Cocaine Trash A Novel

Sometimes just going for a little walk can help; although it's not good if you want to avoid drugs. The other day, I went for a stroll by a church and saw, just outside, this young black chap smoking a white roll of hash. I walked past him and caught a good whiff of that hashish aroma, for a moment thinking that I could feel the cloud waft fulsomely over my head and stupefy my senses- wishful thinking I guess. I also saw the other week, when I was on my way to Tesco in the early hours of Sunday morning, a cluttering of bright, phosphorescent coloured powder all over the pavement outside a pub. It was so fucking white it was very nearly blinding. I was even sordidly tempted to get down on my knees, gather some of the shit, and snort a good line or two with my NatWest card. But fortunately, health-wise, I didn't.

If you want to steer clear of drugs, then don't go outside in Norwich city. They're everywhere in this place, and I mean FUCKING EVERYWHERE; in particular weed; the police don't even seem to give a shit. In fact, you can find drugs being taken in the strangest places here. When I last went to sign on, there was this black geezer in one of those yellow and green reggae hats smoking a joint of grass. And the real fucking funny thing was that there was this security guard behind him at the two doors of the job centre's entrance, standing there with a doped out, vacuous face, his droopy eyelids covering the tops of his dilated pupils. Probably enjoying the tension relieving high of a waft of grass ay? I most probably think so; them security guard cunts need that shit just to stay sane these days.

Yes, Norwich city is the worst place to be if you want to remain fog free in the head and clear up your habits. Bar Ipswich, it is the ultimate fucking drugged up city in the region of East Anglia. There's weed everywhere about the place, and on Friday nights you'll always find some 18 or 19 year old Adidas clad sporty kid heading down Prince of Wales Rd, dosed up to the eye balls on coke and ketamine, waiting to rough up some Chinese exchange student and nick his mobile and wallet. They should rename it Ketamine Rd instead. I tell you, they're crazy for that shit down there.

Maybe this is it; maybe this is why I can't lay off the drugs, caus the drugs are everywhere. But you can't leave Norwich city. Once you get here, you can't get the fuck out of the place. It grabs hold of your soul and keeps its grip there until the day you die. And it's a fucking drag I tell ya.

NEVER BEEN SO STONED

Man, I've never been so fucking stoned in all my life. I'm sitting here on my bed, my back to the wall, and I feel fucked, proper fucked I tell ya. I've had something like 7 spliffs, 5 cans of gin and tonic, and 4 cans of Pimms today, and I really feel the fucking effect of it all. I'm so fucking tired and subdued it's insane; I want to fall asleep, but I can't; my head's all fucking buzzing and shit. I'm like jelly on a fucking plate that's what I'm like, jelly on a mother fucking plate.

Today I've done fuck all but get fucked up. No productive behaviour whatsoever. Just been getting really sweaty and hot from grass and spirits. The room I'm in has been like some swamp of THC and ethanol, smoke fucking everywhere, drifting in all directions. I ain't even had the fucking window open. I took one look at myself in the mirror, and I had to turn away immediately. It's frightening to see that much copious sweat on your face; to see bags that large and black under your eyes.

I thought the weed was principally getting me on cloud nine but then came the gin and tonics, and then I really knew I was getting fucked up in true intoxicating style. I feel like I've been on a fucking spaceship shooting through every fucking drug zone in the universe at the speed of light. The Pimms was something, but it didn't have the effect that gin and tonic has; gin and tonic is the ultimate drink to get fucked up on. What a spirit; what a fucking spirit.

I'm like fucking staring at this grey door now; my vision's blurry, but the door looks immense; it's like it's moving side to side really fucking fast, and the grey looks really intense amongst all the smoke. I've got a pair of red ear muffs on. I don't know why; I can't even remember putting them on; I just know I've got them on now, and I can hear my heartbeat; it's all deep and out of sync. Fucking hell I should really die right now. It would be great to die right now. The perfect time. A truly great way to go: off your fucking euphoric head on drink and drugs.

I've got a fucking joint clasped between my forefinger and middle finger, but I can't bring myself to take another toke. My arms feel drained of all energy; it's like they're taking a rest in mechanical somnolence. I'm watching that smoke seep out of the end of the joint, and I know that the cannabis is going to waste. I must take another toke, I must. I'm not wasting any of this fine ganja that that prick Rob Calver wasn't worthy of possessing. I can go a little bit further in this stationary, solo trip of insobriety; I know I can.

