Tag: pimps

The Second Time Isn’t “The Charm”

This is the Tale of My Second Arrest which is exactly the opposite of My First.

My life at that point was utter shit. I was in the grips of of hardcore Drug Addiction. The apartment I was occupying was really quite nice when I moved in, but at this point do to neglect had become a run down hellhole. I spent all my time with my with my asshole neighbor Big Douche desperately scheming and scamming, lying and Cheating, Stealing and Robbing anything for a fucking dollar.

Once we had some cash we’d get drunk as fuck and then go score some crack. Once we smoked up all the crack we went and bought Heroin. This was a endless daily cycle .

In reality I fucking hated Big Douche and would think about killing him in his sleep constantly. He truly was a fucked up fucking asshole of a human being, too fucking damaged to ever be fixed. Big Douche was the definition of a Lost Cause. I’ll digress for now since The Tale of Big Douche will be forthcoming.

So one afternoon we had managed to scrounge up enough cash for a couple of bags of Heroin, and headed out to our usual copping spot.

I’m going to pause here to take a minute to explain exactly where we scored our shit.

I/We lived in a bustling little suburbia that was a short 15 minute drive into the State’s Capital City. Now once a go the Capital City was a rich and prosperous area full of business. Then the businesses left and so did anyone who could fucking afford to. Over the years the City decayed as it hemorrhaged money through failed attempts to improve the City.

A perfect example is the Capital City spent MILLIONS to build a Sports Stadium in the City (rather than on the outskirts) and it was an instant epic failure. See because they built the Stadium IN the city there was INSUFFICIENT PARKING.

This meant Attendees had to park on the street(s) and walk to the Stadium. The only issue with that was NO ONE wanted to walk down said streets especially with their loved ones or kids. The City even tried combating the problem by stationing a Cop on every outlying corner, AND THAT DIDN’T WORK EITHER, but I digress.

We drove through the filthy trash littered streets lined with old decrepit old houses rotting away through the years.

On any given day We’d see the wandering Hookers, Homeless Begging Bums, Gang Bangers, Pimps, Junkies, Poverty, Stray Cats and Dogs, Crackheads, Drug Dealers, and other of life’s rejected throw aways lurking and loitering on the corners or walking between/among them.

On this particular day the streets were completely vacant there wasn’t a single soul in sight. We drove around several different blocks, but it was all the same the streets were all utterly empty.

I had a bad feeling. A Gut Feeling and not a good one.

The only reason that the usual degenerates wouldn’t be out pounding the streets (committing various dastardly deeds) was a simple one. Just two simple words: Police Activity.

The Police were the preverbal Lights that when flipped on sends the Rats and Roaches scrambling for cover of any kind.

I told Big Douche that we should bail and come back later because obviously something was going on that was making the Natives Restless if you will. Now Big Douche living up to his name continued to relentlessly circle block after block searching for anyone who might be a Dope Dealer. He was franticly obsessed the way Junkies do when their fiending for a fix.

At last right as Big Douche finally was giving up we drove up on a Bodega and a Large (and rather fat) Guy strode out the door. Big Douche being a Junkie immediately decides this is a person is a drug dealer and signals him as it were.

The Guy signals back. I’m pissed as pissed can get because I couldn’t believe we hadn’t bounced yet, and that Big Douche was being a complete cunt. In some bizarre passive aggressive bullshit I deliberately didn’t look at, talk to or even acknowledged The Guy.

The Guy reaches through the drivers side window and does the exchange. Instead of driving off like a good little junkie Big Douche stops to look at the couple bags of Dope, and notices (again being a good little junkie) that the Heroin looks funny. It looks fake. Fake as a motherfucker.

Big Douche leans over and calls the Guy out stating that the Guy’s dope looks beat as shit. The Guy denies it and keeps trying to brush us off. Big Douche then decides he wants his money back (Yeah thats right he wanted the Drug Dealer to refund his money for selling him fake Heroin) and opens the Driver’s door and stood  between the car and the car door arguing with the Guy.

Eventually like a junkie Big Douche stops arguing and starts begging like a big ass bitch. The Guy doesn’t want to hear a single fucking word about it. Big Douche at last accepts defeat and we start to pull away from the curb.

