Writing & Writers

When God Was One of Us

It’s like Tourette’s for the soul. Three cigarettes down and kilo of blow, the party was only getting started. Henry, we called him Henry then, stood plastered against the wall. Typical wallflower, Henry was. Always smoking his long, skinny joints. Sparked up and ready for some thrill or another, while the girls eye-fucked him from across the dance floor. Girls stapled themselves to his sack since we was kids, Henry and I. Flaming fucker never gave them time of day, if you know what I mean. Never even as much of a lick. Flick that little nub. Girls liked shit like that, you dig me? But not Henry. Henry was too busy taking care of his needs first. Fucking, nah man. Not for him. Henry liked drugs. Drugs and more drugs. If you had drugs, he might give you a little attention. When they was gone, though, you better sure as fuck be interesting. Henry didn’t dig boring.

“Hey, Mackie,” he shouted from across the way. “You looking for some of the little red pills? My brother’s got a prescription, man.”

“You want me back off the floor?” I called back. “These ladies are pretty lonely. You wanna help me keep them company?”

“Nah, man. Fuck ’em skags. Let’s blow this joint.”

“That’s pretty much the idea, man.”

“You take your chances, then, Mackie. I’m out this bitch like a cancer patient.”

Kelly and Cassandra, the names of the girls. Blonde and red, like a fucking wet dream. I left them standing afterward. Had to follow Henry. Henry and his goddamn junkie habits. La Rue was three streets down from the actual club district. Sorta secret cavern for the kids who weren’t into the shit spun in the hip hop houses. No dance or drum and bass shit. Pure fucking music  is what we called it. Music to fuck to. Music to get fucked to. Music to wake up the next morning and not caring the skag next to you, just as long as your pole was taken care of. Am I right?

Henry was already chatting some heifer up. Good shit, too. Dime bag in hand, we head toward our next destination where Flick and Sheila were reading. Flick popped some pills or some shit. He was rock hard and ready for a go, but Sheila wasn’t having none of it. Better things to do, yeah? No surprise, really, when she hopped into Henry’s arms.

“Ready to fuck, are we?”

“Bet your sweet ass, I am,” she said.

“I got me some pills.”


“Come off it, Mackie, I don’t tell you everything.”

“I’ve enough,” Flick said, wagging his damn bone hips. Chuckled something horrible. “It’s pure anarchy in my pants.”

“Better find you a skag, then.”

“I had two back at La Rue. You should meet them.”

“Fucking skags ain’t touching this bone meat.”

“Are we really having this conversation?” Sheila, the lovable pill popping, booze bitch. “Or are we gonna have us some good time, roll about?”

“Four’s a crowd,” I said.

“Nah, Mackie. Four’s an orgy.”

4 thoughts on “When God Was One of Us

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