THE SNOW FILES CH XV

[The Urbane Spaceman]

X marks the spot.



Joey said, “Hey Urb, look at those two yellow lines. They look like a landing strip.”


I said, “Joseph, you’re seeing things. We made those. Remember? Plus, we been at the airport landing strip all night. Look at you, still wearing that ripped up jacket.”



Joey said, “Yeah, I was cold, and my back is still cold. It freezes in this fucking desert at night. But what is up with those other strips?”


I had no idea what in thee hell he was talking about. I said, “Dude. We made them yellow strips at the beginning of this whole thing. Remember? We went on that date with those two chicks after we played chess and drank all that gin? Those yellow lines are form the gin that we puked up. That’s our lawn tattoo.”


Joey said, “Urb. You got all the money. Pay that fucking taxi dude would ya? I’m looking at something over here.”



I nodded. What a hell of a night. I threw a dirty, soggy, muddy, twenty spot though the cab window and the driver didn’t even say thank you. He grabbed that money, big back in the day, in them pastel and florescent 80’s, and he sped off before I could recognize and ask for change.



I knew how much I had tossed at him. I was good with counting money. Just not with saving it.


I was just ready for a shower. We were both dusty and sweaty young punks, crawling across an airfield all night long, escaping angry men on bikes. Not the ten speed type, either.


I re-zipped the inside of one of the many hidden pockets in my leather and looked around to make certain that I had not dropped any soggy, desert snow, paper cash.


Joey came running back to me. He said, “Someone broke in our place!”




What the fuck?



Not even a drink, yet, and now there was more shit going on. The dogs howled and the birds flew at our heads, like at the airport, them airplanes and jets.



The door stood wide open, lit by the sun as it scowled over the crest of them Sans Joking River Valley Mountains. Soon, folks would awake to go about the business of their earning money for water and food and booze. That third one is the most important, here, there, and everywhere.



I said, “Joseph, the door is not broken. Someone must have picked the lock to get inside.”


Joey said, “I think that they are long gone.” He frowned. He was looked like he was about to cry for the second time (after his leather got fucked) this ugly night/day.




I said, “Joseph, I ain’t never seen you shed a tear in my days until we was at the airport a couple hours ago, and now you wetting your eyes like a sad bitch all over again. Sup wid dat?”


Joey said, “Urb. Listen. The lawn has more tracks form here. They are on the other side of the walkway.”



I shrugged my shoulders. I said, “So?”

He said, “Come with me. Look.”



I followed him, because that was what you did when you think someone is hallucinating and full of paranoia form a night of copious amounts of various drugs. You do such a thing when you have TRVST in someone. This is important if you are truly Punk, and you are hearing a fellow or lady punk rocker speak to you in serious tones. Especially if a little badass Lion Man looks like he is about to wet his cheeks.



And no, not the behind ones, you dirty minded Modern Drunkard. Jeez. C'mon dude.




OK, this calls for a drink in order to steady the nerves.



#... @... !... PROSIT!



*ahem*


We had no drinks, but our limbic system ordered a shot of adrenaline form our adrenal pub.



Joey pointed down at the grass lawn.



I went.


I saw.


I felt conquered.



Precisely across from a certain point, I saw two paths of muddy grass. They led away form the walkway, to the rear road, the service road behind these damned apartments.



It appeared that these new paths were fresh. The lawn greens were smashed and mashed and muddy form a lot of foot traffic.



Those led to the cement walkway, and when I looked down at the concrete, I saw a path of filth that led directly to our front door, which stood wide open. It looked like there had been a lot of walking back and forth along those two lines, off to two different places. Probably to vehicles. Of course.



If you were to look down upon this sad, soggy lawn *(wet form rude lawn sprinklers, back when Califuckyes had water, in the 1980’s) form one of the creaky, weak balconies above, it would appear to be an X.





Two puke-burned yellow lines converged onto the walkway form the curb, and in the other direction, two muddy brown paths diverged away, to the rear of the place.



