The Road

There is a place not far from here, anywhere, everywhere, somewhere, and nowhere which has a very dark road.
This place is a very lonely place, and the road that exists in that horrible place is one of pain and suffering.
This dark road is littered with the shards of broken promises, shattered dreams and dashed hopes.
The road is paved with the tears of those that travel its expanse.
On that road walks a man. A man who is alive but really dead, while his back is ramrod
straight his spirit is bent and misshapened.
Outwardly he looks happy but in reality he is pathetically sad.
He is or was a good man.
This man is besieged by demons or maybe himself.
Demons harass, nibble and mark this man with their claws, he is bloodied, but he trudges slowly forward.
This man's journey started off innocently enough, but its course and purpose have changed during the years.
The road has taken him through many valleys. Some were beautiful while others were barren, desolate, and ugly, just like his soul.
The man delingently walks the road like a robot. He cannot help himself. He is being pushed by the demons that heckle and beguile him.
The man looks ahead and sees that his journey is almost at an end.
The road abruptly ends onto a precipice.
He approaches the end of the road and looks over its edge. It is very high.
The wind whips up from the bottom of the precipice and along with it; it brings the sad wailing sounds of hopelessness and abandonment.
It is an erie siren song that is heard by all, ignored by many, and danced to by the few.
It is but a butterfly's whisper on the ears.
The man stands on the edge and  knows that all he needs to do now is take one more step.
Just ..one ..more..little..step.

