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Promise Keeper | going apeshit

I stopped in the garage to store the monkey head.

I liked it, but Crystal would surely find it spooky. I removed the coke, sprinkled some on the weight bench, and hosed it up. Blades and straws are for people who don’t have piles of coke. Big Jim was out of his gourd. This was a lot of coke and he wasn’t getting it back. I took it in to Crystal.

“Merry Christmas, honey.”

“Is that coke?” She was obviously delighted.

“You bet. It’s pretty good too.” I was getting numb big-time. Cocaine is delightful for about ten minutes. Crystal went and got her coke kit.

So much of the drug scene was the ritual of preparation for some people. There would be an initial examination, questions about whose shit it was, more examination, chopping and chopping and chopping and then the careful lining up of the lines and the little sniff sniff bullshit. That would be followed by pinching the nostrils and squinting and maybe running water and sniffing droplets of water. Jesus. I found it all to be pointless dramatics. Just give me some cognac and some vicodaine or vidocaine or whatever. I’ll be chillin’.

I went to the cognac cupboard and got out a nice bottle of cognac. I found a little snifter and settled in to watch Crystal. She followed the ritual step by step. I wonder if she knows how it looks. Insane little movements. Insane little faces. Insane cocaine from a mad cow fatboy. Cognac cool, that’s what I was. I almost wished I smoked again for the coolness it might impart on the moment.

I knew big Jim wouldn’t venture off his property. He only lived five houses down and had never been to my house. I don’t think he knew where I lived. Even if he did, he would not leave his house for fear someone would come and steal his shit if he left. The next time I needed coke or speed I would have to go somewhere else or take some kind of offering to placate him. Maybe a monkey head.

The cocaine got a monkey wrench grip on my forehead and twisted. I chugged more cognac and got another Vicodin. Fucking coke. I kept sipping and waited hopefully for relief from the fucking apeshit.

And the Vikings marched on. Four Vikings and all that cognac on a Christmas day. They could not conquer the ape shit.

“Crystal, make me some lines.” I gave in.

“Lines? Big lines?” She sensed my desperation.

“Nightcrawlers. Yeah. Big ones.”

Crystal set to chopping. I knew there would be too much chopping.

“Don’t chop all day. Let’s keep it rolling. Move it along.”

And the day moved along. Big, fat cocaine rails that gummified my face. Falsified my gums. The cognac washed over numb tonsils and carried the numbness farther along.

Vicocaine roiled in my guts and vicadine cocadained until I actually puked like a puker. My whole head was wet. I could barely see.

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