Cocaine Trash A Novel

I'm about to fuck off back down the street when the door to the building opens spontaneously, and a multitude of red and purple colours shine out into the street in a coruscating, glamorous wave. It's then that I notice a plump, but rather beautiful, brunette woman, dressed in a black and pink corset, descending from the building and down the trail of grey limestone steps. By god, I wonder, is that sexy horny Lauren? No, it can't be, I think in my utmost surprise. She looks much too plump to be Lauren, and her face looks vaguely different, perplexingly different. Squinting, I scratch the back of my head and want to nod in complete disbelief. By god, it could be Lauren couldn't it? It could very well be her.

I watch as the beautiful brunette saunters off into obscurity before turning my attention back to that barbaric looking 'pimp.' I tell you, along with punching his lights firmly out, I'd like to have a nice good puff on that gleaming cigar of his. Maybe I should give him a roughing up and pinch his cigar altogether, certainly a thought ay? I'm also intrigued as to what is going on inside that unfathomable house. My instinct tells me that it's the base of some smutty brothel; and I'm hoping that it is too so that I can shove my cock and balls into some whore's expertly trained mouth.

Now I'm walking up to the geezer; I'm observing his attire, his fixed, statue like posture. Can I discern a mild hunch on his back? Can I see the evidence that somebody is suffering from a crippling bone disorder? I'm not sure really. He's just standing there, not looking my way, just taking continuous, hearty puffs on that never shrinking cigar.

I walk up the steps, but I can't see his face clearly; it's as if it's constantly in the tenebrous shade when really it's not. Really it's there in full visual view, just waiting to be seen by some inquisitive, prying eyes. I stop just by the man and say, 'Oy.' But he doesn't respond; he just carries on puffing like some mad French romantic poet on a break from some vigorous writing session. This agitates me greatly, so I start prodding him with my forefinger. 'Oy you, I'm talking to you,' I say, poking him hard and continuously on his shoulder.

Again, he doesn't respond; he doesn't look at me; he doesn't say jack shit to me. He just stares out in front while puffing away. 'Oy mate, you rude bastard,' I say, outraged, and beginning to shove him with my hands. It's now that he finally glances at me, and I see his dark, obscured face in all its sinister shade. I'm fairly freaked out by the fact that his whole face seems as if it would need to be dug out of his skull to be seen properly. 'Mate, what's in that building?' I say, pointing and looking in its direction. 'Some good eurotrash; some good action?'

Not uttering a word, the guy just stares at me. I can sense some existing confusion in his face, but I'm not certain. He could just be trying, in a none verbal sense, to tell me that I'm a massive cunt who should fuck off back to cunt land.

All uncertainty changes, however, when, quite abruptly, the guy opens his mouth and starts speaking in a strangely cockney accent. 'Basically, when you can't hear shit you've got a problem right? Because I know I've got a problem, and I can't fucking hear properly,' he says, the words springing violently from his mouth like a swarm of hoverflies.

I frown in utter bewilderment, and the only thing I can think of to respond with is, 'Come again?'

Taking another hard puff of that cigar, a cigar that is literally the same size as it once was, the man continues with his rambling cockney discourse. 'I'm pretty sure it's the crack that's fucked my head, but it may be the Marijuana; I'm just not fucking sure though. I've heard some shit about Marijuana recently, about what it fucking does to the brain- makes you thick and gormless and affects memory in the long run. Fuck, what if it's that? What if it's fucking that?'

Fuck, this is strange. Fuck, this is all very fucking disturbing. And fuck man am I tempted to run the fuck away.

'Well I guess I won't know; all I can do is hope that my brain recovers from years of abuse. Since it could also be the crack, I've got to eliminate that shit from my system too and abstain from it, indefinitely. But it may take fucking years for my brain to recover from this, fucking years I tell ya.'

Fuck I'm freaked out by this mad man. Fuck, I should run. I should run fucking far away, dig some large hole in the ground somewhere, and hide in it, away from this shady faced, mentally fucked man. I really don't think I want a puff on his cigar anymore.

With slow, gradual movements, I step back from the bloke, who's peering at me with a strikingly potent fiery glow in the centre of his mouth. But as I move away, he continues.

'I guess all I can say is that I've been a fucking cunt to myself; a fucking cunt to others; and a fucking cunt in general; and I sure am reaping the whirlwind for it.'

