1-23-19 Howzitgoin everybody?
You know you've gone a lil too far when you turn on the local news and featured on the segment called "U.S.Marshal's Most Wanted" happens to be someone on your speed dial.
Last week I had an unexpected house guest for a couple days. I fear Fat Jack ain't long for this world. One of my dealers, Fat Jack (which distinguishes him from two other dealers also named Jack) has the misfortune to be a slave to his own merchandise.
When you wanna go shoppin for your tombstone at Fat Jack's you ask him if he's got tar and if he answers yes then you know he's flush and you'll come away with some fairly righteous street-ready product, but if he's outta tar you know he's runnin lean and steppin on it like crazy cuz he's in the red and once again fallin short of meetin his obligations to some serious wholesalers whose patience with him is also runnin lean, and so unless you want product that's 90% cut you steer clear of Fat Jack and move on to the next Jack on your list.
I've watched him spiral steadily deeper down into his disease (which happens to be my disease too) over the past couple months and it's like when you come upon the scene of a horrific car accident and you find yourself inexplicably drawn to look at what you know you don't wanna see. The other night I found him sittin on my toilet. He was noddin, slumped over, his soiled underwear down around his ankles, and a point hangin from the side of his neck like a poison dart, and the contempt I feel for this poor bastard doesn't mask the uneasy feelin in my gut like I'm Ebenezer Scrooge presented with a glimpse of what his future holds in store for him.
Fat Jack is the gambler who's so far into his bookie that he can't even cover the interest on his debt, much less service the principal. With his line of credit cut off he's gotta pay cash up front for product he's gotta have in order to recoup the loss caused largely by his own insatiable appetite, so he does what anyone in his shoes would do. He comes home from the grocery store with a one-pound bag of brown sugar, heats it up until it turns into a sticky dark brown goo, fills up a couple dozen one-gram baggies to go, and sells them to his "occasionals" as righteous tar, a strategy that succeeds in gettin him off the hook and back into the good graces of his suppliers, but has also gotta whole posse of pissed off Mexican bangers with neck tattoos cruisin the neighborhood lookin to put his head in a sack, his long-sufferin wife and two lil crumb snatchers movin back home with Mama, and his worthless ass poundin on my door at 11:30 at night desperately seekin shelter from the storm.
I'm no angel and Fat Jack ain't no friend. Even tho his predicament don't mean shit to me, I scraped together enough coin to placate the "occasionals" and persuade them to lift the death sentence after three nights and two days of him camped out in my front room, smokin my ciggs, smokin my weed, fuckin up my toaster oven, and eatin all of my frosted strawberry poptarts. He's fully aware that my hospitality comes with a price and that I didn't run interference for him with the customers he hustled outta the goodness of my heart.
Fat Jack and his family are back in their apartment and it's bizness as usual except he dropped by my place last night with three grams of decent jalle, roughly ten percent of what I hadda pay out in order to set things right with the "occasionals" so he could safely return home to his apartment.
Now the blue bonnets will be in bloom by the time I gotta worry bout gettin sick again but every battle I win only makes it so much easier for me to ignore the stone-cold hard fact that I'm losin the war against my own disease and I wonder how long it will be before I'm found sittin in my own filth with a spike in my neck, my tombstone paid in full