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John Dempsey

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Stories of Speed (6)
By John Dempsey
Tuesday, November 06, 2007

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someone keeps breaking up lines, someone keeps handing me a rolled dollar bill, I inhale, and what I breathe out winds up in these pages- john

51

I took a look around the place to make sure I wasn’t forgetting anything. I knew that something was about to happen, but I didn’t want any part of it.

“I’m leaving your share of the coke on the table.”
“Ah, oh, don’t, honey, don’t, he’s.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not mad. You guys have fun with it.”
“Allow our ejaculatory offerings…”

I opened the door.

“…to enter the cosmos!”
“Don’t! Ah!”

It felt so good, the walking away, like I was making the right decision for once, and even though I had closed the door behind me, I could still hear them.
I stood there for a moment, savoring the whole scene, the bright sun, the techno music, the squeaking of the bed, her ass crackling, my good feeling, and all the moaning...

(The sound of them,
mixed with everything else was
just perfect. )

“And resound through all the FuckTime of all the planets!”
“Yes! Yes! Don’t stop!”
“In all the dimensions of all the mucus oozing universes!”

I felt the weight of my share of the coke in my pocket. It was at least 3 grams, maybe more. Then I heard a loud explosion, like someone had set off a mortar, or shot a large caliber gun in the hotel room. I smiled, and started walking away.

52

After that I made a few more good decisions.

53

I also got lucky.

54

That night I went to a bar. Usually I’m most comfortable in my own company. I like to drink by myself, get stoned by myself, I enjoy talking to myself, I recite monologues while driving alone, I have discussions with my Great I in a dark room, I kick around ideas for stories, work out theories, tell jokes, all to my wonderful, giggling, completely understanding and slightly overweight self…but for some reason, that night, I didn’t feel like being alone.

55

I filled my nose and walked into a dive of a bar with the undeniably sour smell of puke blended with stale smoke and topped with a hint of bad breath.

(Ah,
the saccharine sweet
scent
of the drunken
and desperate)

With the crunch of broken glass at every footstep, with heavy women wearing too much make-up (holocaustic hysterectomy survivors, “Fucking quack scrambled my insides with a variable speed hand blender! Left me fertile as the sands of the Gobi!” (and as scarred as your author…)), with old drunks, young drunks, more dead than alive drunks, and the majority of them with familiar faces attached to their necks.
I nodded hello, sat down, and ordered a beer. I didn’t have much in the way of money left, but I knew I that could dump a gram of the coke at an inflated price. A glass of beer was put down in front of me. I extended my hand, picked up the glass, and swallowed a pint of escape.

(One golden,
literary
sip)

56

An hour or so later I was in the bathroom at the back of the bar. I got into one of the stalls, locked the door, and broke out 2 thick lines on top of the toilet tank. Then I rolled up one of my last dollar bills, shoved it into my nose…

57

Halfway through the second line I was hit with a spasm somewhere in my gut, the lower intestine or something, and a signal was sent to the bundle of gray matter floating in my skull (marinated in curbside chemicals), and the gray matter shot a signal of its own down along the spine and to the sphincter, the sphincter received the signal, clammed up, and allowed me to maintain a little bit of my dignity.
I finished up the line, wiped my finger along the top of the toilet tank, and- I don’t care how unsanitary it sounds- rubbed it along my gums.
I was hit with another spasm. Urgency. I unbuttoned, unzipped, dropped pants and boxers, numb gums I sat down
to a sputtering
madhouse.

58

It was painful. A ripping apart of the midsection that had me hugging my knees, tearing at the eyes, my face all screwed up and pinched with gastrointestinal agony. It was more than foul. It was disgusting beyond Time itself. It was the sickly, humiliated smell of every man, woman, and child that has ever shit themselves in all instances of past, present, and future. It was the smell of entrails gone to rot yet functional enough to produce waste. It was some kind of torture sent down by Big Forces to teach me the error of my ways. Or maybe I was just sick. Maybe some foundation had collapsed. Maybe it was all catching up to me. I moaned out loud.

59

I got through the ordeal. It left me weak, revolted, somewhat sober, and just a
touch
frightened. I was wiping up when someone walked in the bathroom. I heard him sniff, and then make a sound like he was gonna retch.

“Holy fuck boy! You’ve got a problem.”

I continued to wipe.

“I mean, that shit, it just doesn’t smell right. You’re sick.”

60

I’ve never been able to understand people that will talk to you while you’re shitting, or while they’re shitting, or while your standing side by side at urinals, both holding your dicks and pissing and something in these people’s brains tells them to strike up a conversation- it’s fucking weird and disturbing to me. If you ever run into me in the bathroom, do me a favor and keep your mouth shut till we’ve both put our dicks away.

“You know, my cousin’s shit used to smell just like that.”
“That’s interesting guy. Now fuck off.”
“I’m serious. His crap used to have that same sick smell to it, like he was shitting out parts of his stomach.”

I looked in the toilet. I didn’t see anything that looked like it could be a part of my stomach.

“Yup, started about 6 months or so before he died.”


   

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