Drug Fiends and the Love of a Laptop

I stared into the bright orange Hell of the rising sun and sipped from my acidic cup of Seven Eleven French Roast. My eyelids were as heavy as the iron Gargoyle knockers on the doors of many medieval kings and my head felt like a flaming ball of gasoline soaked toilet paper.

This was no way to start off a day I told myself but it isn’t like me to listen to reason even if it is of my own design so I reached up on the luggage rack of my Cherokee to scrape off a purple piece of bird shit with a twig and a bolt of pain shot through my deltoid muscle. Evidently I’d tweaked something in the late night, some hinge like joint or tendon in my shoulder was dangerously out of place and would require surgery or at the very least several weeks worth of self-prescribed herbal infusions coupled with frequent visits to my well stocked medicine and liquor cabinets.

"Damn kids," I cried.

Yes, I cursed the lethargic youth of America, the way they mainlined television and video games, thus surpassing the brain and any hope of enlightenment. I blamed one young bastard in particular for the condition of my badly injured shoulder and swore on all that was rock and roll that I would tap dance on his teeth with my Burmese jungle boots if he was ever unlucky enough to pass my sordid path again. I wished it had all been a bad dream and it was, only I’d been awake and the hour had been late and there would be no turning back for turning back is never an option when the adrenalin kicks in.

* * *
I’d been in a deep Franziskaner induced sleep when my attack Chihuahua’s, Uma and Flea, began howling and clawing at my nightstand like their were porterhouses hidden in the drawers. I knew then that something was seriously amiss for these miniature beasts had been born from the purest Mexican bloodlines and trained in the ways of the nations top police dogs.

“What is it?” I asked.

Uma and Flea howled liked they’d never howled before and scurried out into the kitchen and ran in circles barking and hopping about as if there little toes were touching down on the hood of a Corvette that had been sitting in the hot summer sun.

I rolled out of bed, falling on the floor, and once I’d collected myself I wrapped myself in the tribal bathrobe my brother had brought back for me from Senegal and made my way out into the kitchen. To sate the Chihuahua brood I procured a fist full of desiccated liver treats and tossed them onto the floor. When the organ meat hit throw rug in the middle of my kitchen they ceased their crazed circling and yapping, devouring their late night meal with great gusto. This brief reprieve from this late night madness allowed me time to fetch a Franziskaner from the refrigerator.

I was opening my beer over the sink when I spied a Volkswagen Bug parked behind my house. From what I could make out under the haze of the flickering street light there were two people in the back seat and it appeared they were involved in some sort of tussle or perhaps it was the lustful wrestling of two oversexed speed freaks.

“Bastards,” I yelled and ran back into my bedroom.

Lately the alleyway behind my house had become a haven for reckless drug types that stove piped heinous substances into their systems and lay twitching on the periphery of my back yard like electrocuted cattle, something I would not tolerate in my neighborhood where, in addition to all the old folks I was pretty sure I’d see a little girl riding a tricycle several months earlier. And even in if there weren’t any children in my neighborhood there was my sanity to think about and the well being of my Chihuahuas who are apt to hyperventilate at the slightest of disturbances despite their vigorous and thorough training.

From underneath my mattress of my bed I took out my 12 gauge Autoloader 935 Mossberg. Yes, I sleep on my shotgun and if Hans Christian Andersen had any real sense he would have had his princess sleeping on a musket. What the Hell good is a pea even if you have a shooter? That‘s no way to fight evil.

The shotgun gun wasn’t loaded, never is, I merely use it for the intimidation factor. In my hands the 12 gauge gives the impression to those that I encounter of a madman hell bent on one type of destruction or another, and I figure if I am attacked I can always skull an intruder with the barrel and then run like Hell.

I won’t even consider using bullets, they are messy and cause bleeding and possible death and I cherish naked women, beer and drugs too much to be locked away in some god forsaken hillbilly jail for the rest of my days answering to sadistic guards that prune their yellow fingernails with garden sheers and spit them at you in your cell.

“Come on out you bastards,” I yelled, and flung open the back door.

I scanned the back yard with the barrel of the Mossberg on which I’d duct taped the largest sized Mag-Lite that a civilian can buy without some sort of permit. The real big flashlights, so I’m told, are sold only to law enforcement and mounted on one’s shoulder like a bazooka.

“Who’s in that bug,” I yelled and swiveled my head back and forth in an agitated manner so these drugged out freaks would know that no matter how much junk they stuffed up their noses, that no matter how far into the Technicolor forest of depravity they had ventured that I would not disappear with a blink of the eyes like so many of their hopped up hallucinations.

A vast triangle of yellow light given off by the Mag-Lite engulfed the Volkswagen Bug and I was disappointed to find nothing that would tip me off as to what kind of wickedness these drugged out sex fiends had indulged in inside the tiny car. I did however smell the tangy aroma of what I immediately recognized as cannabis and knew that where there was smoke there was most definitely a stoner with a bad case of paranoia coming down on him like an avalanche of moldy pizza boxes.

“Come on out. I‘m a trained tracker. With the help of my attack dogs I can follow your trail over seventy miles of macadam. There’s no use trying to run from me,” I said.

I scanned the woods across the alleyway with the Mossberg and heard rattling coming from under a dead Christmas tree I’d discarded there in January. I spun on the heels of my Burmese Jungle Boots and illuminated the tree.

“Who is that under my Christmas tree,” I yelled.

Slowly the tree lifted and I could see the oval face and almond eyes of an exotic beauty. She was wearing some sort of fluorescent lipstick that was smeared across her face like the war paint of a marauding 19th century hooker who had just been beating down the warpath of degenerative syphilis.

“Rise up slowly and don’t make any sudden moves,” I said, biting down on my cigar.

