Bedpan had just finished an overnight shift at the hospital when he found me. I was sprawled out on the couch.  My boots were still on, hat rested over my eyes.  An empty bottle of Evan Williams set on the floor next to me.  My .45 was disassembled neatly on the coffee table, eight Federal hollow points standing in a row beside it.

Bedpan popped open his phone and speed-dialed his roommate, Mr. Black.

“Who’s the scary looking guy with the gun sleeping in our living room?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, “Ask Willy Pete.”

Willy Pete played dumb, giving Bedpan a nervous jolt.  Bedpan is the poster-child for suburban white America.  Easy going.  Non-confrontational.  How he came to live with those two is beyond me.

I woke shortly after the awkward phone exchange.  My head must have swelled.  Morning sunlight made my eyes water.  A dull throb filled my skull.  My boots thumped the floor as I struggled to sit up, knocking over the empty liquor bottle.

“Hey man.  So, uh . . . what’s with the Glock?”

Bedpan tried to sound conversational.  Uncomfortable was more like it.

“Glock?” I asked.

I slid the pieces back together, chambered a round and eased the slide closed.  I thumbed the decocker and set the gun back on the table.  I squinted up at Bedpan as I squeezed rounds back into the magazine.

“It’s a Sig,” I told him.

Mr. Black and Willy Pete came home soon after.  They laughed at Bedpan’s expense while I put myself back together.  They explained the situation to him and Willy Pete fired up the percolator.  I poured coffee on my hangover.

. . .

It had been five days since I left her.  That headache was the best I’d felt since.

The night I left, I grabbed a handful of clothes, my pistol, and my laptop.  She thought I was bluffing until she saw me heading for the door.  From across the room I could see her eyes go wide.  Her anger dissolved into tears.

I didn’t slam a single door on my way out.

I bounced from couch to couch, trying not to overstay my welcome.  I had half a paycheck to my name.  My options were few and far between.  Mr. Black and I were barely on speaking terms at the time, but he loaned me his couch without hesitation.

It was Saturday morning.  Mr. Black shuffled around the apartment, gathering his bearings.  His band was shooting their first video that afternoon.  He invited me to join them.

It was already hot as Hell.  The video was being filmed in a small space with no air conditioning.  Packed full of sweating hardcore metal fans, the conditions sounded ideal for riding out a hangover.

I rode up separate.  Willy Pete and I made a quick beer run – he had no money – and I wedged my car into a corner of the gravel driveway.  The film crew arrived next, unpacking their gear, followed by several carloads of inky metal-heads.  Last but not least came a Hummer.  The driver and his friend produced a couple of assault rifles from the back seat.

There was a photo shoot first.  The band posed outside holding various weapons, all of them empty.  I stood by quietly with my .45 tucked discretely beneath my shirt.  I locked it in my trunk when we went inside.

The premise was to pack the space with people while the band played.  We thrashed violently, shoulder to shoulder.  The crew filmed the whole thing from every possible angle.  This went on for hours.  I sweat out toxins in the heat while everyone else drank.

During one take, someone tripped over the camera rigging.  The guy next to him stumbled and stepped on his shin.  I heard the crack over the amps.

I left shortly afterward.  The shoot continued, but I made a side trek to her house to collect my things.  We’d hardly spoken since the night I left.  I shoveled my belongings into my trunk as quickly as I could.

Back at Mr. Black’s apartment, I heaved a sigh of relief.  I took my boots off for the first time in two days.  Four years together, five days apart.  I felt hollow and awful and alone.  I lingered in the shower, letting water wash away tears and sweat and grief.

Willy Pete and I made a run to the liquor store.  I grabbed a liter of Wild Turkey and a sandwich, my first real meal all day.  With food in my stomach, I took a pull straight from the bottle.  Willy Pete followed suit.

The day was fading fast.  The windows dimmed, and I could barely see inside the apartment.  Mr. Black pulled me aside.