I toke, I fucking toke, and it's great. I made sure I took a real fucking big toke and swallowed all that fucking smoke; and I can feel the effect building up. Everything's slow and nice: the perfect way to feel. Even the door looks like it's feeling great; it looks like it's a friend of mine; like it's acting as my own personal security guard, shielding me off from the rest of the world. A good fucking door.

I'm lying down now, and I'm fucking shaking. I think I took it too far, but I still feel great. I just feel like lying down forever right now, looking up at the ceiling and shit. It's nice to look up at the ceiling when you're stoned; it's nice to pretend that the ceiling is like a real glorious, idiosyncratic sky. And all the fucking polka dots in my vision are the stars. Wow! Fucking immense I tell ya!

I'm gonna drift off soon. I can feel it coming on. My eyelids are heavy; my surroundings are becoming even slower. Fuck I'm gonna sleep well I think. I'm gonna have some good fucking dreams, some vivid shit. Gonna shut my eyes fully now; gonna shut them.

SOME DREAM FROM A CRAB'S SHELL

I'm in a crab's shell, and I can see the man who scares everyone. He is in fact a very harmless and timid man really. Although tall and well built, which, to the human eye, could be perceived as mildly intimidating, the geezer is no doubt a man of a gentle nature. He appears to envy the beauty of outdoor life, and I suspect that he embraces naturalistic things such as bees and butterflies with love and warmth.

As I stare observantly at him from this red, slightly musky shell, I begin to see through him, all the way to the very darkness of his soul; and I assure you, there is some aberrant, deeply debauched seediness there. I'd imagine he likes young men to perform oral sex on him in public toilets. I'd imagine he prefers the use of feather light condoms to extra safe ones; I'd imagine he uses lubricants such as Vaseline as opposed to less petroleum based ones when performing vigorous anal sex on some willing 18 year old rent boy. I'd imagine he loves to intertwine with ripe young fellas in those semen cluttered toilets with the flashes of blue light from the heaters above crisping his thick, gritty neck.

This geezer looks like the philanthropist type of geezer to me. I bet he spends a great deal of his time raising funds for local charities. I'd imagine he's opposed to poverty and injustice. He looks like he wants, greatly, to be part of a better world, an ideal world where liberation actually means something. He looks like an optimist, with every day appearing to him a brighter day; he probably hardly ever has a bad one.

Exploring even darker territories, I imagine he enjoys a good boat ride down the canals every now and then, taking a stroll down a cigarette ridden path where he finds some 'ripe one' who he fucks up the arse with his favorite type of rubber johnny (looks like a Durex fanatic to me). For some obscene reason, I can picture the man's cock vividly; it's of good size; it looks like a flesh made cucumber; and I can just see some 18 year old lad sinking his ivory coloured teeth into it.

I bet this guy used to live a dark, dark life. I mean it must have been truly fucking abhorrent; someone who would frequently fantasize about sucking the toes of randy, old men, licking and scraping every bit of fungus off their feet, his tongue acting like a strong prescription anti-fungal: clotrimazole or ketoconazole maybe. I can see him, with utter vividness, sticking his fucking cucumber dick right up each man's backside, their anus' stretching gapingly while they experience heightened orgasmic fulfillment. He looks more of a giver than a receiver.

I bet this guy's an animal lover at heart. I bet he has a rabbit called Harvey that he always prepares wholesome meals for. I bet he's got a specially designed cage for it that makes it easier and more comfortable for it to move about and sleep in. I bet Harvey's a fucking mischievous animal who, from time to time, drags some scaly dead adder into its rabbit maison and devours it with its dinky lagomorph gnashers. I bet the geezer enjoys the 'private fantasy' of Harvey the rabbit's company. I bet he loves it when Harvey strolls about the place with a black hat on top of its head, sticking its rabbit arse out in the air, its tiny, beadlike hole on display. I bet the geezer's eyes water at the very sight, and it makes the pulse in his manly pump beat faster and faster. I bet the geezer has to control himself real badly, forbidding himself the one thing that he really wants in his life.

From a crab's shell, this is all a lot for me to imagine.

MOONWALKING IN CARDIAC ARREST

Who moonwalks in cardiac arrest? All sorts of people apparently. There was this one man, known only as Dave, who moonwalked his way out of his front door, only to collapse and die a very short while later.

