Proxy pt. 2

I’m sick and tired of waiting. Where the hell is he? He was supposed to arrive earlier but- Aah, here he is. Look at this morose right motherfucker here: thinks he can get a girl just by puffing smoke in their eyes, holding his crotch, trousers down low, belt undone (don’t ask me, it’s the fashion).

I look at the sky to show attention. I stub my cigarette.

“Hey man.” The words came out funny- strange for a Narcotic drug taker.

“Yo man, how ya doin’?” He is my idea of a failure.

“So, have you got the, uh, stuff?”

“Sorry, what stuff man?”

“You know, the bag of Class A you promised.”

“Of course man, here it is.” He gives me the bag, light and packed as I feel the outside of the bag.

“I’ll see you around, eh? Oh, and I’ve got an invitation. I’ll give it to you later.”

“Um, sure.” He smiles at me and walks off, baseball cap and all. What a cockhead. Thank Christ most drug dealers aren’t like that, or I’ll have to resort in making my own brew of cocaine- then there would be trouble.

Where exactly can I take this substance? It can’t be too bad now can it? I’ve tried crack once offered by my teacher and cocaine many times, so Class A is basically a mix of the two.

It seems like he has given me a special gift. He knew I was to be attending a “meeting” with my very strange friends. He had enclosed some valium and a condom just for me. Maybe he isn’t such a cockhead after all.

I have come to realise how much it takes to be in this business. The pressures of real life, the preachers disguised as headteachers, the ignorant world leaders- life wasn’t what I had aspired it to be.

Years ago I always wanted to be an author, writing about drugs and sex and cars. It was the perfect occupation for my very dire time as a child. I was in a state, hot off the heels of recovering my 5th rejection, which ultimately lead me to give up on love altogether.

Those names ring so many bells- as far as I know there is no true love, but only an apology and a rejection for me. The names of these people are as follows- Sally, though I would hate to father her child, Jenny, with her upwards smile, Alex, with her cute sensibility, Grace, with her upbeat approach to life, and Lucy, an oriental dream.

Oh, Lucy. I remember her well. I will admit though she has changed a lot. Going to my primary school, she seemed to be the only one to talk to. However, once we went to secondary school, she hanged out with whores and sluts who only want your cock and some money for you to throw at them. “Screw marriage” was their key phrase, obviously a piss take at love and commitment. Within a few years Lucy lead a life of poverty and bad luck. Narcotics are so frequently in her system that she looks 50. Oh, why didn’t I offer to help then? Why didn’t I offer to be with her then? It’s way too late now. The suffering is endless for me. Rejection after rejection after rejection. I thought she was the one for me- she certainly looked the part. Her black eyes, smeared eyeliner, cute smile, soft voice, short height. She was the one; she had to be. Who else could I have loved more than her?

Alas, childhood was and always will be a tainted hourglass of hindsight- an insight into the so called memory lane of my coke-fuelled sadness of dreams. Upon hearing about her overdose I wrote this short poem with a melody to it:

Now, if you excuse me, I have matters to attend to. Silence…humming of tune above…slip away.

This has never happened to me before.

Just as we were finishing up, putting our trousers back on, there was the line of cocaine which hadn’t been finished. My hands are trembling stalks; my life is scarred with the mirrors of hope and premature death. Reflections of my dead mother, jarred cracked spitting images of my derelict past in the backdrop of bloodsport and pain.

Out in the back…no light…no air…no hope…the ultimate juxtaposition to the smiles all around in the centre of this dump- rich snobs far away from the battlefronts of narcotics and murder. Just like Colonel Hague, the butcher, leaving 63,000 to give up their life just to travel 1,000 yards. Talk about a war of attrition.

The thin white powder hits my nose like the ideal car crash. Hmm. This is a funny smell. Literally, it was very funny.- call this cocaine? This smells of nothing of interest. Smells likes the scent of decomposed bodies rotting away as a sacrifice to weeds and maggots. My eyes are aching- might just be the excitement from the whole thing not 2 minutes ago.