“Listen, I’ve got some bitches coming over.  If he gets fucked up and turns into an asshole, it’s on you.  Don’t call me looking for help.  He’s your responsibility.”

“I know . . . I’ve got it.”

I took another swig . . .

I woke up on the couch with a searing headache.  My boots were still on.  My shirt lay across the room.  The bottle of Wild Turkey sat on the coffee table, nearly empty.  My left brow was tender to the touch.  My hands ached, my fingers hurt to move.

My memory was completely blank.

One look in the bathroom mirror spoke volumes.  My left eyebrow was swollen.  Blood had glued the gash shut.  It caked in my eyebrow and down the side of my face.  My cheeks were sunken and unshaven, my eyes jaundiced and bloodshot.  The night came back to me in fragments.

I looked like ten miles of rough road.  I felt worse.

Willy Pete was standing in the hall when I opened the bathroom door.  He looked like I felt, minus the blood.  He was holding his head in his hand, and he squinted at me for a moment before his face twisted in surprise.

“What the fuck happened to your face!?”

“You did,” I croaked.

My voice was so whiskey-scarred I could barely speak.  Dirty grey light filtered into the kitchen through a make-shift American flag curtain.   I choked down two aspirin, desperate to alleviate the pain in my head.

I heard the toilet flush and Willy Pete came shuffling in behind me.  I leaned against the counter, chugging water from a coffee mug.

“How’s the head?” I asked.

“Not good.  I feel like someone hit me with a two-by-four.  I can’t remember a fucking thing.  The inside of my cheek is shredded.”

Willy Pete tried to pry open his mouth to show me the extent of the damage.  I could see nothing in the dim light.  I held up my right hand in response, flexing my fingers slowly.  It was going to be a bad day of picking up the pieces.

. . .

We primed ourselves the night before with ephedrine, caffeine, and whiskey.  It was a twenty minute walk to the first bar.  The night was young and the bar was dead.  We lingered for a while, nursing beers.

We debated the second round.  Willy Pete made the executive decision to hike to the bar where he worked.  It was several miles away, and neither of us had money for a cab.  We ordered shots for the road and headed out.

“We are too white to go that way,” I observed, pointing toward the port.  Willy Pete laughed.

We were on the edge of the ghetto.  Going around would mean a lot of extra walking.  We cut through the park instead, shaving time and distance off our trip.

Our destination was at the end of a street full of sport-bikes and neon bars.  The bouncers waved Willy Pete and me inside without a cover and we elbowed through the crowd.  The front bar was jammed up.  A cover band played downstairs.  We headed for the service end of the bar.  Willy Pete introduced me to the manager.

I didn’t pay for a single drink the rest of the night.

Things began to blur.  I throttled back my consumption, ordering water to chase down more go-pills.  This was not a night for chasing tail.  Willy Pete tried anyway.  He told girls that I had just broken up with my girlfriend, and made repeated attempts to get me to show off my tattoos.  I refused.

By two AM I stood alone at the back of the bar.  Then I lost Willy Pete.

I took a lap through the bar.  Then another.  He wasn’t outside smoking.  He wasn’t anywhere.  One of the bouncers approached me.  He looked like Duke Nukem, right down to the buzz cut.  He stood half a foot taller than me, and probably 60 lbs heavier.  He informed me that Willy Pete had to leave.

“Do me a favor.  Get him out of here . . .”

“No problem,” I said.  ”Thanks.”

I flashed him a thumbs-up, my face twisting into a frustrated sneer.  He just nodded at me and climbed back onto his perch above the crowd.  I searched the bar high-and-low again, with no luck.  He wasn’t answering his phone.  None of the bartenders had seen him.

I tracked down the manager.  He explained that Willy Pete had been mouthing off to the wait staff.  He made some rude comments to one of the waitresses.  Her boyfriend – Duke – was not happy.

I was on the verge of abandoning him when some awful part of my brain kicked in.  No matter what kind of trouble Willy Pete found himself in, I never left him behind.  I had to find him before someone called the cops.

Willy Pete had outstanding warrants for his arrest.

