|
benny blanco, william russ, jon stafford, eskimo, film, motherbitch, archimedes, rss heavy metal, doe, gary landon mills, seth, national lampoon, arabic,
|
Aren't you glad you use drugs? Don't you wish everybody did? Before exiting I check the mirror warily. That moonstruck look is gone, sandblasted, like the graffiti on General Grant's tomb. Fortified, I march down the Bar Car's center aisle, the only aisle I'll ever march down with Clement Goodbloode. "Bad girl," Clemmy says, scanning my face. He grabs my bag and paws through it roughly, finds what he's iranian after, stalks off. The waiter arrives with the check. I give iranian it back iranian to him and order more drinks, cognacs this time. No point in sticking to spritzers now. When Clemmy gets back, his eyes are burning, prompting me to break into a spirited rendition of "Ring of Fire." Clemmy hands me the cocaine to shut me up. "You did it all?" I say, examining the bottle Clemmy's forgotten about emptying. I'm not really surprised, though I try to sound that way. Always the good provider, Clemmy gets up to chat with one of our friendly hosts, the one who looks like Rasputin only more well-clipped, one of the guys who are always so glad to see us, and things degenerate predictably from there.
|
