Thursday, September 13, 2012

Tim's House (Part 3)

But now the meaning was clear, similar to Jaco’Pastoria’s 6/8 jam upon the 10th listen.  She looked like a 65 year-old Barbie doll that was left in the microwave on reheat for an hour.  Obviously an older woman, who was desperate to hang on to her youth at any cost, even if it drastically altered her appearance beyond God’s original conception, like that of Michael Jackson.

Her name was Karrie, her tits were enormous, her lips looked like firmica, she had long red hair, and a Brazilian butt lift she paid for on installment plans, one cheek at a time, and squandered the money for the second cheek elsewhere.

Butt lift paid for one check
at a time!!! 

“Hello” she said to me, trying to keep her ass out of my eye sight now.  “Which room are you staying in?”

“Um, Bruce’s Room.”

Her eyes rolled back into her skull like a pin ball being shot out the spring, and she replied “that sucks,” and at that moment, a loud crashing sound occurred, and almost like watching one of the twin towers crash down, the guy known as Ben came tumbling down the stairwell in some kind of drug induced blackout.  He was breathing, so it was clear he was alive.  Karrie just kept blinking, then retreated to the garage. Apparently, this was typical behavior in the house.

Months passed, and drama flew by.  While I sojourned here, a deal with ‘Ol Smoked Out (Bruce) was made.  For the price of a few methodone, I could have my girlfriend stay over on the weekends, and of course, this deal went all to hell when Smoked Out decided we were in cahoots and conspiring against him in nocturnal combat.  Since we both snored simultaneously we were put on trial as “sleep terrorists.”

“Wake up…wake up you fuckers wake up!” We both jotted out of sleep as our delta waves attached to our medullas.  “I can’t take this shit, you two need to kick rocks or stop breathing” and with that, Wild Smoked Out Bruce jumped out of his bed, and in a psychotic incantation, grabbed the shower curtain road which acted as a partition for our room, and brandished it with a malicious intent. Since he paid rent in full, we were asked to leave, pending the fact no assault occurred.

We walked out into the hallway, confused, baffled, and bamboozled.  It was early, and the other 20 some odd residents either didn’t care, or were too hung over from last night’s drug  frenzy to take note, save one.

The way he said “over here” reminded me of a confused inmate during his first stent in jail, boxers on backward and all.  Ben heard the rucus and invited us to share his room, since his previous roommate elected for a change of venue, favoring the Bush on the left of the corner of Victoria and Republic.  We cordially accepted his invite, made a nest, and were offered a Fentanyl patch.

Devil Fentanyl, a transdermal patch you put under your lymph nodes.  Fentanyl is the world’s strongest narcotic, so strong it comes in MICRO gram strength, because milligrams would kill an elephant, although someone like Rickie Lake or Rosie O. would suffer a mild coma.  Fentanyl pumps the equivalent of 100 morphine tabs (40 mgs approximately) to the 2nd power into your bloodstream for 72 consecutive hours in a row, so that would be something like 40 mg x 100^2 = WAY FUCKING HIGH for 3 days!

Sub Aqua warmth of nostalgic euphoria!!

A piece of heaven on earth, putting the patch under your tongue releases all the medicine at once, ALL 3 DAYS worth in an hour.  The most catastrophic events are bound to happen as your body is rushed in a sub aqua warmth of nostalgic embryonic euphoria, your pupils constrict to the size of a dot, and your thoughts race to a warm comfortable place of bunnies and babies and California king size beds.  You grope the nearest pillow as if understanding on some basic survival mechanism that your vacillating on the verge of an opiatic overdose and the greatest altered state, but the chemicals keep your heart beating at just speed to allow the minimal amount of oxygen to keep you alive and enjoy yourself.  You lose total control of your mouth muscle’s as saliva runs out the corners, like you have become some down syndrome kid staring at a funnel cake and trying to calculate if you can afford it on your weekly retarded allowance, and despite the fact you can, you just can’t put it all together, so give up, give in, and give your dealer everything in your pocket and welcome heaven on earth followed by hell in your soul.

We sat up late chatting about everything and nothing at once. The patches leveled off, and my girlfriend and I fell asleep while Ben continued eating random medications he had stored in his backpack (which we now identified as a portable Costco pharmacy), and to top that off, Yukon Jack and 4 loco chasers was how he did it, and somewhere around 3 am, we were awoken to the swansong of 14 firemen and paramedics.  Ben dialed 911 on himself!!!  

The red rubber gloves and flashlights were only rivaled by the cacophony of Motorola walkie-talkies.  The conversation went something like this:

“Are you ok son? Do you know where you are?” The paramedic asks.

“Ben…Ben…need Demerol?”

“We asked where you were, not who? What that in your mouth? 10-6-4 we possibly have a choking victim.  Sir, open your mouth.  We need to confirm you are not choking.”

Ben’s face looked like someone stuck a high powered car vacuum up to it on setting #11.  He complacently opened his mouth and said.

“My doctor told me to chew on this Fentanyl patch if it didn’t last for 3 days.” And of course at once in unison the entire department started laughing.

“Your doctor did tell you to chew on a transdermal fentanyl patch. Gerney, we got a transport.”

And that would be the last time we ever saw Ben.  At this point the entire house joined in on the speculation, and over half the fire department lost interest in Ben, and switched interest to Karrie’s giant tits.

Fuck this place, my P.O. would eventually make a house call, and decide she didn’t like me anymore, so I called her that Friday, knowing she’d be out, reported a new move in date of some other place, in some other town on Monday, and left that night, skipping out on a week’s worth of rent.  What a strange fucking cracked-out house this was, and although my experience with Fentanyl was unique, it was ultimately the catalyst for a progressive downward spiral in my life, of which I will write about in due time.  The moral if this seemingly random adventure was not apparent until later....if your looking for a place to stay with no rules, no commitments, and where no one really cares, come to Tim's House, where the second hand smoke is as good as the first!

Back to Gonzo Head Quearters:

Read Again: Tim's House Part 1