Cracking No Smiles

Crack. Mental Death. Takes your fucking life away so fast you don't know when it left or how. There's no camaraderie with this shit. It's every fucking man for himself.

Do you know how they got kamikaze pilots to fly their fucking planes into buildings and single people? They gave them speed. Methamphetamine. And suddenly they were insane people ready to die at any moment for some abstract cause that they didn't even really care about.

At least now with the suicide bombers they have a cause. They want to fuck the 73 virgins or whatever is waiting for them after they blow their precious bodies into little pieces in order to destroy whatever worthless crap happens to be within 25 feet of them.

But those kamikazes, they had no cause except fucking meth. Now I hear that governments are feeding soldiers Provigil, pharmaceutical grade methamphetamine, but not really telling them what it is, to make them better at what they do.

All the soldiers know is that it makes them feel like they're fucking Godzilla, so they take it. Fuck, I don't blame them, how the fuck else are you supposed to live with the stink of rotten death and the sound of women getting raped and their babies crying?

So the soldiers take the drugs and it turns them into supermen. And they fuck and kill all they want.

Here's what I do:

I come home on a Tuesday night, walk past the fucking street light that has fallen down on the corner and has been lying in the grass for the past two weeks.

This is the corner that must have been forgotten by the world because no one cares to even remove this hideous reminder of what everyone in this dreadful place has turned into. The whores just step over it on their way to the alley to get gang raped and choked and then kissed on the cheek by nigger after nigger after nigger. I step over it too. What the fuck else can I do? I'm not going to plant a fucking flower.

I climb up the dreadful dark staircase up to my apartment to reveal a dingy unwashed room. Filth. There is nothing more to do about this though. I continue to live in filth because that is where I belong. It means so little to me. Just like sex. And the filth consumes every facet of my life.

Six people are in the house. Tonight, for some reason, they are not their normal depressed, gray, fat-socket faces that I see every day. Today, they are jovial, interacting with one another. I don't quite understand it. They are not depressed and passed out on couches that are half eaten away by piss and roaches.

There are no dead raped rats flopped over garbage on the floor. Suddenly the meaning of all of this hits me though, and I realize what is going on.

Crack.

This house is cheap. And ugly. Gross. Pathetic. And less than nothing to me. Shit. Garbage. Small. Fat. Sweaty. Dark. It's so hard to convey. But why the fuck not smoke crack when you're here?

I try to stay away from crack because the last time I tried it, I found myself, after a binge, sitting on a piss-stained mattress, staring at a television and trying to forget that a greasy impotent scumbag that I have been avoiding for years has his tongue in my vagina and I am waiting for the five minutes to be up, so that I can have the two hits that he promised me after this horrible act of self sacrifice is done.

But then the fucker got up and belched into my face, blasting me with the smell of my own pussy mixed with crack mixed with a garlicky gyro from six hours ago. It wasn't humiliating, though it should have been.

Surveying the scene at home and thinking back on that, I seem to have forgotten for a quick second everything that is going on, waiting for that promise of my lips wrapped around that glass pipe for two more seconds.

I just sit and wait in my sleazing, belly-mulching existence. I smell death, but forget about it. This has happened before and I'm not unfamiliar to it. It'll happen again too. It's fine. I am a beautiful girl, and people don't know about this. And what the fuck do I care if they do. So I'll tell them all. Promise of this feeling for free is worth it. The feeling that nothing exists anymore, and I can be in any place at any time and be perfectly content with it.

War. Decay. Disease. Filth. Darkness. Dirt. Garbage. Foulness. Impurity. Violence. I understand a kamikaze pilot. I understand suicide bombers. I understand doing everything and not caring.

I let the crack-doling creep stick his asshole in my face and my fingers digging shit out of him. Digging. I look at my shit-smeared knuckles and shit-stained forearms and I hear all his bends and grunts and growls and I feel a liquor-soaked need to plow in deeper and deeper until I pass out with the hot mess on my chest, along with his wrinkled dick and collapsed balls amid the hot morning flies and roaches.

It's good. It's okay. Everything is.