I knew it was only a matter of time.  I knew all along.  I pulled out my phone and thumbed Mr. Black a message: EMERG.  In the back of my head, I thought of his warning.

Don’t call me looking for help.  He’s your responsibility.

. . .

]]> http://www.fkinonline.com/we-spread-thought-cancer/downward-spiral-pt-1/feed/ 3 http://www.fkinonline.com/we-spread-thought-cancer/three-simple-rules/ http://www.fkinonline.com/we-spread-thought-cancer/three-simple-rules/#comments Sun, 31 Jan 2010 15:10:32 +0000 Max http://www.fkinonline.com/?p=2641

The Rules are simple:

1. Don’t use coke.

2. If you use coke once, you’re a cokehead.

3. Never trust a cokehead.

She was not the prettiest woman I’ve been with, a middling 6 at best.  The way she dressed made matters worse – all jeans and sweaters – so I was pleasantly surprised when she peeled them off.  Her breasts were larger, her body curvier, than I expected.

What she lacked in curb appeal, she made up for under the hood.  Her sexual appetite was voracious.  Rodeo clowns aren’t this motivated . . .

I was working at a bar the night I met her.  I was loaded.  I had a rule against drinking on the job, but I wasn’t bouncing that night so I made an exception.

No one needs to be crisp to serve a drink.

She and her friend chatted me up.  I let them do all the work.  I gave her my number and forgot about her.  Later that night, I fucked the shot girl in the front seat of her car in full view of the security camera.

A week or so later I got a phone call, mid-shift.

“Are you working tonight?”

“Yeah,” I said, shouting over the bar noise.

I didn’t recognize her voice.  She sounded sexy over the phone.  I didn’t hang up.

“What are you doing after your shift?”

“Uhh . . . sleeping?  I’ve been up for  a couple days.”  I replied.

“What time do you get off?  You should come over . . . “

It was Saturday night.  I worked Friday night, stayed up all day, and I wouldn’t leave the bar until 5 am.  I was dead on my feet, having hallucinations about dozing off at the wheel.

“What’s the address?”

She lived an hour away.  I cursed and opened a Red Bull.

I finished my shift and closed out the bar, mopping up spilled beer and hopes and dreams.  The shot girl pawed at me a bit, but I pleaded fatigue and headed out to my car.

The drive was a highway blur.

“I’ll let you sleep,” she lied as she ushered me through the door by the arm.  She helped me out of my coat and pushed me toward the bedroom.  I collapsed face down, nearly out when I hit the pillow.

She crawled on top of me and ran her hands up my back.  She slowly rubbed and thumbed her way down.  My head swam.  Right then, at the brink of consciousness, she grabbed me by the belt and unfastened the buckle.

After 45 sweating minutes she made the mistake of getting on top.  I woke up, mid-coitus, with her still riding me.  She just smiled and kissed me and laughed.

She finished me off in her mouth.

The next time I opened my eyes it was mid afternoon.  She was dressed, leaning over me.

“Feel better?” she asked.

She was holding a plate of scrambled eggs and toast.  I sat up, still foggy, while she served me breakfast in bed.

She was in her early thirties, older than me, and divorced with no kids.  In hind-sight, there were red flags everywhere.  Indicator lights flashing across the dashboard.

I was younger and foolish and she had just fucked me unconscious.  I took the bait.

It went on like this for a few weeks.  She would call and I would burn up the highway.  One night she asked if I had ever had a threesome.  I hadn’t.  She called a friend and made arrangements.

The friend was below my taste, but if two fives make a ten then I was batting at least an eleven.  That has to be worth something, I thought.  Unfortunately, things did not go according to plan.

I arrived to find that the friend had too much to drink.  The wine was making her overly sentimental, and she whined for an hour about not wanting me to think she was a slut.

I exercised every fiber of tact I had, trying to woo her back, but it was no use.  We left her sitting on the papa-san, and retreated to the bedroom to fuck while she and the neighbors listened.

