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Crack Habit
The
C rr a c kk
Habitat
A Graphic Short
For Leigh a friend in
one's time of need
and in deed.
Sister Tracy
Tracy
stands, twitching and nodding, in front of the filthy stove. It is littered
with the remnants of month old meals. The reek of the rotten food particles is
masked only by the sickly sweet smell of the boiling mixture of cocaine
hydrochloride and Arm & Hammer baking soda.
All
the rockheads; crackheads if you prefer, defer the cooking of the coke to
Tracy. She is the best cook. Gets the best come back, gets it cooked, dried and
chopped quickly into $20 rocks, and, adding a touch of flair, she augments the
boiling solution with Red Rush Gatorade or a 7-11 slurpee concoction to give
the stones colour and flavour.
Tracy
has HIV, AIDS-related bone marrow cancer, and in addition to her $2,000 a day
crack habit, she and her girlfriend, Lara, are also wired to down (heroin) to
the tune of another couple hundred a day.
Ruefully,
she is a true sweetheart in every sense of the word; far too generous to make
any money selling drugs. She does it to support her and Lara’s habit and she
will always, and I mean always, help a fellow addict, whether they have money
or not, when they are suffering the severe dope sickness of heroin withdrawal.
She
sells heroin but is, in fact, a heroine; a modern day
Pseudo-Mother Theresa. A real Samaritan of the streets.
And
you better just take my word for that and fucking believe it.
Nobody
fucks with my Trace. She is an authentic ace in a stacked deck; a flower
amongst weeds. An addict with a heart of gold. She is all that and more, despite
a childhood that would have vanquished most of us, remnants of blubbering
pulps, into the "special" wing at Vancouver Hospital. You know the
one.
Brother Cain
Cain
will gut-knife you for looking at him the wrong way. He is a fat pig with the
well-deserved moniker of "Cain the Pain". He’s a skin-headed Neo-Nazi
wannabe with no morals; his idea of a scruple is to feel guilty about sizing
his rocks a milligram too large. Cain
He
thrives on the misfortune of his "children," as he calls them,
preferring to add heroin to his blow to quickly hook the kids. What he spends
on the down, instead of the more common cutting agent Coloxyl, a baby laxative,
he earns back thricely on the up-side by having wired crackheads.
When
they get so wired and appear to be approaching the point of leaping into the
traditional crackhouse waltz, The Chicken:
"Convulsive (seizure) disorders associated with cocaine
toxicity have been noted in the published literature since the turn-of-the
century. The occurrence of these generalized convulsions is commonly
acknowledged by cocaine users themselves, having either "done
the chicken" (had a convulsion while using cocaine) or
observed this phenomenon in another cocaine user. Acute cocaine overdose may
result in preconvulsive movements, generalized convulsions, and, ultimately,
cardiovascular and respiratory failure that is usually associated with status
epilepticus (as reportedly occurred with, among many others, basketball star
Leonard Bias and actor River Phoenix)."
…he
brings out the heroin, sans coke, and well…
"Donchyano,"
he laughs toothlessly, "It’s free!"
For
the first time.HH
For
too many it’s the only time. For
For
too many more it’s the first move in another well-worn rock-den prance, The
Coffin Dodge.
Cain
is a big fan of both, brave as he is, never himself setting foot upon the dance
floor. For too many my thrives
Miz
The
scariest thing about her is her true appearance. But she can trick your mind
into seeing what she wants you to see. She represents herself in your mind’s
eye in any physical from she knows will attract you to her.
Truthfully,
she is as buck ugly as they come. No more than a sliver over five feet tall,
with coarse, blighted black hair maneuvered this way and that to cover balding
spots which are caked with dried blood and infested with Gawd knows what kind
of vermin. I doubt she has seen the inside of a shower stall in well over a
year and she smells like it.
But
whether it’s because by the time you meet her you have fallen so low that you
just want a safe place to rest your head, out of the streets- out of the cold, incessant,
drizzling Vancouver rain-or that you have already started to lose what tenuous
grip you had on reality, that when she comes for you she appears as a
brunette-haired angel of mercy.
You
cast your gaze upon her false beauty and as she helps you off the wet earth and
lifts you to your feet you don’t care that she has palmed your wallet and your
keys. All you feel is the warmth of her hovel and the dryness of the
blood-spattered towel she has tossed in your face.
And
when she lights her pipe and bends down to offer you a hoot of crack, her
toothless smile and foul breath become the countenance of an angel and the
exhalation of a newborn.
So you
offer up your PIN number without hesitation when she tells you she will get
some things to take care of you with. And then you lie in your own filth
waiting for her return.
And
you wait. And you wait.
Till
the light can no longer hide the shadows and you see what it is that has
sequestered you here, so far from the natural world. A troll. A monster. And a
crackhead one at that. Thank you, irony. I can now fully appreciate your
meaning.
Colonel
Its
cold muzzle feels good against your sweaty brow. The smell of the gun oil wafts
over you each time you pick it up, check for the hundredth time that it’s
loaded with one in the chamber, and that the safety is off.
You
have never found such comfort in any person you have known. It just feels so
right; holding this gun. Knowing you can blow a hole the size of a baby’s fist
in anyone or thing that comes through your door uninvited.
What
is about this gun, and why have it?
