The ZID Chapters, Part II

[oettinger]

Hey Ziddo, if I wasn`t twice the russian brides size those little encounters might have been deadly.

[mistah willies]

Hey Ziddo, if I wasn`t twice the russian brides size those little encounters might have been deadly.

Indeed


Don't mess with oett and his bloody table.

Tables?


Vikings will smash them.

Me? I once witnessed a punk rocker level a line of line backers wiht one.

Mind the corners, they can bring you to your knees

I know this


Wilted flowers!




.

[The Urbane Spaceman]

Stifle!

*ahem*

I mean, thank you Gentlemen Drunkardists for your engagement, which is a langue Française term for weddings and war. How true is that?

Now is the time for a sip of some true "bour-bon" which is another French term that means "pour good Kentucky-made liquid."

*sip*


Let's go.



Sean sat there at the other end of the table, across from Joey.

I took the seat with my back to the refrigerator. Always sit so that you can keep an eye on all the entrances, if you are capable of protecting for those whom you have decided should need protection. Keep your eyes on them doors.

Also, the fridge was right there. Handy for re-armament.


Sean grabbed his bag and yanked out several bags. He said, "I got some Colombian Gold, some Thai Stick, some Indonesian red, and this stuff with purple hairs on it. It's Humboldt County Skunk."

The whole kitchen smelled like someone had run over a frigging skunk.

I took the baggie from his hand and saw that the buds inside were huge, and they stuck to the plastic.

I said, "What the hell happened to this stuff? Did you sneeze into this bag?"

Sean chuckled. He said, "no, that's the nectar. It's dripping resin from the buds. These are potent, but it will cost more."

He eyed the tiny envelopes on the floor behind me and bent over from his chair and pulled one up. He said, "What the hell you boys got going on here? What is this?"

He sniffed the tinfoil envelope.

He said, "Ew! Smells like aspirin."

I grabbed it out of his hand and then stood up so fast that I knocked my chair over. I should have handled it better. That was why Sean got involved with us, in this new experience. He was like a dog with a bone. He wouldn't let anything go until he buried it.

Joey said, "Make no mind about that. We got some bursar to do."

Sean nodded, but he didn't take his eye off me. I found the rest of those tiny envelopes on the floor and collected them, and put them into the freezer again.


I should have counted them all, there in that freezer.

You see, Sean was a thief.


And later on that day, he would be calling us up, to ask for assistance in a matter of "what the hell did I take?"



As for the moment, he hooked us up with Humboldt, and that sort of thing helped to ease our racing minds.



Now is the time for more bourbon. Less of this typing.


Cheers to you, and don't forget to imbibe now and then.

That is the best of all. Lovely Miss Ethyl awaits a dance.




.

[The Urbane Spaceman]

Quiet time ensued.

We were lost in our heads, and we were dumbfounded. Indeed, founded in the forge of the mighty god of dumb, which is an archaic term of disrepute for those who are not able to talk.

We were unable to talk, nor walk, nor drink, nor think.


It is also named αποσβολωμένος in the language of eld, but we could not even pronounce Engrish, never mind any other sort of thing. It was Greek to us.

Well, I tell you mistah man, we had our path cut out in the jungle of the spiraling decent into bad things. we were dancing with the devil, and he would step on our toes with his cloven hooves. Do ya ken, it was not the end of the road for our travels, and weed is not the property or the devil, nor is a gateway to anything bad.

It was simply that we were young punks on our own road to hell, and our intentions were paved with the stones of true, honest depravity.


At least we were honest with each other,

even the thief among thieves:


Sean.


ZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZID


Indeed.


We sat there in our lovely stupor and did not say anything at all. We watched a couple hours of the Little Rascals on cable in the early morning, and it was excellent. My how times have changed.


In a little while Sean had enough of his laughing and got the hell out.

Joey and I decided to clean up the place.


We had business to do, once it got dark.


We were creatures of the night.


We would have us a time.



.

[The Urbane Spaceman]

Let us go forth with good drink in a dank pub, away from the worriment of the morning versions of ourselves. Drink and dank go hand in hand.




Here be a tune for your consideration, as it speaks of our continuation into the dark depths of depravity; we young punks in the desert, back in the 1980’s. It simply is a marvelous wedding of a great and horrific song by an undersung band of high intelligence, as well as the work of a solid animator.