X marked the spot.


There was no treasure to be found inside our shitty apartment, anymore, we would soon find out.


We knew that there was no one there. They were long gone.


Had they left anything?


I went in first, because Joey was shivering form anger.


I looked around the corner of the hallway and saw that all of the things that make a crappy life were toppled over and ransacked.




Our bedroom doors were left open. I looked on the other side of the place and saw that the refrigerator door stood open. All of the beer was gone.



What?!




I almost cried, meself. No beer? I had been looking forward to quenching my thirst. How dare he/she/they? Who had done this?




It was horrible.


CD’s, sound system, movies…

The only things left were our shitty chairs, the stinky couch, the cigarette-burned table, the posters on our walls, and our nasty punk clothing.


Joey’s room was emptied.



I sat at the table.



Joey came back form his room and said, “All my pron is gone. All of my sex devices, all of my magazines, all of my lube.”


I said, “My boombox is gone. That was special to me. My headphones, too. Fuck.”




Joey said, “Urb. All of the pot is gone. The pills, too.”


I said, “Hah? The pot is gone? They stole the toilet?”




He shook his head. He said, “Shmoke.”

I stood up and I finally roared. I said, “Who the fuck did this! Who would do this to us?”




Joey said, “They didn’t break the door.”

I settled down a bit when I heard footsteps in the apartment overhead. Folks awoke, too early for their work day. I said, “Someone stole a key to our place. Then they came back.”



Joe said, “I bet you that is was that chick. The one that Jerry fucked and brought back here. What’s her name?”


I said, “Never caught it. You?”




He said, “Nope. We need to find her. We need to get all our shit back.”

I said, “Looks like she had help. Lot of work happened here in the dark. Lot of mud in this place, on the floor. All our shit is gone, baby, gone.”



I went to the fridge.


Nothing inside. No cheap ‘Murrican beer, no moldy food. This I could see, because the door was still open. The fridge was sitting at an odd angle. It looked like someone very angry had whipped it open and left it where it stood, diagonal.


The freezer was closed, and when I opened it, I saw nothing inside.


Of course. I had sold all of the ZID in those tiny metal envelopes, (except for the ones I had dropped at the beginning of this whole thing).




DO you remember this?



It was from the start of this whole, sordid affair. It truly was. You should check it out. It’s kinda tantamount, here.



Here is a drink for you and a tune form me, before we continue, my fiend.



I’ll wait and I’ll sip, as you look under the fridge for dropped hits.



CHUG!




OK, now we go.




I pushed the freezer door closed, and then I closed the fridge door. There was no reason to keep things cold anymore, and also, no reason to keep the machine working.


We were done. We had enough cash to pay the biker back, and more to keep our rent and electricity going; all that shit. But that was it. (Always pay the Biker back. That’s simply proper form.)


We were cashed out at this moment. Exhausted, broke, spent, and despaired. No energy existed within us. No beer, no liquor, no pills, no snow, no ZID.

We sat on the toilet and we were broken hearted.


It appeared that we would have to go back to work cleaning chimneys…


If we still had that job. We probably didn’t, you know. We’d missed a week.


Was this rock bottom?


Uh, No.


We had much further to dive down, trust me.



Joey said, “I dunno. I think this is a sign or some shit. Party is over. Guess I’ll call my folks now. Got a dime?”


I said, “Nope. Just the cash money for your Biker friend. Not a coin on me.”



Joey said, “It’d be nice to have something to drink. Hell, we got cash. Let’s walk to the candy store.”

I said, “Sounds like a great idea, but they don’t sell alcohol for another hour.”



Joey looked like he was about to cry again, third time. Damn. Such a sad sight to see. He was the little Lion Man. He had a heart as big as a fistfight, and his jacket was all torn up. Yet, he still wore it.



Always mind your leather.


It had saved us.




I didn’t make jokes. I felt fucked up as well. I had my hand on the fridge, and I looked down at the floor. That was where we were now. We were like the dead cockroaches, starved form no food, on the brown square on the floor beneath the angled, angry fridge.