That’s when I saw it, thats when I knew we were fucked. What I saw was the Guy raising his arm to wave in the Cops who were hiding around the way in. The next thing we knew the Cops had 3 cars pinning us in as other Cops ran up to the car yelling like a bunch a savage assholes.

We get out of the car, handcuffed, and then driven around the corner so the Cops entrapment spot wouldn’t get blown up. They transferred us into additional Cop cars and took us to the Police Station.

Once we got there Big Douche was booked, Processed, and sent to County Jail on a slew of yet undressed charges.

I was a bit luckier since I did;t have any outstanding legal issues I was booked and then released on my own recognizance. I was also given a court date the following day.

Needless to say I didn’t sleep that night. I unplugged the phone because Big Douche keep calling asking for me to help contact people to come bail him out. I could have cared less as I was worried about being locked up the very next day.

Unlike my first arrest there was no time in-between my arrest and my trial. It happened so fast I’m really not sure if I even had a court appointed Lawyer (I don’t remember talking or meeting with one at all). I went to my court date, and I remember sitting alone in the court room as the Judge worked his way down the days docket. He finally gets to me and I remember I stood up and remained standing in the same spot.

I remember this Judge some old nasty bastard who lectured me for what seemed like fucking hours about how Drug Addicts are coming into the City to score their drugs which in turn is destroying the City itself.

BULL-FUCKING-SHIT.

First there THOUSANDS of drug addicts in the Judge’s fantastical City. And the only reason Drug Addicts were coming to his City was due to the fact THATS WHERE THE FUCKING DRUG DEALERS ARE. Also as I mentioned earlier the “Fine City” the Judge spoke of was and still is a Growing, Thriving, and Worsening SHITHOLE.

Once the cranky old cocksucker of a Judge wraps up his bullshit tirade he sentenced me to 90 Days Suspended Sentence. The first time I was arrested I got 3 years Probation with a ton of added conditions (all of which I violated like a motherfucker).

This time I simply had to stay out of trouble (aka Get Arrested Again) for 90 days then I’d be off the legal hook, and the arrest would be expunged from my Police Record.

Luckily I managed not to get arrested again (in those 90 days and ever again) though I continued to spend my days living the life of a junkie which by definition requires breaking laws left and right.

Thanks for Reading,

Les Sober 

Yet Another Reason Not To Visit Mexico

One day my good friend Danka and I were drinking on the stoop of Danka’s house playing the “Most Fucked Up Story Game”. The game is rudimentary and simplistic. The goal is to tell the most fucked up story of the evening thus becoming the winner.

Dana served a short time in the United States Navy before being discharged for being an Alcoholic who was “Derelict of Duty” or some stupidly phrased bullshit statement. You see Danka had a habit of going binge drinking while on shore leave which resulted in a semi concous Danka being dragged to returning to the ship for check in by his fellow soldiers. Finally Danka out did even himself by missing Check In in favor of chilling at some waitresses’s apartment he was hooking up with in Tijuana, eating Captain Crunch cereal, and watching American cartoons in Spanish. Well that was the final straw that broke the preverbal Camal’s back, and the Navy booted Danka instructing him never to return to any branch of the United States Military ever again.

Before being unceremoniously kicked out of the Navy Danka had spent several months down in Tijuana Mexico were he was temporarily stationed for some fucking Navy related reason. While in Tijuana Danka learned some  tactics for day to day safety and survival that weren’t taught in the Navy. It was simply how to navigate daily life in Tijuana without running into trouble with Thieves, Drug Dealers, Pimps, Gangs, Cartels, Muggers, Car Jackers, Con Artists, Drug Addicts, Hookers, Ex Convicts, Militias and Corrupt Cops.

Now with the corrupt Cops it was basic Extortion. If a Tourist per say wandered into the wrong neighborhood the Cops would arrest them, and then drive them directly to an ATM. The Police Officers would then demand a bribe of usually $300 U.S., BUT if you refused to pay they would take you to jail on some bullshit trumped up charge. While it goes without saying that Jail fucking sucks, and is one of the last places anyone would want to find themselves especially in a foreign 3rd World Country. Mexican Jails have a foul reputation for being filthy, over crowded, understaffed, Bribing of Guards, Murders, Rapes, and inhumane living conditions for the most part.