Here is the actual short movie. The Backwater Gospel ...Please, Dear Goog, do not think anyone is stealing at all. This is a great way to combine creativity. Tahoo






3

2

1


Cheers!

To benevolent contributions to our enjoyment of the mighty internet that connects us all.

Amen.




zidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzid


It was the best of times, it was the w---

*AHEM*


We cleaned house. But we did not clean house. We cleared the house of empties and cigarette butts, and Joey ran his clothes through the washing machine in the shared laundry kiosk of the surrounding apartments,

...and he put his boots and his leather jacket into the oven to bake at 250 degrees Fahrenheit to kill them tiny roach babies… and the apartment took on a whole nother level of manly stench.

But-



We did not clean anything at all that was truly important.

We were unclean. Only the lovely Lady Ethyl would be our savior. She was the one who would always be there for us, no matter to where we would land, upon any dark island.

Now, we made up our minds that we should attend the concert hall that night to sell our wares. This punk rock concert would be held at the decommissioned church down in the lower streets of the angry city of the desert.

How proper is that?

It was actually correct.

Joey grabbed his boots and his leather out of the oven with tongs, which here is not a French term to describe “tongues"

...although, them ladies later on in the night, well, they would use their own tongues---



*AHEM* ( Getting a bit aHead of things here, apologies)



The whole place smelled like leather, which is quite an enjoyable scent, and also the odor of damned, rotten, stink-foot boots.

But we did not mind. The scent from the hills of Humboldt County covered everything in its own incense.

Joey set his garments outside the sliding glass doors to rest over cheap and broken plastic chairs next to the cheap, broken charcoal grill,

To Dry in the arid desert air of that fine Sunday.


We would be heading out to the broken church to have us a time that evening. The way we figured it, we could recuperate at our jobs the next day with hangovers, for that was the price we were willing to pay for our endearment of the mighty Lord Bacchus.


And then,



The telephony began to wring, for that is the sound of any bell. A bell rings its tongue as if it had unclean hands to wring. We all may find this to be true as we navigate the seas of debauchery.




It was Sean who called the odoriferous apartment.




He sounded a bit off.


Huh?





(to be continued, the trace is too much with me. Gobless the mighty Trace. Sip/mmmm)



It will start with this:



Sean said, “What the hell did I take?”




.

[booznik]

...Sean said, “What the hell did I take?”

Sean, Sean, Sean....

[mistah willies]

Yeah, I agree, I thought this site was about booze? This sort of tale shouldn't even be allowed here.

[The Urbane Spaceman]

This part is dedicated to a Belgianistic ivory tickler who knows his shizzle. Calling shots out to them urbane spacemen lost across the ocean, nestled in the nest of a mighty Scot, and the western cowboy, Cali style. KP4 is the highest peak. We Drunkards are global.

Calls for a shot of Kentucky brown drink.


You know the drill. 3. 2. 1. Blast off, baby.


Yup.


Sean was wasted.

Us?

Me and Joey were heading in that proper direction. And then we got the mighty telephony call.




"Hey!"

"Uh, who is this?





"Hey, is this Urb?"

"Yeah, who is this?"



"Hey, stop echoing!"

"Excuse me?"




"STOP fucking with me! Imma 'bout to call the cops on you!"

"Settle down! You called me!"




Yeah, it was Sean. it was lucky enough that he was able to remember how to punch buttons on a telephone, but as far as actually using the device, well, it appeared that he required help. This did not bode well.


Joey fell over on his sofa, laughing at the screaming, frantic bitch on the other end of the line. He knew that it was Sean. Joey laughed because he'd never heard such a high note from Sean in his life.


Sean howled across the room form the tiny speaker. He said, "Is that fucking Joey?! Fuck Off!"



Well, that set me off laughing. I dropped the receiver and dropped down on the carpeting to roll about, clutching my dick because I was about to piss my pants.



Then witnessed the most amazing thing ever.


Joey grabbed the phone up and said, "Now listen here, Sean. This is Joey. I'm here to help you. The first thing you need to do is check for the big hairy spider that just ran up your leg. His name is Boris."


I dunno, man, that wasn't right.





See you tomorrow. The rum is too much with me. all hail the black rum, amen

[mistah willies]

Boris the spider?