I looked at the floor, at them dead cockroaches, and saw a dried-out ravioli, a moldy crumb of bread, and all sorts of things that drunk people drop form their hands.


Our hands. There was no maid to clean up after us. We were teenage punks, with no one to care after us. How much waste is this?

Call momma?

No.


It would break their hearts. We were in deep. Only our leather to protect us now.


Wait.




There it was.


A glint of silver. It sparkled in the bright sunshine coming in through the windows, upon the foul destitution of our sordid lives.


It was the missing envelope of ZID. It held five hits inside. Old, forgotten, probably not all that good, but there they lied.



There was hope after all.


This might give us energy.


I held this tiny gem up, and I said, “Bacchus smiles upon us now. This is a sign. We are on the right path. We are on the ZID path. All roads lead to Bacchus.”


Joey looked up and he dried his eyes on the fucked up arm of his shredded leather. He said, “Hah?”


I said, “Time to wake up, Joseph. Time to get some shit done for ourselves. We ain’t done yet.”


Joey said, “Are you kidding me?! This is not the time to joke.”


I said, “Non, mon capitaine, je ne pas Joke. Sans joking, here and now.”


(This chapter is dedicated to P., rest his sole. He likes his fish.)


See you next time. Now is time to fish and to DRINK!


.

[oettinger]

The plan: Take all the ZID and sell the foil filled with smashed roaches and crumbles

[oldsmartskunk]

I guess snow and ZID doesn't mix too well. But... 80's. You were both blessed and cursed.

[cathytreat]

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[peetie44]

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When you can't properly embed a simple URL, you're probably not cut out to be a spam-bot.

Hopefully, you're just too drunk to type.

[Patchez]

When you can't properly embed a simple URL, you're probably not cut out to be a spam-bot.

Hopefully, you're just too drunk to type.

Words to live by.

[The Urbane Spaceman]

Lovely bot, huh? Great Engrish skills indeed; yet her intention could be decent? Perhaps she wants this damned bastard to finally get to the end.

I kinda agree with her.


Huh.


It's simply that in order to pound the pavement onward, or set the stones toward perdition; there are several things to consider, which are these:


Dr. P. always told me that I could write these true exploits from my real life here in FKR's marvelous Modern Drunkard Magazine forum:

Unhindered

Unencumbered

Un-exploited?


Seems like a good deal to the likes of this here sordid, soggy drunkard bastard.


These writings are:

Absolution

Admonishment

And

Resolution.


Resolution.


Resolution.



Lots of folks recently came in form Reddit/lookatme/instagram/snapchat/facefuck.coms to exploit these missives.


Took three weeks to lose their ten minutes of attention.

Look here, (and this is tantamount):

I do not write these for the game of money, nor for the shame of fame.

You probably know this by now.


It's a mental escape for me, and vicariously, for you my friend.


In order to continue writing about these horrible things that I've done, I rewrite certain parts in the next chapter to color them better. I put in humor to show the strength, courage, and resolve for loyalty that I've witnessed form those excellent punk rock bastards, (many of whom did not make it out alive).


There is no hyperbole in these things. Adjectives and fleshing the hell out of each moment are the only way that I can make it palatable for me to continue onward,

forth and forward,

as only a good barkeep will do to keep me sitting there, as if I appear to be interesting.

I write these for me and you, and no one else.




Just keep pouring me another one, my friend, and we will be fine.




Drink. Always Drink.


.

[oettinger]

Next chapter: Urb quit the zid and helped an old lady across the street. END. I`ll take money for that classic ending btw. Any amount starting at 1000

[mistah willies]

Next chapter: Urb quit the zid and helped an old lady across the street. END. I`ll take money for that classic ending btw. Any amount starting at 1000

Finally, an ending that warms the cockles. Man, I hope that Urb gaydude makes it out alive so he can write about his old age stories.

Probably dies halfway through huh.