ZID Part VI Chapter UNO: EMBARK TO DESTRUCTION

[The Urbane Spaceman]

Well hey there.

Welcome to this next part.

This has been an ongoing series, but let’s start here at this beginning of the Bad Part.

This is the End.

It’s like a restaurant at the end of something, and you can order dessert first, if you like.
My dessert is this here rum. It’s as black as the day I was born. Folks hid and wept when I was born.

3… 2… 1… DRINK!


We sat around that rectangular table at odd angles. Joey smoked his cigarette like a German would; very deft and serious, holding it with his forefinger and thumb, butt-end on the inside of his palm.

Classy.

Of course, you know by now that Joey is Hispanish. He owns it. He is now the master masseur of sativa and indica tinctures in Cali. This means that he massages young ladies with Mary Jane, and he gets paid very well for this service. He is now known as Shiatzu Joe. Look him up if you are in a fancy hotel in SF.

Jerry smoked his cigarette between his middle and third fingers, the one that would hold a ring if he ever found someone who would marry him. He never did, you know. He saved his tiny finger, the one we ‘Murricans call the “pinkie” because it is communist and therefore useless, because he had a long fingernail on it.

He kept that nail very clean. It had other purposes. For instance: snorting cocaine.


He used his index finger to clean his nose whenever he felt like it.


Sean smoked his cigs as I did. However the fuck. We had no style. We put no thought into it.

Sean will be out of prison in about another 18 years. He’s still very strong, so I’ve heard from Joey tonight via telephony.

Me? I am the Urb. I cannot be touched.

Thank you P. for allowing me to write this truth in such freedom from prosecution. The statute of limitations has long since run out for what will follow, after all these decades,


...and no one in these true tales has any problem with me telling these truths, unless I use my spade to dig one out of the ground and ask him.


So, you good?


Let’s go.

This song is called Judgment by a band named Half Moon Rising. It’s reminiscent of them Beatles.


Sean said, “I don’t think that Tellesco would like all these people showing up at his parents’ home when they away.”

Jerry said, “Then why is he holding a party?”

Sean chugged on his beer and burped across the table. The scent of cigarette smoke and beer and tequila entered our noses.

Bastard.

Because of the ZID, we were making no sense, but it made sense to us each and all. He said, “he didn’t think that there would be people like you guys showing up.”

Jerry said, “There are no people like us. We are us.”


Joey coughed and leaned forward. He said, “Now you listen here you assholes. We will not be going anywhere unless I can sell my shit. Stop all this bullsheeeit and make me a pitch!”

Then he settled back and sucked on his ciggie.

Sean nodded. He said, “Well, the purple-mohawk dude here must have some powder that he can sell. But I dunno. If you punk bastards are coming up there, then probably, folks will want some of that shit too.”


Jerry nodded. He said, “I got some wares to sell.”

Sean smiled at him. Yeah, first time ever.

Joey looked at me. He said, “You up for this?”

I stared at my beer. I thought this in my head: Would it end up well? Punks and Jocks. It would not end well. It never did before.


I said, “Well, we have to test out this powder.” I looked right into Jerry’s eyes.


Jerry grunted. He frowned. Then he got up and went to grab a clean plate form the cupboards.

It was probably the last clean plate in the damned place.

He dropped the plate on the table with a loud clang. Then he sat down and said, “Get your fucking beers off the table and wipe your hands off.”

We abided.


Jerry reached into an inside pocket and pulled out an 8 ball. He said, “I have more of this. Those are for sale. This is my personal stash.”

It was inside a thick baggie. There were chunks and powder. He poured some of the powder onto the plate and pulled out a wad of cash money. He selected a crisp dollar bill and rolled it into a straw.

He said, “The first one is free.”

Huh. Gawdayam the pusher man.


Well I tell you mistah man, that was something else. We suddenly agreed with everything and all. It was that good. You know, it would only last for twenty minutes, but what a helluva twenty minutes. It was like spaceflight.


(Always mind the drain. It will burn your throat if cut with ether, but with vitamin B: no harsh.)

Indeed. We became suddenly talkative and enjoyous, if that is even a word.

Ya know, a bit further beyond the end of this last part, we four bastards would begin to delve in that mysterious intoxication and sell it, but that is a chapter for another day.

The thing about this new intoxication was this: it made us inclusive. It brought us together. We became tight and strong. No, none of that back-rub crap. But if we were going to that party to sell highly illicit materials, then we sure as fuck better have each other’s backs. You never go into a knife fight without a gun, so to speak.


Let’s just say that the hearse had many surprises hidden inside, as well as we did, we damned punks.

Tomorrow, we will go to the ranch.

Are you ready for this?

I hope that you are.

Now time to arm yourself with your bottle of lovely Miss Ethyl.

It is time to enjoy our new year. We are promised a new year of life. Use it wisely. Drink responsibly, which means, drink as often as you get the chance. Calls for a DRINK!

Here is the lovely, intoxicating Liliana Saumet singing “Feeling” with her band Bomba Estéreo.


Shexxy, raw and silky.


Mmmmm.



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