Dude. are you that ZID stuff?

[oettinger]

I often see gluey spider webs ya know ziddo

[mistah willies]

see you tomorrow, he said.

man, the only thing you can count on a Dreunk to do is...


Hey, jus tfinish it, cool?

[The Urbane Spaceman]

There is no easy way out of this. You may find that patience is rewarded after a proper distillation to the heart of hearts, followed by a lengthy time of seasoning.


Let's tap this bastard.


Caveat: This is a tale from a very long time ago.

It’s my own mental vacation, and if you care, then I thank you for your viewing.

Here is a tune to sooth the rambling brain as we depart, embark, to sail on the sea under the light of the stars.



Tomorrow Never Comes, by Big Head Todd and The Monsters. They haunt me. They frighten me.


Fill your chalice, you mighty Modern Drunkard you, and sit back as I tell you my tale.



It must be said that the way we treated Sean was not the correct way to help a fellow sailor. poor bastard. We should have done better.

It was funny, though. After we heard him scream and then slap his thighs with the receiver on his end of the connection, I pressed the hang-up button down.

I looked down at Joey who was still rolling about, laughing on the floor, and I kicked him like a powerful Russian cockroach.

He said, “Whaaat?!”


I shook my head. I said, “We have to help him. You don’t let someone alone like that when he has no idea what the hell is going on.”

Joey got up and rubbed his thigh where I kicked him and rubbed his eyes from his laughter tears.

He said, “Arr. What the hell we gonna do? How will we get there?”


I said, “We have to call the fat punk rocker.”

Joey,

well,

His face almost fell off. Maybe it was the zid that was still with us both?




zidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzidzid




The fat punk rocker owned a hearse, and boy did he like to show it off. That guy, he was always up for anything, because he had the sort of brain that never sleeps, and it never stopped talking to him even when he was unconscious. This caused him to be very hungry for every buffet.

He wanted to eat everything on his plate, on your plate, too, then the candles, the napkins, and the table along with the chairs.

Fat Jerry wanted to taste every sample, every dish, and everything in life. Looking back, I think now that he was a flibbertigibbet, the imp sort. Not an old soul, more like a demon who knows that this is his one, single trip through our human plane of existence. Nothing would pass his attention. Nothing would go to waste until he was wasted beyond belief.


"Hello?"

"Hi there Jerry. How are you?"




"Hey there Urb! I have been thinking about two weeks ago, when I knocked that guy down with one punch to his noggin! Good times, eh?"

"Yes, and thank you for that. He was the valet, but good on you. Say, care for a bit of the fun things tonight?"


The phone went dead. Damn.


I set the phone handle down in its cradle just when Fat Jerry screeched his brakes and knocked on the sliding glass door.


You know, it was always our bad friends who went for the glass door, unlike us, who broke front doors. But what is easier to replace? Glass or wood? At least they never broke in to steal from us when we weren’t looking. No, they stole from us right before our eyes.

Like Sean did.


We decided that it was enough time. Sean had paid for his theft of our ZID.


Of course, Fat Jerry wanted to shmoke. Joey rolled a pinner for us to share on the drive, but you know what? He already had some fatties in his cigarette pack, inside his leather jacket. He knew what he was doing. Save the pinner for the hungry punk rocker, and keep the medicine doses for the stealer.



Fucking Sean.


It didn’t take long to burn, and when we left, Joey with is long shells in his pack, and me with a knapsack full of grenades,

well,

we would rescue our stealer friend.


Perhaps we should have counted him all along.


The next part is to be called: Sean and Boris.


Cheers, you damned Modern Drunkards.

It will be long legged and it will be hairy.


.

[booznik]

...Fat Jerry wanted to taste every sample, every dish, and everything in life. Looking back, I think now that he was a flibbertigibbet, the imp sort. Not an old soul, more like a demon who knows that this is his one, single trip through our human plane of existence. Nothing would pass his attention. Nothing would go to waste until he was wasted beyond belief...

Strange, I resemble that remark in both size and intent.

Carry on, Sir Urbie. Waiting to hear what's next.

[mistah willies]

Wait, that dude wrote agaain? Whwere is it.
Dont; see it

do it again so I can see

[booznik]

do it again so I can see

That's what she said.