The agony, the ecstasy of my experience- it’s like losing your virginity: hindsight is always involved. The first person I ever screwed is dead now. She was found on the edge of the bridge, gun in hand, blood splattered all over the bottom, with hints of brain matter sprinkled on the water’s surface like daffodils. Since that so-called love disintegrated, I have passed my time with women who just do their jobs. Escorts, junkies, whores, call girls, etc. This city is sprayed in the colour of their skins like eternal graffiti, marked with chosen names like Emma or Stacy.

I am most fascinated with how they aren't vulnerable to become pregnant without the use of a condom.

You see, they are supplied a drug by their pimp (the top dog). Two drugs actually, but it depends where you stand. For the temptation they are given a heroin injection whenever they resist to fuck a stranger. This makes them do their job and therefore make them come back for another injection which they never get. For the avoidance of pregnancy, they use are type of drug codenamed Cheap Abortion (CA for short).

The CA is a tablet taken the morning after a sexual encounter. The chemicals are so powerful, that after the prostitutes lose their virginity, and when they take it, their ovaries are now disabled for life. Sure this is torture going through with it, and is certain to kill the prostitute due to chemical poisoning, but those who do survive it have a hell of a story to tell the others scattered around town. Their lives are all lies and their offspring are screaming whispers, crying for some breastfeeding. Cry baby cry; your mother isn’t paying attention.

The CA is surprisingly legal in most parts of this cesspool. The politics in this place are unprecedented. We now have to live off other people like leaches summoned by the leaders of men to make an ideal for living shattered for good. The headteachers of schools, the political propaganda everywhere, death is almost like a walking parody of the world many others had the privilege of living in.

Democracy? Well being? Honesty? Why I am being fucked around with?

The experience of taking cocaine is different to everyone- for me it my only excuse to be honest with myself. Everyone lies in a fixated state of mind; once they snort cocaine they are showing people their true colours. These colours, mostly blending in with the red lines in their eyes, symbolised our neighbouring country: Red for the blood of an overdose, Blue for the eye colours of a thousand executioners and White for the overbearing skin colour over there. Racism has plagued America, obesity has plagued America. God save America? Fuck off.

Upon these first snorts of cocaine I notice a trend. Every three sniffs I feel a distinctive sting of the nostrils. My senses unravel a fantasia of possibilities and broken dreams; deadlines for drug dealers never met, the overbearing sense of nihilism lies behind my coke fuelled eyes. My heart is getting faster. And faster. And faster. Strange…this must be something else.

Oh Jesus Christ! No, no…no…no…this can’t be happening. I checked it all. I had to have checked. I must’ve checked. Where the hell is the bag this damn thing came in?! Maybe it’s a new hybrid of cocaine- a marriage of cocaine and heroin perhaps? Are my murky dreams of solitude coming true?

No. They are not. My eyes sink to the floor- my back has had spasms for the past week. What a drag. Upon another intake of substance, I hesitate. A cough? I only cough when I need to but not now. What’s happening to me? My eyes are burning. I look to the sky- is God up there? No he never replies. But there is only one thing he gives me: a one way ticket to hell.

My arms twitch as I drop the mirror by the side of the table. The very sight of this so called cocaine has me stirring in a fit. My arms grow weaker, a distinctive red patch under my nose forms. I choke on my promises, my lies, my words I told Lucy. Now here I am in her situation. I am a junkie. A low life, now overdose prone, junkie. I hate achievements. I hate morale. What’s the point of living if life only gives me obstacle after obstacle? Nothing ever turns out like you want it to.

Upon a final breath of despair I fall to the floor. My eyes wide and petrified of what tomorrow brings I fade out. Perhaps I screwed my only life up. But no more chances eh? I made my bed, and now I have to lie in it, staining the pillows in my blood resting my face on it and infecting the mattress with my shit.

Blur. Life is meaningless, I know. But give God another chance. I cannot believe what you have done. Wait. Give me your hand Mister. Let me set you free. Heaven sent. Shame I was revived by a police officer. Maybe I should just leave God to decide what happens to me. I fucking hate police officers. I’m feeling better now to know they did their job correctly for a change. Why aren’t they always like this?