His Dumbass and her Raggedy Panties

Baton Rouge Louisiana was in itself an interesting experience. The climate is mild, somewhat rainy but good enough, if you are homeless. The people there are very friendly and food for the homeless is readily available. Their state bird should be the Mosquito, but who am I to question these things. Their state moto is “Sportsman Paradise” because of all the different types of available hunting. Louisiana is a state that believes in its right for citizens to bear arms. So if in Crack City the weapon of choice was the knife here, the gun reigns supreme. Now when we talk about knife fights, that usually means you will get cut or stabbed and then (hopefully) make with a hasty retreat, while on the other hand, with a gun the odds are greater that you will end “pushing up daisies” Louisiana is a beautiful place but if you don’t play your cards straight you will definitely find yourself maimed or six feet under as you will see. Now the crack here is sold in little plastic or glass vials. The length of the vial dictates how much you are spending (the bigger the vial the more crack you get). The cocaine is still in it’s the rock form. You get Crack but, not as much for your dollar as in Crack City,USA. Here in this town your concern is not only what you get, but can you walk away (alive)? The likelihood for violence is very high. This is due the paranoid state of those who both use and sell crack. So as any town I’ve ever been to, “when in Rome do as the Romans do”. I immediately went to the pawn shop and made it so that I too had a handgun. I bought a “Norenco” nine millimeter, a Chinese handgun that was thin in its girth so as to facilitate its concealabilty. I am now ready to buy and smoke my drug of choice with a fifty – fifty chance of survival. As any one who makes a living with a firearm will tell you, it’s not always “how good you are” but “how fast are you?” I know it sounds like the “Ole West” but believe me; it is the difference between life and death here in “Sportsman Paradise.” This particular “reality” was made “crystal clear” to me when on one hot and humid Louisiana night, I observed a gentleman stop his car by a corner phone booth. He was finely dressed; he had on a very nice and somewhat expensive suit. If I remember correctly, I think it was on a Friday. In the shadows unobserved by this man was a neighborhood thug, who now started to creep up on him while he was on the phone. As the gentleman turned his back to place his call he was assaulted by the thug who thrust a 38 derringer into his face. I was across the street so I could barely hear the interchange between the two but I imagined that the thug then asked him for his wallet. The gentleman made as if to go for his wallet but quickly (to the shock and horror of the proposed stick up man) pulled out a large automatic handgun and proceeded to empty his clip into the would–be thief. The thug was shot in the face and upper torso. He was dead before he hit the ground. The victim panicked and quickly jumped into his car and with a loud and smokey squealing of tires, sped away. The gunshots attracted those of the neighborhood who came out and started to rummage through the pockets of the dead man. They left untouched the 38 derringer which lay by his side. It was common knowledge to those who knew this man that the derringer did not work, what a waste of human life. At least his torment and sufferance were finally over. The shooter turned himself over to the Police two days later only to be found justified in the killing. Crack addicts lived all over Baton Rouge, some in their own homes and others in abandoned houses that were referred to as “abondonimiums.” It was in one such house that I met this young beautiful girl who offered to smoke and do “whatever” with me but only if I went to her house. I followed this shapely woman through the dark streets until we came up to what seemed to be a housing project. There were people of dubious character milling about all over the place. I could see the tell-tale flicker of lighters in the shadows which let me know that some of them were smoking crack while others were trying to sell it. I continued to follow my shapely guide through a narrow walkway and finally through a courtyard which lead us to the front door of her apartment. Once in the apartment she turned around and removed her top exposing her breast, she got on her knees, pulled my member out of my pants and started to slowly blow me. While she was sucking me in the living room, I lit up and let the rush of the Crack engulf me. The immediate rush of the drug and the wetness of her mouth around the shaft of my dick were the makings for an exquisite sensation. She got up turned her back to me and slowly pulled her jeans off. She then bent over and ever so slowly started to pull off her panties. It was then that I noticed that even though her panties were clean, they were ragged and full of holes; I could see her pussy lips through some of the larger holes. I don’t know how other men feel about this, but to me there is something very sad about a woman with ragged panties, but then again I’m not here to play “Panty Police”. I just came here to fuck, smoke and get a nut. She turned to me and stated that we would be more comfortable in her bedroom and asked me to follow her. She led me to her bedside and instructed me to lie down on her bed. I noticed her blankets piled up in a heap by the corner of the bed and grabbed them to make more room. To my surprise, there were two kids asleep huddled together under the blankets. This situation I recognized immediately. When addicts find themselves in situations that are beyond their control they start to make allowances, they tell themselves that some things are all right. You repeat this often enough and you start to believe it. Repeat your Mantra often enough and the unacceptable is now acceptable. Once I noticed the children, all sexual desire was extinguished. I guess it was an attack of whatever morals I had left. I then looked more closely at this young lady’s living conditions. The apartment was sparsely furnished, the mattresses were on the floor, and there were empty packs of “instant noodles” (the crack addict’s main staple) strewn about the area… The squalor was now very obvious to me. There she was, ragged, holy panties and all, on her knees with her back to me, ass high in the air, waiting for me. To her it was perfectly all right to get fucked next to her sleeping babies, just as long as we were quiet. I wondered how many times she said that to herself before she really believed that. That’s how insidious this drug addiction is, it will ply you with lies just as long as you succumb to it. You will be seduced with promises of good times and sex. This was and still is not my style. I gave her ten dollars, instructed her to buy a pair of new panties and vacated the premises post haste. I would satisfy my animal lusts elsewhere’s. “Never say never” is a saying that I heard often enough in these circles, this was a perfect example of that. I’m sure that when this young lady first started to get high, she never imagined herself with ragged panties and with her ass up in the air, trying to get “one more hit”. Nor do I think that my thug friend thought he’d end up lying on his back, on a concrete sidewalk with his life’s blood spilling onto the gutter. Unfortunately what we wish and what ultimately becomes our reality are two different things. Take these two poor souls, add mine and the many more out there who suffer on a daily basis and what you get is Hell on Earth. You have no idea what anguish, pain, frustration, and hopelessness feels like through the life of an addict. The misfits, the unwanted and unwashed. We are the invisible people you pass on the street. You see us but then again, you don’t. Not your problem you say? Hmm, do you really think so? Some of you might say “You chose to do drugs so you deserve what you get or you have made your situation what it is”. I will tell you all that addicts are MADE! We were addicts long before we used for the first time. I was made into what I am. YOU! out there could at this very moment be making your very own addict. A future “Sidewalk Soldier”, a “Concrete Commando”. One more lost soul to be added to the Devil’s coffers.

Hopes

Well, I hope that these stories have helped someone out there. If anyone needs any help, drop me a line.
Much Luv,
Azuzu