You see, it's a trend, moonwalking in cardiac arrest. A death trend. People do it when they check out; people do it because it gives them a sense of suave dignity to go out like that. Moonwalking in cardiac arrest is too fucking cool not to when you've got the chance; and you only get one chance at it.

I, myself, when I check out am going to moonwalk my way into the back of the ambulance; and then I'm going to make sure that I'm moonwalking around inside it until I lose consciousness. I cannot have a single conscious moment where I'm not moonwalking, where I'm panicking instead and falling weak to the ground caus' me ticker don't function properly anymore. I'm gonna fuckin' moonwalk man! I'm gonna fuckin' moonwalk in cardiac arrest, caus it's the only way. IT'S THE ONLY FUCKIN' WAY.

A social outcast, banished from the houses of parliament, will surely moonwalk his way out of them doors in cardiac arrest. So will a once celibate priest as he commits suicide because he can't fucking live with the shame of accidentally giving into temptation and getting sucked off for 60 quid by a local prostitute. So will a fucking traffic warden who's given his last ticket to some fucked Rolls-Royce outside a McDonald's. So will a ticking time bomb ticking its way into oblivion. So will a paper cut-out man blowing backwards in the wind, moonwalking its fucking paper heart out. So will the local smackhead shooting smack and crack into his veins at the back of a discreet alleyway.

Everyone, if they had any sense, would moonwalk in cardiac arrest. I don't know anybody who'll succumb to death in tearful weeping and self pity. I only know the ones who abide by the social trend. I only know those who moonwalk their ways out of their front doors as the paramedic watches on, his arms crossed and a rather crude, camp smile displayed on his face.

'This moonwalking is all too crude,' says Michael Thatcher (no relation) of the conservative party. 'This moonwalking is a social atrocity,' he says constantly to the mayors of all English cities. Nobody listens to Michael Thatcher (caus he's a cunt). Instead, they jack themselves off while moonwalking in cardiac arrest. They die with their death erections, and they die with their own fucked dignities.

SOME VIOLENT DREAM

It goes like that; it always goes like that. The chainsaw goes straight up the fat, scat loving man's backside. Blood sprays everywhere, all over the place. It splatters my face as I watch it from behind the barbed wire fence. What a sight; what a horrific sight! Especially to be standing amongst a crowd of mostly women and their young children. Fuck me. Shit like this gets to you; it fucks around with you. Even when the chainsaw stops for a moment or two, it's as if it hasn't stopped for those moments or two. You can hear it buzzing in your ears: that fuckin' killer sound.

The chainsaw, which had been going for several minutes, has now finished on that fat, scat loving man's backside. The men dressed in military uniforms all stand around him, their faces concealed under gas-masks, gas-masks that they hope will prevent the contamination of the abundance of weed fumes floating about in the air. I smell the fumes; they hover over my head, but I still get a whiff of them. Man, weed fumes.

The fat guy eventually stops screaming. He's been screaming his heart out, but once the chainsaw gets removed from his hole (now a massive crater like aperture of blood and guts) the screaming stops, and I think his life too. But I'm not sure; he could still be living, if not conscious. He could be real delirious and in a state of catatonia. But nobody can really know for sure.

Then his neck, then the chainsaw goes through his neck. He's on his back, and the metal chain rips through sheaths of skin, blood, and cartilage. It's vividly red, especially amongst all the green of the countryside. It's so red that it's almost beautiful, violently beautiful you could say. He's definitely gone now that his head's off, real sensationally obliterated. They've completely fuckin' massacred the man and drained him of all his life. His thriving, psychoactive brain will definitely not be experiencing any kind of pleasure ever again. Never, ever again.

The man with the chainsaw turns it off, and they all stand there for about a minute or two whilst the audience of women, children, and I watch on, expressionless. Nobody knows what to think, not even the annihilation fuckers in their military uniforms and gas-masks know what to think; they just scratch their fucking heads as they stand there, their hidden faces like the tops of mucky paintbrushes.

They've certainly done their job; they've punished this weed-smokin', scat lovin' fat guy and hope that it will act as a lesson for all those tokers out there; all those scat lovin', depraved fuckers out there. All this shit will happen again; there will be more blood baths very shortly. These guys in their gas-masks are on a crack down you see; they're not going to stop until all the users of THC are tortured and killed.