The whole affair was sordid.

We covered all of the important bases early on.  Neither of us were into exclusivity.  If the unthinkable ever happened, she informed me she would abort it without even telling me.

Check Oil Pressure.

Check Water Temp.

Eject.

She was a degree of jaded I had never encountered.  She hid it well most of the time, but things rapidly disintegrated into booze-fueled fuck-romps.  If I showed up at her door with a bottle of whiskey, we left a trail of clothes to the bedroom and drank while we fucked.  The sex was violent.

Then we went downtown.

She would mingle with the other regulars while I talked shit with the bartenders and completely ignored her.  A few drinks later she would sit at the other end of the bar, trying to pick up other girls.  Then we went back to her place and fucked again, or I would pass out drunk and she would ride me anyway.

. . .

Then she met Willy Pete.

It was New Years Eve and I had spent a week holed up at a friend’s apartment.  He lived in a dingy rat-hole by some country highway crossroads.  His living room was full of old couches and TVs, and for six days we had an uninterrupted bender.

We stayed up every night until dawn.  People came and went, bringing liquor and food.  Every day we woke up, drag-assed to the liquor store for a magnum of Fleischmann’s vodka and started over.  In the afternoon we watched every Arnold Schwarzenegger movie while I did chin-ups on the door frame.

At night we drank.

She called me early New Years Eve to ask if I had plans.  She was going to a party, but she was in heat.  I was an hour and a half from her apartment, and half drunk.  I was in no shape to go running for a booty call.  She asked for the address.

Less than two hours later we were parked on a roadside, fucking in the back of her car.

We headed back to the apartment.  She stayed for a drink, listening to Willy Pete explain the finer points of meth-head chemistry.  The subject of cocaine came up.

She had mentioned it before.  She teased me about the night I met her, how drunk I was, and admitted that she had been a little coked up that night.  This explained why she had driven an hour just to go to a bar.  She talked about her coke head past.

She left for the other party in her coke head present.

After New Year’s Willy Pete drank with us.  I quit the bar, and moved to a different place up the street.  I lost my Friday shift, but picked up some week-day time.  I would head to her place early Friday.  We fucked and showered before Willy Pete got out of work.  When he arrived we headed out to the local tavern.

The place was busier than usual.  An old friend of the owner’s was back in town, and the two of them were drinking heavily behind the bar.  Things got out of hand.  One of them offered me a bottle of Jack Daniels across the counter . . .

. . . and I woke up near dawn in her bed with a strange girl.

I had a searing headache and no memory of the night before.  She had dark hair and warm, pillowy D-cups.  She was girl-next-door cute.  She was snuggled up against me, wearing only a t-shirt and panties.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but, uh . . . who are you?”

She said her name was Liz.  She told me we did not have sex, although she wasn’t opposed to the idea.  She fondled me a bit, but I was struggling not to be sick.

Later that day, Willy Pete gave me the dirt.  After I blacked out at the bar, we ended up back at the apartment.  The two girls put on a floor show and afterward Liz came in to curl up next to me.

He didn’t mention the coke.

Things began to unravel.  I met more of her friends.  I was completely cold to her, except when we were fucking.  We went to a party at some rich, middle-aged businessman’s house.  I was the youngest person there.  He was an old friend of hers, a former employer.  He played an alpha-male buddy routine with me while she flirted openly with him.

Unsure of which one was trying harder to shame me, I ignored them both and drank his expensive liquor.  She palmed him a gram and he excused himself.

. . .

We took a detour one night on the way to the bar.  She turned down a dirt road and pulled up in front of some shitty modular home.  The nearest neighbor was a quarter of a mile away, and she insisted I stay in the car.

I sat there, furious, replaying things in my head.  I resigned myself to suck it up, make it through the night, and leave early in the morning.

It was a miserable night.  Cold.  The bar was dead.  She was on her phone every ten minutes.  I came out of the bathroom and she was gone.  I got her voice mail several times and left no message.

