Chasing the Dragon - 1,000 Words

Updated: Oct 22, 2019

Introduction –

Masked in pain, in the depths of glory. Shattered by a bullet train with no track. Alone. Withdrawals kicking in. I should be suicidal, but the madness is beautiful. These past two months have been beautiful. And now, I’m nowhere.

A Colt .45 in my hip with 4 Colt .45 bullet holes spreading open my thigh, the blood’s beginning to thicken, leaving my veins lonely and cold.

I don’t even know how long I’ll last. My best friend left me here for dead. I’ve gotta accept it. I’ve gotta try and keep myself together.

He’s long gone out of his own fucking selfishness to save me now.

He once told me “Make them laugh, then as quickly as you can, break their heart.” and that’s how all of this came about.

It’s crazy. It’s crazy while writing this. I’m only just starting to process it all as the words spill out.

Two months ago, my cocaine dealer showed up at my house (my parent’s Catholic household might I add) insistent that I owed him money, and my time.

His name is Ricky.

His demands mainly included going on a 5-person killing spree, lasting over two months. And by the grace of God we did it. The Devil’s work.

In this, a wonderland of hellish behaviour will unfold. But I have to warn you, after this, your conscience will become fractured, forever.

Welcome, to a story of the Born-Again Crooks, as much as I can get out till my time runs out.


Chapter 1 –

The Devil had made his nest in the both of us.

Two blows to the nose, a single Colt .45 softly rested by his waist, and a week’s supply of white jet fuel lying powdered in his sock.

“Alright Snow White, you had enough now?”was my daily mantra towards him.

His drug habit reeked worse than his abandonment issues.

My mind had dumbed itself down to a throbbing numbness you’d feel sick at. Mindlessly bored in the driver’s seat of a truck wasn’t how you’d imagine a killing spree to be, especially with my car’s radio consisting of excited puppy yelps created by an excited junkie.

Each morning brought bloodshot eyes, each night gifted opportunities for him to pour out his drugged philosophical babblings, disguised as questions of what my life means:


“Who do you listen to, your father or your pastor? What does shit like that come down to at home? When you fuck up and need advice, who’s right? Your dad, your pastor or your God? If you were to skin yourself, would that undo your christening?”


He was never aware he was asking these out loud, or even asking me them. He was either having a bout of existentialism towards his own life, or asking the Universe, whilst his mind floated through the atmosphere, leaving behind his body inside a Range Rover on Earth.

Luckily for me I’d done a Houdini and locked myself into a glass box of my own sobriety. Which at the time, was great, but it still meant I had to watch him crumble, refusing to shatter the cocaine cage life forced him into.

Imagine you are the mournful audience to an equally mournful theatre production. Except instead of cast members gleefully entering the crowd to participate with the audience, they’re begging you for their sanity back with a bloody nose.

That’s Ricky.

And that was me a week ago.

2 years of dipping into the coke waters had left my skin wrinkled, to say the least. The ecstatic highs with adrenaline bursting into your soul unannounced. The feeling that you could take on Tyson in the ring. Until a few hours later where you can practically feel the serotonin being sucked out your system by a vacuum, followed by the blood pooling into your brain, just so your anxiety can jump off the highest diving board in a belly flop.

All while your souls stuck there, mercilessly drowning in the deep end.

Oh, and your lifeguard?

More cocaine.

It amused him when I announced I was quitting. Gave him more quips.


“Comb.”

“Yes Sir”

“Gel.”

“Yes Sir”

“Hairdryer.”

“Hairdryer?”

“Hairdryer.”

“But I thought you’d quit blow?”


His humour softened each of our lives at the time to be honest. Especially with the Groovy Tony, the first one. Back when our body count was still 0. I knew mine was at least, for a few moments until Rick called up Tony’s two goons.

Asking the first triggerman, “Alright. Alright. One last thing before I go, how do you say, ‘Thank you’ in Italian?”

“Grazzia.”

“Good day?”

The triggerman proceeded to sigh, “Buona giornata.”

“Buona giornata, grazzia, my good sirs! Now, finally, how do you say ‘Goodbye’?”

“Ciao, you sniffiling fuck” The other pitched in.

“Say Ciao, Nate.”

The word stumbled from my lips, “Ci-Ciao.”

“Alright. Ciao gentleman! Buona giornata!”

BANG

BANG

Double pistols. Both henchmen dead, just like that. From powerful men, to objects laid in their own gore, lazed into the pavement.

Rick forced us to attend their joint funerals of course. From a distance, in our trusty wagon.


Chapter 2 –

Maybe we both needed an exorcism or something, a call to pest control for the demons and their heavy nesting place they’ve built on our shoulders.

At least I’m aware of their residence, Ricky’s probably had his since birth, so he’s never noticed the weight or what they’ve done to him. That there isa part of the human spirit who wants us to do good things for ourselves.

The inner 5 minutes of fame everyone has where we want to change the world, ‘till the nihilism kicks in and we don’t even want to change ourselves.

Even if he did realise the demons he carries within himself, he’d probably just wisecrack something out like;


“There’s a what inside me? I’ve got something called ‘addiction’ clinging onto me? What else? ‘Depression’? Inside my soul? And you’re saying they’re not paying rent? Living rent free in my body? How do I get the fuckers outta there?” And cackle.


He doesn’t even realise he’s addicted; he just thinks he wants to do it all the time because he thinks he still loves it. In his own words;

“It’s not addiction, it’s scheduled experimentation.”

He’s forever chasing the dragon, whereas I’m forever running from it. Both going round and round in circles together, meaning we end up in the same place.

The further we run, the closer we get.

In the same Range Rover, doing the same crimes, the same punishments, the same conversations of what life is, who God is, and how we can escape from ourselves.

Every day. Every night. In our own Houdini boxes, that will kill us both one day, if we don’t ourselves. Especially if I’m not already dying alone, with my final words escaping from the four bullet holes he’s left me with.

My fucking pens running out, you’ll just have to trust me.

We killed people. They deserved it. I was dragged into all of this; I may as well write it in my own blood if I’ve got any left. And if I make it out, I’ll finish this shit.

I’ll come back for her too.

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