. "You sound hyped up did you use some of that go fast from Marcos? You know you cant inject the dna bags with meth in your system ,taints the final product, Jesus Fucking Christ! Whats with you that shits bathtub crank by the way I know I can smell it a mile away." 'Just enough to write some code for that sideways helix matrix last night whats it to you I carried last weeek," snarled Slimey. "Maybe you did but you brought out the wrong shit and it took two weeks to get rid of those four extra breasts, it was supposed to be a Grow Tall variant you'd be 6ft 2 by now if you paid attention you fake ass criminal" "Shit, wait'll you try to identify those bags on the fly and then inject in the pisser just hoping it's not a Parkinsons batch, my hands shook for days after wards"
The general grunted assent and popped up out his seat heading for the bathroom to complete his dusguise. He did'nt really need it with his shaved head and red ahired goatee, he looked like 90 percent of the other Janitorial engineers at BioGen, except he wasn't a racist meth smoking bastard like they were. At 6 ft 190 lbs of gene enhanced muscle and neuro boost electronics in his head the general fit in almost too well at BioGen. Sometimes the counter intel software at the plant scanned your profile even harder if it seemed too perfect. you'd hear about it, soon.
old story ideas no 1
The battle of marin County in the year 2025,I switched my mountain wheels for road from a stash near Whites Hill. It really saved time when you had to use surface roads, most of the squad were ok using road on most trails. but for the more extreme spots. If you really wanted to hide you need to go to the deep spots that only a mountain bike could get to. I adjusted my smart bars back to drops and set off down Sir Fances Drake in the dark, whizzing along with my tires making there special hum, but no lights til Sausalito at least. My sniper weapon was folded up in my pack but my side arm was strapped to the small of my back in a protective case that deflected the Metal detectors. Most times if you walked in a store and the buzzers went off nobody even looked twice but if the invaders were patrolling close by you'd get a mean stare and people would whisper " hey Resister, you trying to get us killed, we support you but cant you stay in the hills" I would casually reply " Mans gotta eat limon' sorbetto whats he gonna do, suck on a Lemon, how gauche. " I still had a thing for marinites.Their homes still looked great but the lack of fresh paint was telling.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Faded and Jaded
The new kids that came around called them Mr. Faded and Mrs. Jaded they were just glad somebody still came around since most of their friends had gone corporate, or died. They bought the house back in the day when the coke flowed freely and you could make money like that. No one in the avenues noticed them, they were up when the Chinese neighbors were in bed. If anybody asked they said they made their money from a lotto ticket. Coke became too dangerous so they moved into weed and pills, only problem was their mutual benzo habit.
Somewhere deep in the recesses of his valium, xanax, ativan, and clonopin addled brain Danny knew something was severely wrong. He’d seen this look on his mothers face back in 65 and hated the slack skinned face that snidely put him down for being a hippie. Oh how he railed about “mothers little helper” as symptomatic of her whole fucked up generation. Now that same look stared back at him from the mirror and there was no way out.
They tried to quit the pills one time and after 4 days Cheryl came after him with a knife saying he was Richard Nixon in a cat suit sent by the DEA to take her plants in the basement. He was so psychotic with his own withdrawal symptoms he looked down to see if he was wearing a cat suit. Luckily he called Fred the Head who had a benzo habit too and he came over with liquid valium to save them and counsel them on the difficulties of benzo detoxification. “It’s taken me three years to get down to 50 milligrams of blue valiums per day. My wife Sarah tried it cold turkey while I was on tour and was in the hospital for a month on an ativan drip.” The plan since then was to taper slowly but somehow that never happened it’s hard to keep track when you’re stoned on the latest strain from Amsterdam.
Somewhere deep in the recesses of his valium, xanax, ativan, and clonopin addled brain Danny knew something was severely wrong. He’d seen this look on his mothers face back in 65 and hated the slack skinned face that snidely put him down for being a hippie. Oh how he railed about “mothers little helper” as symptomatic of her whole fucked up generation. Now that same look stared back at him from the mirror and there was no way out.
They tried to quit the pills one time and after 4 days Cheryl came after him with a knife saying he was Richard Nixon in a cat suit sent by the DEA to take her plants in the basement. He was so psychotic with his own withdrawal symptoms he looked down to see if he was wearing a cat suit. Luckily he called Fred the Head who had a benzo habit too and he came over with liquid valium to save them and counsel them on the difficulties of benzo detoxification. “It’s taken me three years to get down to 50 milligrams of blue valiums per day. My wife Sarah tried it cold turkey while I was on tour and was in the hospital for a month on an ativan drip.” The plan since then was to taper slowly but somehow that never happened it’s hard to keep track when you’re stoned on the latest strain from Amsterdam.
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