Right, that's it, I'm off. I've accelerated my legs, and I'm running far down the fucking road, for some reason in the direction of the moon; but I can still hear the man's muttering and incoherent voice; it gets deeper and deeper in my auditory senses. Fuck, make it stop. PLEASE MAKE IT FUCKING STOP.

MORNING SWORN ABSTINENCE

It is sometime at night, and I'm flumped over a wooden table in a Travelodge room. I've just finished my 6th line of coke, and I feel pretty ropey I must say. I can't even register the sounds of the escort behind me telling me that she's leaving, nor can I make sense of anything else in my hazardously torpid mind.

I've been snorting coke with escorts in Travelodges and Premier Inns for a while now, but never have I ever gotten myself into this perilous state before. I mean, I'm really fucked up; impotent; limp. I can't even lift my eyelids up properly; and my muscles feel like they've been injected with some long lasting numbing agent. I am, as shameful as it is to admit, well and truly fucked up.

It's the morning, and I awake in the double sized bed, completely naked, my eyes as red as a gutted fish. Confused and in a deeply delirious daze, I roll over and, without even anticipating it, plummet down onto the pencil-thin carpeted floor in one vociferous fall. It takes me several attempts just to move over to the bathroom, and when I finally manage it all I can do is stare gormlessly at my wrecked, drug weary face in the mirror. I know at once that I need to lay off shit for a while. I know I must abstain. But, of course, it's always so difficult due to the highly addictive nature of recreational toxic fulfilment.

I end up staying in the hotel room for about 2 hours recovering from the other night and even deny the Romanian cleaner/made/whatever the fuck you call them her right to clean the room and change the sheets. 'I'll be gone soon,' I tell her, 'real soon. Don't you worry about that.'

Fixing my bono like shades firmly to my face to disguise my unsavoury bloodshot eyes, I scurry hastily out of the room with my small bag of things and head off down the bleach reeking hall. There isn't much stuff in my bag- only a small box of condoms, extra safe; one small tube of Canesten (certain escorts can come with repercussions despite the use of latex protection); and 2 tablets of Cialis, which I got from my pal Corey just in case I ever experience the bothersome difficulty of sexual dysfunction- but I occasionally find it beneficial to bring it with me at lustfully turbulent times like these.

Once I'm outside the hotel, I call up a taxi with my mobile and wait impatiently for it to arrive at the front. As I stand there, my hands situated in my coat pockets, I feel my body shake and spasm in continuous motions. It feels cold, almost feverish, and the humidness lurking in the air makes the weather seem like it's the middle of winter when, in actuality, it's the middle of fucking summer. I swear I can even see a funnel of misty and ghostly moisture separating out past my lips as I exhale. 'And this is fucking summer?' I think, flabbergasted.

Soon the taxi arrives, and I open the passenger door to get inside. As I rest back in my seat with my hands still ploughed thoroughly into my pockets, I swear to myself that I'll lay off the drugs and alcohol for a while; but I know I'll be at it again sooner or later. Still, even if I can be sober for only a week or two, that's still better than nothing.

Afterword
'Blood soaked hands running down porcelain sinks.
Flammable dolphins leaping through radiated hoops.
Violent explosions and thick black smoke.
Giddy girls jumping from towering heights.
Pernicious pain filtered through opium cartridges.
Jaundiced eyes like alcohol soaked sponges.
Emotions distant in solitary spirits.
Perfected poisons sucked up voluptuous lips.
Lips liquefied and glossy like cherries.
Aniseed flavoured absinthe tasted in delight.
Hypnagogic hallucinations to experience at night.
Georgosity drifting through nonbelligerent waves.
Shimmering blue oceans under amber lit skies.
Snakes that slither slyly in droll, demonic dreams.
Red muscles aching ceaselessly in cumbersome chests.
Drugged up minds away in private somnolence.
Bodies withering in perspiring withdrawal.
Men hung up on chains pierced through tattooed flesh.
Devilish gargoyles frozen on the sides of churches.
Lambent lights over cold dark ditches.
Rapacious reptiles with their drizzling teeth.
Broken vases shattered to a thousands fragments.
Agony and ecstasy coming down mounds of metal.
Vomit gushing out of elderly line-laden mouths.
Delirium diced and dosed in malfunctioning minds.
Fear strong and wild like narcotic nerves.
A carcass cluttered catastrophe of a collision.
Fire in the air, live and ablaze.'