Lawyers, Guns, and Cocaine

Warren Zevon was right. Lawyers, guns, and money can get you out of nearly any predicament. If you find that they can't, you're fucked. I have always said that there are three groups of people to whom you never lie under any circumstances: your parents, your doctors, and your lawyers. If you find yourself lying to a member of a person in any of those groups, you're fucked, but you can only blow coke with a member of one of those groups, unless Tony Curtis is your father. This is the night I met my lawyer.

I had just completed a stressful day of doing my supervisor's job of pulling and analyzing mind-numbing statistics for a call center. The only fun part of this was that I, through the use of a little charm and politics, swayed her as to who was "unpromotable". I still find it funny that an rapid-cycling-circus-act of an amphetamine junkie like myself was able to continually have the highest statistics and win the highest award the company gave out. Oh hospitality industry, I fucked you like a Bangkok whore. Anyway, I called up Jack and told him I was in dire need of some pain killers, a few xanax bars, a fifth of gin, 2 liters of tonic water, a few limes, 10 hits of ecstasy and Martina, who I would fuck senselessly. All of these things would help alleviate the negative effects of amphetamine and remove the lack of REM hallucinations which were beginning to set in. Being the sot that I was at the time, I had about half a fifth of gin and a little Sprite on hand so they would do until his untimely arrival. Martina staggered her way through the door with some vodka and Poma, something I detest to this day. "Close enough," I thought. These will have to do until Jack arrives. I proceeded to try to erase all memory of the day I had at work at the toll the amphetamines had had on my patience after being awake for 96 continuous hours.

Jack shows up at my house with Black. For those of you who aren't in the know and are too scared to venture outside of suburbia, "Black" is like "John" of the hood. I never knew Black's real name, I didn't want to know. Jack knew him and that was close enough for me. The two walk into my apartment with a duffel bag. Jack had not followed instructions and inside were not the contents for which I had asked. Jack needed to store a few things in my house. Being the good friends that we were I told him that this wouldn't be a problem, but of course I would get to sample whatever this stash might be. They proceeded to remove the contents one at a time. First they removed an ounce of cocaine which looked like a bar of soap, then two shoe boxes full of marijuana, each one weighing a pound, and finally two pints of hydrocodone syrup. Black always refused to call them pints, no matter how many times he heard me say the word. He always insisted on calling them "paints" and no matter the color of the syrup, it was always referred to as "that purple". Given that "that purple" cost $30 a fucking ounce, and the bottles were sealed, I wasn't about to pay that kind of money. Instead Black thanked me for the use of my house to do his deal, handed me a baggy with 6 hits of ecstasy, and left. Jack informed me that in no way could I use the syrup because he had gotten that on credit and he would have to charge me for it, I understood. Off of his ounce of cocaine he shaved off about 2 grams and told me I was welcome to have it. I hate cocaine. It is merely the molecular structure for a pattern of psychological addiction which does not lead to intelligent or creative thought. It is a foul substance, but given that I didn't have anything else to do with my time, I figured, why not?

After doing a few rails I remembered how much I detested this foul powder and called up my room mate's friend and a good lawyer, Big Rod. Big Rod is one hell of a guy and had half a script of Percodan left over from having his wisdom teeth removed. I told him that if he brought me the Percodan he could shove his face in all the blow he wanted. What Jack thought to be about two grams, when broken down, was enough to cover a dinner plate. I knew this would be a long night. Big Rod shows up and gives me about 50mg of oxycodone. I knew that the ten tablets were 5mg each, they had the 512 imprint code on them, I knew that well. I chewed them up, rinsed some gin around in my mouth, and swallowed the foul concoction. Being that there were now three of us, Martina, Big Rod, and I each snorted two hits of "ecstasy". I knew that these would not be MDMA, but rather some combination of MDMA, MDA, and meth, because Black had assured me he knew they were good because he couldn't sleep after taking them. (On a side note, a high enough dose of pure MDMA can induce sleep, and will not keep you awake; MDA, amphetamine, and meth all will.)

Big Rod began to tell us the stories of law school and he would not shut up. Martina and I were fucked up and enjoyed his stories and spent most of our time making our own coloring books. They were as fucked up as what you might see on coloringbookland.com but maybe a little more innocent and definitely more creative. The combination of the "ecstasy" and pain killers was nice, but all the alcohol had made me a little sloppy. I decided to do more cocaine. For those of you who aren't aware, alcohol increases the levels of cocaine metabolite in your blood stream by 30% and taking opiates with cocaine has killed many a rock star and is usually referred to as "speed-balling". Apparently the amount of cocaine I had done was a bit much and I was becoming a little paranoid. I knew the cops were going to kick in the door at any moment arrest me for having Jack's stash and I would be there totally defenceless. I couldn't have that, no sir. I went into my room, dropped my high capacity clip into my .45 auto, tucked it into my waist band, loaded my twelve gauge and stuck it behind the door to my bed room. I did this without Martina noticing, Big Rod was a little more, how we say "aware".

Big Rod insisted he and I go out on the porch for a smoke.
"Bro, why all the heavy weaponry? What's going on? Are you okay man? I think the shit's starting to get to you."
"No, no. They're out there. They're on the other aide of that fence and they're waiting for just the right moment to kick the door in and arrest us all, but I'm not going down without a fight. I've got 13 rounds in this clip and I'm a dead good shot."
Big Rod pulled out 4mg of Xanax.
"I was saving these for later, but I'll trade them to you for the rest of your cocaine, there's only about a quarter of a gram left. Also, if the cops do break the door in, I'm a lawyer, you'll be fine."

After the Xanax removed the effects of the cocaine I certainly felt fine. Big Rod finished the cocaine, talked for a few more hours, and passed out on the couch. I proceeded to fuck Martina several times, I still don't know how her boyfriend didn't hear us.