Folks, I implore you, leave that stuff alone. I been using Crank on and off (mostly on) for about 9 years. I have paid the price in terms of evaporated grey-matter, depleted bank accounts (mine and several others), judicially-imposed restitution costs, and a host of bodily desecrations (too many to name without upgrading the megabytes on this account). I intended this post partially as a warning, because I know some of ya’ll dumb-asses will be in my shoes soon. Here is how I got roped into this shit.
The first time I fucked with Tina was after a New Year’s Eve party around 1998. I was hanging with a crew that had a great disdain for the law, other’s property rights, and responsible hygiene. We was partying hard at some Redneck sport’s bar with a couple of hoes. Sometime around 3 a.m., we decided we would jet downtown to procure some smoke. There was this happening gay club downtown called Honey for the Bears where you could score anything you wanted, including a Tyra Banks-lookalike tranny knob-slob in the third stall (Tyra would pitch a tent in her mini-skirt halfway through).
We all bailed up into the joint and I headed off to a back room where I knew where a ganja dealer named Bilbo conducted business. He wasn’t there, but a couple of fat bald-headed queens (sans their typical wigs) was sitting in the corner giggling. One of them had a big roll of flesh hanging where his head met his neck (kinda reminding me of unflattened pizza dough). The other priss-monkey had on 50 lbs. of cheap-ass costume jewelry and smelled like a fried turd slathered in Chanel No. 5 perfume.
I asked Pizza-Neck and Turd-Blossom where Bilbo was and they motioned me to sit down. The last thing I wanted was to get hooked up in some 3-way ball-tickling with a couple of tricked-up bears, but I needed my THC. Digiorno told me that Bilbo got popped for a failure to appear warrant and that he had taken over his business until he got back from lockup.
Next, he told me something that after hearing it, I should have exercised caution and immediately left. Digiorno told me he would smoke me out if I tried this special new shit from Texas that he had scored recently. Johnnypeepers (ever the eternal dipshit who throws life-sustaining caution and common sense to the wind) agreed to give it a try. He handed a fanny-pack to Turd-Blossom and we headed off to the pisser to fire that shit up. We went in the last stall, locked the door, and lit up a purple-colored 8-armed Vishnu glass-dick. I took a deep puff and remember feeling instant eye-popping exhilaration – kind of like being in one of them hang-gliders that hits a fast rising air-bank propelling you high into the dope-brained stratosphere.
I remember being in the stall with Turd-Blossom and feeling faint as a mofo. All I can recall is not wanting to pass out – because I knew TB would swab out my mouth with his man-meat if I went unconscious. Luckily, it did not come to that, and I regained my senses. I remember saying, “damn yo, I need a quarter of that shit.” TB said that I could get a gram of what he called “Tweak” for $120. Knowing that me, and what I had just smoked, needed to get to know each other better, I exited the stall and hit the ATM down the street to get the duckets.
When I got back to the booth, the queens was chilling out and eating a big-ass plate of nachos covered with jalapenos. I threw the bread on the table and Digiorno slipped a little packet in my front jeans pocket (making sure he felt the bulbous tip of my purple-headed warrior). I scooted the fuck out with the quickness and gathered up my peeps telling them that Bilbo got popped and the score was a bust. We cruised out after I complained that I needed to crash because my head was spinning from the tequila shots we had just taken. But in fact, I really wanted to fire that shit up again in the safety of my own confines with no interference. When I got home, I smoked three-quarters of the bag and passed out in the bathtub with the water running.
Hopefully, this before-and-after shot of a once respectable God-fearing American will act as a warning to those who are contemplating the trudge down my ill-conceived Crank-chasing path.
Is it that you hate this president or that you hate America? – Sean Vanity