This is what happened to Danka’s buddy named Blackburn. Blackburn was on shore leave and had had a few drinks when he wondered off the main fairway into a shitty neighborhood. While desperately trying to find his way back, which was complicated by his intoxication, Blackburn was picked up by a couple of Corrupt Cops looking for a quick pay day. The Cops drove Blackburn to the ATM and demanded payment ($300 U.S. per Officer times 2 for a total of $600 U.S.), and Blackburn told them too fuck off because he wasn’t giving them a single goddamn cent. So the Cops threw Blackburn into the back of the squad car, but instead of taking him to the nearest shithole jail they drove him to a sleazy Dive Bar on the outskirts of the city that featured Nightly Donkey Shows (if you don’t know what a Donkey Show is Google it) The police shoved Blackburn into the dimly lit backroom of the Bar and tied him to a rickety wooden chair. The Police then proceeded to sell Blackburn to the Bar owner for $775 U.S. and then left quickly.

The Bar owner had one of his cronies take Blackburn out back to a Small Barn located next to the Bar. Once there Blackburn was stripped buck naked and tied to a barn post. The Bar Owner’s henchmen then ground up 3 or 4 bottles of Viagra and mix them with a quarter ounce of Crystal Meth. Once the concoction was full mixed together the Side Kicks laced a 32 ounce Corona with it, and then fed it to a Donkey that was penned up in a cramped stall. About 50 minutes later the Donkey had a raging 18 inch erection and was violently kicking the sides of the pen. One of the Cronies then untied Blackburn from the post, and then tied his hands behind his back while the other crony aggressively lassoed the inscenced Donkey. The 3 men and the doped up Donkey then made their way over to the Bar and entered through a side delivery entrance.

The Bar smelled like hot stale beer and body oder mixed with piss. There were a handful of patrons spread out through out the Bar that was so smoky it was like being trapped in a fucking mist or some shit. The Henchman responsible for Blackburn took him over to a worn out Pummel Horse that was held together with Duct Tape. He then bent Blackburn over the Pummel Horse and bound Blackburn’s wrists and ankles together. Next a shitfaced MC comes on a beat 1972 PA System to announce the Nightly Donkey Show is Starting. After a short pause to allow the Bar Patrons time to freshen their drinks and light a smoke the 2nd Henchman dragged the Donkey over fighting it every step of the way. As the Donkey was being brought over the Bar Owner came over to Blackburn and sprayed him with Female Donkey Pheromones and Menstrual Blood to get the deranged drugged up Donkey’s attention. It worked. It worked extremely well. In an instant the Donkey got a whiff of Blackburn and galloped over to him, and mounted Blackburn placing its front legs on Pummel Horse on either side of Blackburn. As soon as the Donkey penetrated Blackburn it went fuck wild, this Donkey wasn’t playing “Just The Tip” with Blackburn he was slamming shaft balls deep in Blackburn’s battered butthole. It took about 17 minutes before the Donkey finally completed and its semen was seeping out of Blackburn’s broken butthole like a garden hose.

Blackburn was about to be loaded into a car and left to die of his injuries in the Desert to die when the a group of American Military Police busted in the front door of the Bar with a vengeance. Blackburn had to be taken out on a fucking stretcher and Medivaced by Helicopter to a Special Surgical Trauma Hospital in Seattle Washington. Blackburn lived after spending the better part of a year in the Hospital where the Surgeons removed just over 8 feet of his intestines, rebuilt his bowls, reconstructed his rectum, and stitched up his sphincter. Blackburn was discharged from the Navy Under Section 8 Status due to his Donkey Rape induced PTSD. He moved home to Shasta South Dakota and lives in his Mom’s basement on permanent disability watching Anime while drooling on himself while playing with his pecker making guttural sounds.

Needless to say there was no fucking way I could top that Tale of Terror in Tijuana so Danka went home that night quite drunk and the most fucked up story winner.

