Sourced from my umpteen photo files & albums throughout the years...
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A heavily accented female informed me the contract was ready. I was to meet the representative outside of a restaurant down by the docks. I was to bring $10,000 cash. She told me it was a good faith gesture. Once I signed the documents and gave them the money we would meet the following day—at the meeting, they'd confirm the $5-million deposit.
A giant hand reached inside of my cracked open cranium and removed 70% of my brain, including: Dignity, Pride and Esteem. I asked politely for my brain matter to be hidden—maybe in the closet beside the Atari.
Being kicked in life’s junk repeatedly helped me develop resiliency along with a sense of martyrdom. I was broke. I couldn’t drive. I crutched home from physiotherapy—seven miles. The temperature was +30 Celsius.
Sweat was dripping down my face when a lovely couple stopped to offer me a ride—I was two miles into my crutching journey home. My crutches were sparking blazes on the side of the road. Beelzebub and Lucifer were on my heels. They were salivating.
The room was sterile and cold. Masked men and women were hovering above me. My ceremonial gown was open in the back. My ass was freezing. Needles dangled from my arms. I was doped up. Satan finally caught up with me. My underarms were raw due to my stubbornness. My sacrifice was upon me. The Epic Envoy was parked waiting with a full fuel tank.
Doctor Regan asked me to count backwards from one hundred.
One hundred – ninety-nine--
I wasn't about to be sacrifice—instead, this was operation number--
I searched my pockets for loot. I found $5. My knee was revolting. I was in a good spot.
The previous sentence wasn’t sauced in sarcasm.
It started raining heavily. I needed to think, quickly – I’m drunk. Maybe, I needed to—not think at all. Yes, that would be the ticket—escape your problem—the answer will find you. Those brick walls over there look like bricks. Not thinking; wasn’t going to work. So, I thought some more. Those guys in the storefronts seem to know what they’re doing. Nah, they don’t look like me. Damn it—I thought—think Lindsay—think. What would Lindsay do?
Hey, that's, me, I'll just ask.
Wes and I hinted we needed to get back to our friends on Mercer Island. They reminded us of sorry—black—and asses.
Forty minutes later, after offering to wake their next-door neighbour so we could pursue flesh, we were fully geared up: Shorts – shirts – shoes – a knee brace for me (gear pulled out of a closet rivalling a Foot Locker Store—all new)—and we were on a schoolyard basketball court. Terry parked the B210 facing the court using the headlights to light the court—and with rap music blaring—starting at 4 AM—we engaged in a spirited battle of two-on-two hoops.
No blood – no foul rules.
Dade would still cash the deceased’s next two scammed welfare cheques. I wondered if the ambulances ever came.
Ah, why is there a kitten in my office?
The maintenance man, Walter, found her roaming on the lower roof of the hotel.
Maybe she was dealing drugs.
She was about two weeks old.
I named her Fuzzy Nose & Toes.
I took her home and promptly attached her to the arms of Slick’s couch.
Thieving and I, had hit twenty-three NEON establishments.
En route to twenty-four, Spike told me he was dying of cancer.
That was fucking odd.
Upon returning to Vancouver, I rushed to Earl’s to regroup. Greg greeted me at the door. Greg was from Nanaimo on Vancouver Island. He’s part Slavic, Hungarian, German, Croatian, educated, and slightly nuts. I found this to be an intriguing mixture.
He also loved scotch, beer, wine, gin, helium--
I dumped the news about Spike having The Big C —on him. We've been great friends since.
They're five years old and belong to my roommate. To spare your precious time, I ate Macaroni & Cheese last night without milk or butter—my bank account reads negative—barring magic I'm going to lose my place. My only indulgence is I like snorting cocaine of hooker's tits using $100 bills for the straw. And, oh yeah, I don't snort cocaine.
Then, in an instant of male bonding, the three of us became more than acquaintances. At the Negril Country Club, Wayne was about to golf for the first time.
He rented clubs. After twenty minutes on the driving range, a course worker approached to call us to the first tee.
Wayne casually stated to the worker: I think I might be left-handed.