When she finally called me back, she told me to meet her back at her apartment.  Willy Pete had arrived at the bar, my only consolation, and gave me a lift.

She was lying on her bed fully clothed when I arrived.  I didn’t ask any questions.  I took off my boots, took a few pulls off the Wild Turkey by the bed and went to sleep.

The next morning I woke with her clinging to me like a barnacle.  She was squeezing me with her hand to arouse me.  I moved to get up and she began to plead with me – first verbally, then orally.  I relented.

We didn’t say a word as we laid on the damp, cold sheets.  She was facing the wall, with her back to me.

I was disgusted with myself.

She asked if I would come up next weekend – she wanted to make some kind of special plans.  I informed her that I had a female friend flying in from out of town, and that I wouldn’t be around.  I got up to shower and heard her sniffle.

She told me she didn’t want to see me anymore.

I didn’t talk to her at all that next week.  I picked Aimee up at the airport and promptly forgot about the last few months.  I was pampered and doted on for six days.  It was wonderful.  I felt like a weight had been lifted off my chest.

I dropped Aimee off and kissed her goodbye.  I hadn’t been out of her an hour when my phone rang.

“Where are you?”

Motherfucker.

I didn’t want to entertain her conversation, but she begged me to come see her.  I was almost to my exit when I imagined stuffing myself in her mouth, still warm with someone else.  I changed lanes and kept driving.

She opened a bottle of vodka when I got there and started drinking heavily.  After her pleading over the phone I had expected some modicum of kissing up.  Instead she shuffled around her apartment, brooding.

Her nose was tell-tale red.

She began to ask me questions about the week prior.  I refused to answer, reminding her that we were never really “together”.  I owed her nothing and I told her so.  The angrier she got, the calmer I felt.

Complete and instantaneous dissociation.

I realized my “revenge” plan was now irrelevant.  Smirking, I turned for the door.  She stood in front of me, screaming.  I told her, very casually, to get the fuck out of my way.  I moved to step around her and she shoved me.  My smile vanished.

“How can you say you don’t have any feelings for me?”

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“How can you say you don’t love me!?“

“Because I don’t.”

“You FUCKER!”

It all happened in slow motion.  I saw the punch coming from a mile away.  She cocked her hand back behind her waist and swung for the fences.  She caught me right on the jaw.  My head snapped to one side and back.

I stood there wordless.  I was too surprised to be angry – too stunned to hit her back.

I moved to leave again and she threw herself in front of me.  She screamed at the top of her lungs that she would call the police and tell them that I hit her.  My surface tension broke.  I hurled my phone at an adjacent wall and called her a stupid fucking whore.

She collapsed on the ground in a heap, sobbing.

“You’ll fuck her again,” Willy Pete told me, one afternoon.

I never spoke to her again.

Price/Proof: $20/750 ml; 80 proof

Taste: vanilla, oak

Douchebag Factor: 5/10; wanna-be

Bottom Line: It’s not as strong as 101.  It’s not as bold as 101.  It’s not as good as 101.  80-proof Wild Turkey exists to put the Wild Turkey name in bars that won’t carry 100-proof bourbon.

It tastes watered down – not because of the alcohol content, but because all of the flavor has been muted.  This is not a sipping whiskey, and is best left for mixers.

- Max

Price/Proof: $30/750 ml; 101 proof

Taste: rye, vanilla

Douchebag Factor: 2/10; makes douchbags wince

Bottom Line: You might think that a douchebag would buy Turkey on proof rating alone (like Bacardi 151).  However, bourbon doesn’t lend itself to mixing jungle juice like rum.  If you’re trying to get a co-ed drunk enough to fuck you, 101 Turkey ain’t the one for you.

. . . Which is exactly why I love it.

While I prefer it over a bit of ice, it isn’t unknown for me to drink it straight.  Straight out of the bottle.  It’s a little darker than the average bourbon, lighter on the sour mash and not as sweet.  However, 101 is full of subtle barrel flavors like vanilla and caramel.

Never a disappointment.

- Max