It was then that I spied her necking partner lying face down behind a pile of leaves, a slight, pock faced youth with black spiked hair. He was wearing a Sixers Jersey and baggy jeans and had the hollow eyes of an excessive masturbator and the slack lips of a county mental patient. Mixed with drugs and the build up of testosterone that I’d imagined he’d stockpiled during his little back seat love session I knew I’d have to keep my eye on him for these are the types that act quickly and irrationally, consequence be damned. There is only in their minds the notion of the old in and out and from there all else breaks down into mindless garble of too many video games and the fast food grease fusing to their underused synapses. These types are apt like starving weasels to go after the arteries in your ankles or wherever else you might be vulnerable to attack. They have no respect for what made this country great and flog relentlessly on the American dream like it was a fat schoolmate with an effeminate lisp.

“Hey man, everything’s cool,” the zit faced kid said, taking a step towards me.

“Drop the Elvis vernacular you pint-sized rodent. You’re not even a carbuncle on the bottom of the King’s yacht. So if you want everything to remain “cool” you won’t take another step towards me,” I said.

“What you need a gun to take me on tough guy? My parents are lawyers,” he said, the zits on his face pulsing like the taillights on a cement truck. “You’ll be in jail before you can say dips hit.”
“No, I don’t need a gun and thanks for telling me your parents were lawyers I hadn’t decided to beat on you until you told me that, dipshit.”

The girl screamed and the Chihuahuas went wild jumping up at the screen door and clawing it madly. I knew then that it was only a matter of time before the dizzying red lights of the borough police would be spinning in front of my eyes.

“You think that your parents being lawyers makes you a big shot?” I asked.

“I know it makes me a bigshot. They‘re rich and will sue the pants off of you if you even touch me,” he said, stepping towards me.

I imagined his parents were the same gutless fools that get high on grandiose notions of excessive wealth, who snub out the common folk so that they may live in filthy excess while the down trodden subsist on broken dreams and cheap liquor. And it’s true that the wealthy are the most perverted residents of this country and that’s simply because they can afford to be perverts. If some poor slob living in a trailer in Alabama has a Urophilia fetish and can’t find a willing partner to piss on his forehead he is SOL. The bastard has no outlet other than to go back stroking through one of those public trough like urinals but if the rich man can’t find a woman willing to urinate on him for free he need only to start flashing enough money around and soon enough fantasy will become reality. So, you see why I say that the really whacked shit is left for the wealthy who can afford to buy anonymity. I pity the poor bustards that just want someone to piss on them or for someone to wrap them in Saran Wrap and beat them with a garden hose but can’t afford the $300 dollars an hour that would make their dream come true. Yes, the American dream has officially been trampled.

“Your dad probably likes to hire hookers to piss on his hairy back,” I said, flipping the Mossberg up onto my shoulder.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” the zit faced kid said.

“Just let us go. We won’t come back here,” the girl said.

I didn’t realize it at the time but I was standing on the wall of rotting railroad ties that make up the landscaping on the backside of my property and when I went to step towards the girl one of the railroad ties gave and I went tumbling down the hill. I rolled over several garbage cans and stopped when my shoulder slammed up against the rear tire of my Cherokee which was at the end of the driveway.

“Come back you cowards,” I cried from the bottom of my driveway as the two neckers took off.
I heard the Volkswagen fire up and as I stood I saw it meandering off into the night like a baby humpback with a harpoon in its ribs. Hurt and angry I collected my Mossberg and headed into the house and cured my wounds with a dozen or so Fransikaners. I passed out in front of the fireplace with the Chihuahuas sleeping on my back.

* * *
And so I awoke the next morning despising today’s youth for their ignorance and insolence and drove to work under the influence of enough caffeine to jump start a dead mammoth.

When I sat down and plugged in my laptop at work it hissed at me like a gila monster with its tail clenched in the jaws of a bobcat. White sparks shot up in the air and looked like the spit flying out of an elderly auctioneers mouth and from the center of the keyboard there rose a giant mushroom cloud of smoke. I knew, as any fool would, that this was not a good addition to my already compromised day and should have straightaway headed for home but I didn‘t.

Quickly I unplugged the smoldering laptop and fanned it with a copy of Hunter S. Thompson’s Generation of Swine but I knew then that my actions were a futile attempt at reviving the burned out soul of what I had considered a dear and loyal friend. We’d shared many common interests including a strong affection for Internet porn, a mutual interest in word processing, and love for doctoring pictures of friends so they appeared in one strange setting or another and then E-mailing them to various political offices. It’s hard to find friends like that and I‘d miss that little red on/off light blikking at me but like many people in my life the my laptop too had let me down.

Jeff Barnard of the AP wrote in his piece: Alleged Suicide Party Planner Was Lonely, Transcript Says, that “A man who allegedly tried to organize a Valentine's Day sex and suicide party told a Canadian woman via Internet instant messaging that he wanted to die because he was lonely, women thought he was ugly and he had no one to hold but his dog.”

When my laptop blew I felt the same way as this suicide party organizer. I had no one to hold but my two attack Chihuahuas. The friend I’d spent countless hours with was spread out on my desk, her circuitry smoldering, her memories gone. I momentarily considered organizing a computer suicide pact where I would contact other laptop owners and on next Valentines day we would take sledge hammers to our computers but of course my computer was already dead so taking a sledge hammer to it would be redundant.

Having a piece due the next day for a senior citizens magazine I drove to Circuit City and made my way to the laptop computers. I didn’t see much that interested me until I caught a glint out of the corner of my eye. When I turned I saw her. She was sitting cockeyed on the display shelf, her display unabashedly picturing a cool blue tropical ocean with multicolored fishes swimming about.

“How are you doing baby?” I said.

She beeped at me and I picked her up and held her to my heart.