It’s
the way it balances just right in your palm. The stainless steel shine that
mirrors your face back at you. You really don’t want to ever have to put it
down. But even a crackhead knows that too much of a good thing can be a
not-so-good thing. So, you reluctantly place it beside your pillow and paste
your ear to the wall waiting for them to come.
Cause
when they come it will boil down to a very simple equation: you or them.
No
need to extrapolate or debate, rationalize or sympathize. They are coming and
you don’t have the load they left you with and you don’t have their money. You
smoked a quarter ounce of their crack with a whore while she pranced and took
care of all your biblical needs all night long.
Funny
though, huh, that after the last hoot was inhaled, the last of the resin
scoured from your pipes, the brillo now so burnt it crumbles into hell-dust,
she lost interest in you and left. She did say to be careful, though. Oh, and
she warned you, like the child of oblivion that she is, that "Those guys
are mean. You’re fucked up, man."
Thanks
a bunch, slut. As if, after six years of using and dealing and running up a
cuff into the low five figures that you’re supposed to be working off, you
don’t already know that their coming to kill you.
You
have no dope left either. No matter how hard you flail and jones, you can’t
even find any crumbs to give you some of that legendary cocaine courage. And
the scandalous bitch left with your last $20.
But
it’s all good. You’ve got Colonel Colt. And he’s bucking for some action.
The
door crashes open and you’re ready. You let loose the entire clip.
And
the janitor sleeps peacefully in an ever-rising high tide of his own blood.
Fideland Marcus-The Enforcers
On the
run, again. Fidel and Marcus a few hours behind you, armed with an execution
warrant from the Upper Echelon. You not only fucked up wasting the janitor, and
owing another $350 on top of your $12 grand tab that accumulates juice at about
$360 a day, but you drew the heat to the lower levels of the Echelon.
They’re
fucking pissed; they want you dead-NOW!
Well,
what the fuck have you got to lose now? Might as well beat the shit out of the
clerk at the c-store and get some money for dope. You’re going to need it very
soon if you’re going to be able to stare down the motherfuckers and take em
down.
You do
the job, get the dope, smoke the crack and carefully draw two syringes full of
your Aids-ravaged blood. And you wait.
The
Colonel is reloaded.
You
let them find you at the corner of Hastings and Carrall. Lots of traffic and
cops around so they’re going to try to maneuver you into the alley. They greet
you speciously, with smiles almost as broad as their shoulders. "How’ve
you been?" Fidel inquiries looking concerned. "Yeah we were worried
sick about you," Marcus adds. "Why don’t we go around the corner and
talk for a bit? It’s all good," they seem to say in perfect unison.
Fidel
leads and you’re stuck between his wide gait, the throng of addicts all about
you and the heavy breathing of Marcus on your ass.
Before
you reach the alley you know it’s time and you wheel around, stuffing the
Colonel into Marcus’ ribs while plunging the syringe and emptying it into his
jugular.
He goes
down quickly but not before taking a pot shot at you that just nicks your balls
and flies straight into Fidel’s back. Fidel writhes in pain, blood streaming
from his gasping mouth. You kneel down beside him and stick the other rig deep
in his jug.
No mater
what happens now, they’re going to follow you forever. And they certainly won’t
have long to wait to meet you in the hospice for terminally ill Aids patients.
Maybe
three months. Maybe sooner, maybe later.
Maybe
never. But that’s a lot to hope for.
Finally, It’s Time
You
lost the Colonel in your haste and had to grab Fidel’s 9mm Glock. Not as sweet
as the Colonel, but ready, willing and able to add another crackhead to its
resume.
The
gold crucifix you have worn for 40 years-the one your mother gave you- is
wrapped around the muzzle and swaying back and forth in front of your tear
swollen eyes.
The
black eye of the Glock is staring you down and you’re not wavering.
You
drain the Stoli 26er from its mid way point; twelve red Seconal capsules go
along for the ride.
You
push the Black Tar heroin into your vein and within seconds you smile the smile
of the dope dead.
For
additional courage, you smoke a $20 rock and lay on the bed, your head on the
stained pillow.
The
rest are coming for you now but you know you’ve cheated them out of their
revenge and of any chance of collecting their debt or torturing you.
The
footsteps stop outside your door and a so irritating and inappropriate polite
knock issues. Again, they knock,
The
Glock is in your mouth and erupts violently, flying from your near dead hands
and hitting the far wall. You taste the gun oil and the blood and the coke and
the heroin and wonder at the eerie taste of the death cocktail.
Your
last earthly sight is of the crucifix splattered with blood. It must have come
off at the last second and got stuck on a molar. The blast blew it loose and it
landed across your eyes.
Shit,
it’s upside down.
As was
your whole pitiful, pathetic, cowardly attempt at life.
The
Big Boys wander about your room and make fucking sure you’re dead. Really, the
knife in the ribs and the slashing of your throat evokes no pain.
You
float in the room for what seems an eternity but that is because time has no
effect on you any more. You’re dead to this and all other worlds.
No
Judgment Day for you.
The
man in the black shroud has been waiting patiently. He beckons and you follow.
The
Gates of Hell have been prepared for your arrival. You’re really scared for the
first time in a long time.
And
shit, you have no crack.
Welcome
to The Crack Habitat.
Hans Joeseph Rosenow
Email: Hans Joeseph Rosenow
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