WHISKY PREVAILS

Went out to Tesco and got a bottle of Jameson Whisky. After careful consideration, I can honestly say that it's the best whisky I've tasted. Unlike Bells and Jacobite, which are both coarse scotch whiskeys, Jameson offers a much smoother, gentler taste. I could get through the 28 unit bottle in literally only 10 minutes: it's that good. I aimed to get a J&B bottle of scotch, but they didn't have it, so I settled for its equal best. I heard good stuff about Jameson, and I'm fucking glad I went for it.

The trip to Tesco was, as usual, a difficult and unpleasant one. First deafened by some cunt police car and then beeped at by some cunt in a silver car at some traffic lights. The beep didn't shock me though; I was too concerned about some irksome heart palpitations I was experiencing. Fucking cunts in cars. The wankers.

I went to Farmfoods earlier to get a pizza and that was a fucking nightmare as usual. Them oversized fucking trolleys everywhere; them old biddies who won't move out of the fucking way; those cuntface young couples who look down at tramps but dress and look like them themselves. I aim not to go back into that shithole. Anywhere but that shithole.

Well well, I'm really fucking drunk now. Drunk nearly a whole 28 units of whisky. I'm here at 35 minutes past 3 o clock in the morning with a lil' bit of whisky in a glass. I'm debating whether or not to steal from Tesco. I envision going in there and putting some chicken caesar sandwiches in my jacket pocket. I'll tear off the security tag with my fingers, and I'm sure that I'll get away with it. My sister got away with stealing a donut once; I'm pretty sure I'll get away with this.

I've got through the whole bottle, and I don't have a headache. I do feel a little fucking strange though; in particular, I feel dizzy. When I woke up, which was at about 3 pm, I felt a little shaky. I went out and bought some sunflower oil to fry chips with and a packet of curly fries- pure junk food. One day, my body's probably going to get it bad for this terrible fucking lifestyle. But I don't give a fuck right now; I'm enjoying it.

I'm cooking the curly fries now. In approximately 8 minutes, they should be ready. My flat reeks of whisky, Irish whisky. There's a butterfly living in here, and the other day I managed to get it to lie on my finger. It's been in here for a while now; it must have been living off the mould or something.

6 minutes until the fries are done. I tried cooking sausage rolls the other day, but I burnt them. When I was drunk I felt very angry, and in a violent rage I threw one of the chairs over. I then put a screwdriver in my leather jacket pocket and left the flat to go to Tesco. I got a donut and came back. I think some customer saw the screwdriver, but because I was so out of it on Whisky I didn't give a fuck if they saw it or not. The clerk, who was wearing some mittens or something like that, gave me a funny look. He looked Chinese.

Eating the fries now, and they're fuckin' greasy I tell ya.

THROAT SLIT

I had my throat slit like a pig's. But that was in a dream, and now, feeling pretty hot, dehydrated, and immensely sweaty, I've woken up. It's about 3 am, I think, and I feel disturbed from that horrific dream. It was one of those acutely vivid, intense ones, and at the time it felt brutal and real. I could practically feel that knife slice through my throat like warm, gloopy butter. I could even see the blood dripping down onto the floor in colossal red splashes, the substance simmering on my feet in staining style.

With great willpower, I just manage to motivate myself to get out of bed and go and drink some tap water from the bathroom. Fuck, I need that water. I don't want to have another fucking nightmare fuelled by dehydration. That's the one thing I hate about going to sleep now: the prospect of having some nightmare, which is always so vivid and real for me. Maybe it's the drugs, I don't know. I'm pretty sure though it's connected with frequent dehydration, so it's particularly important that I hydrate myself now to cleanse my fragile mind.

I walk into the bathroom and, tilting my head towards the tap, proceed to fill my mouth with as much cold water as I can. I take several mouthfuls and also splash some over my face, making sure I get it all over my cheeks which feel red and sore. Fuck, though, even the splashes of water don't take away the feeling of mental alarm in my brain. I think I need to take a look at myself in the mirror, maybe that'll help me to feel less disturbed, less bothered.

Switching the light on, I wait for my eyes to become accustomed to the light and then gaze at my face in the mirror on the wall. Fucking hell my eyes look red, real bloodshot like, and my pupils look fucking massive man, like monumental black discs. I guess it's better than having really contracted pupils though; that's usually a sign that your eyes are fucked and incapable of taking good amounts of light in; not a good sign.