Thanks For Das READ,

 

Les Sober 

The Delinquent Detective Ep.1 : Screaming at a Deaf Dog

Heads Up For Readers: There is a good bit of obscene language and blasphemies contained within this piece.
Rock Hard woke with a startle one hand one his set of bulbous brass balls, and in the other empty bottle of Lithuanian Whisky.
The goddamn phone was ringing relentlessly BRING! BRING! like a goddamn banshee. Rock sat up and wearily rubbing his face trying to dispel the thick fog of yesterday.
Rock was no stranger to the endless trials and tribulations of life not by a long shot. Bullshit was his bread and butter.
Rock slowly made his way to the phone his feet shuffling across the thick scummy orange shag carpet barefoot.
Rock lit a cigarette irritated that some dumb son of a bitch had the fucking nerve to call him this early in the goddamn day. Rock reached the phone and unplugged it. Whoever it was fuck them thought Rock to himself.
Finally Rock thought to himself. Rock found people to be unbelievably irritating at best.
Rock proceeded to get ready for the dismal day that lay before him. Once Rock had shit, showered, and shaved Rock headed out to the office.
Locking the door behind him he started down the hall of The Royal Hotel lined with various delinquents. The monthly crew of cantankerous characters that inhabited The Royal Hotel, one of the BigCity’s finest flop house, was an unending revolving door of debauchery.
Rock tolerated these assholes because in a flea bag shithole no one sees shit, hears shit or says shit especially the police.
The residents of The Royal were the lowest of the low. There were junkies, hookers, pimps, cults, drunks, drug dealers, shut ins, welfare cases, white trash, Neo Nazi’s (that hangout at the lobby bar), traumatized Vietnam vets, thieves, bikers,and the mentally ill with no family.
It wasn’t always that way though. Back in its heyday The Royal played host to musicians, writers, artists, film makers running the entire gamete of the art world.
Business men booked suites for their corrupt conferences where they found ways to fuck over the working man. The staff was professional and proud to be part of The Royal.
Now Tina “Two Tits” Earner the local hooker was constantly prowling for pricks in the Hotels shitty dive-like bar. Homeless Hank the blocks beloved gutter dwelling bum was living in the lobby. The rest of The Royal was a fucking freak show a goddamn insane circus.
Ignoring the nasty noises of fighting and fucking that bled through the paper thin walls Rock made his way to the downstairs. Rock stopped briefly to shoot the shit with the front desk clerk.
The clerk was an anciently old man who worked the front desk and had for 52 years named Barnabas.
“Whats going on you nasty old bastard?” Rock asked casually with no real interest.
“I’m just a goddamn gargoyle perched on this goddamn stool watching the derelicts and dopers coming and going, it’s an endless parade of the broken and disheveled . Once the sun sets the city streets flood with sinners,” replied Barnabas weirdly staring off into space.
Rock stared at Barnabas wondering if he was senile or just being a mean old shit .
Rock walked briskly to the front door to escape the scum of the Earth confined within the rancid Royal.
Before exiting Rock checked to make sure he had his two faithful companions with him his flask and his revolver. Once he had established he was in possession of both Rock burst out on to the street.
Rock waded through the littered streets coated in filth and grim. The bums lurking in doorways like living corpses that had abandoned all hope in humanity.
The hookers were returning home after a long cold night on the street selling their souls as well as their snatches.
Junkies posted on the corners heckling change from the few regular folk who hadn’t fled the dying neighborhood bathed in decay.
Over laying graffiti adorned the street plastered across walls and any available space was now coated in spray paint.
Rock didn’t mind the dereliction in fact he welcomed it. People are parasites that don’t belong in palaces was his opinion.
At least when your deep in the shit surrounded by the dregs of society you know where you stand.
There is honesty in hooliganism. You can take everything at face fucking value, no bullshit required.
Rock chain smoked a whole pack of cigarettes on his wayward walk to work. So what if smoking led to fucking cancer Rock didn’t give a rats ass what the Surgeon General had to say on the subject.
Rock picked up a couple of new packs of smokes at newspaper stand around the corner from his office. Rock’s office was a located in the Burner building within walking distance from The Royal.
The Burner was a small building sandwiched between to sky scrappers. The Burner had always been a mega for unorthodox and unconventional professions such as psychics, weapons dealers, and in Rock’s case Private Detectives.
As he approached the front door of his office on the 3rd floor of the Burner he saw a person pacing in the dimly lit hallway.
Rock was already wondering what the stranger was all about when the stranger turned towards him and said……………

To Be Continued in
The Deviant Detective Ep.2 : Getting Directions from the Blind.