The Adventures of Crack Whores

It is my wonderful pleasure to have my very first guest post by the funny, mysterious, bug hunting David Stillwell. When I introduced him to my new blog idea, he jumped at the chance to share one of his funny rants. I think you'll agree - Crack Whores are worth ranting about. And laughing at.

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The Adventures of Crack Whores

Sacramento, Ca is not just the capital of California it happens to be where I live. I am not sure why I live here, maybe this is just where the truck ran out of gas and I have just never moved on from here. I live in a four unit apartment building on a street that is full of nice, well-to-do white people. You know the sort, happy little families with smiling kids and sidewalk chalk. That is except for the tenants in unit number 2, which happen to be dead beat, white, vampire types who snort lines of coke (not the soda) off of a behind the door Walmart mirror. You know the kind I mean. It is four feet tall and one foot wide.

These are the only people who have ever knocked on my door and asked for 1) cigarette papers, and 2) straight razor blades. Neither of which I happen to have on me dang it. In short, these are crack whores and why they live there I do not know. Perhaps a god wanted to educate me in the ways of sin and the sinful lifestyle, but I think he just wanted to reward me with free reality TV. The story that I am about to tell you happened several years ago and it is true.

Picture Sacramento, California on a Thursday evening. It should not be too hard, just pull up a blank page because there is SHIT to do here. I am in my unit just minding my own business playing XBox and just chilling. So most of you know what I mean when I say that when you play video games at 9 pm and suddenly you realize that it is now 2 am and you have no idea where the time went. Well, that was my night. I was startled out of my oblivion by a loud, manly and frantic scream of the word NO. You know, like when a mother sees her child run out in front of a car type of scream. Kind of raises the hair on your arms and you wonder if someone just died. This is followed by a women laughing manically.  Oh well, it  is 2 am so I do go bed.

The next morning or early afternoon when I get up and go outside I see one of the female crack whores sitting on the bottom stoop. I have to admit, I stare, because they are so unique. The Arian race wished they had skin this white. Her hair looks like it was done up in a concentration camp. It is somewhat matted, oily and it used to be dyed straw blonde but that has faded to this weird two tone mess that is not jet black on the top and nuclear glow white on the bottom. It's fried. She is fried. I don't really want to walk past because I know that other things live in her hair like some new species of flea or tick or lice that is adapted to live in nuclear waste. We will just call her Sarah Jean because, well that was her name. She thinks she is cool, hip and a trendster, but she smells and knows she smells because she sniffs her armpit.

She sees me and laughs which means she has a story to tell me. So I am like, what's up bitch, and she starts laughing. So I say, Was that you laughing like a crazy, flea infested, hooker with only twenty cents left and rent is due?  She does not do well with reality. So she tells me to fuck off, which really means she has something to tell me. So I tell her... Well, spit it out cause we both know you have something to tell me. So she spits. Literally. I hope it's not left over cum but then it probably is and I just have to remember to drop a bottle of bleach down the stairwell again.

She says, you heard me laughing last night? Yep, sure did. It was 2:12 am, and I was sleeping. We both know it is a lie because I don't lie very well, but she takes the invitation to spin her tale. She says, " They were all drinking and smoking pot when Lane, cause that is his real name decided that they needed some crack cocaine. He only has a bicycle so he heads off into the night on his bicycle to buy some crack. Mind you he is totally drunk and probably high on prescription meds, but still he is determined. I am not totally sure when one goes to buy crack at 2 or 3 am in Sacramento, but I am betting it is across the 16th Street line in midtown. That would make his bike ride about 12 blocks. She fills me in on the details which I have to admit caused me to laugh out loud too.

So drunk, white, high, bicycle riding Lane reaches his destination and precedes to enter into negotiations for some crack. I can only imagine that the conversation was Pulitzer prize winning in grade but then I delude myself into thinking that about everything. The reality is more likely a series of grunts and hand gestures, like Helen Keller trying to communicate with whatsherbucket before she has her epiphany. Dear, sweet Lane is offered a large white crack rock for $50 (US) and is overjoyed. It comes in a nice little baggie and he promptly shoves it up his asshole so that he does not get caught with it while riding his drunk ass back ten plus blocks on his bicycle. Did I mention that he is about 38 years old?

He arrives back at unit two  and precedes to remove the crack rock, baggie and whatever else is there from his anal cavity. Now, I'd just like to point out that the bastard just rode ten plus block on a bicycle with a crack rock shoved up his asshole. So, fade to the mirror scene. Remember the Walmart behind the door mirror? Well, that's now not behind that door and carefully arranged on the coffee table for the dissection of the Crack rock. That is when the Loud, death is approaching quickly male scream came into the scene. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO... he is trying to cut the crack rock with his straight razor blade but it wont cut. It wont cut. It won't cut, but he keeps trying... it wont cut. That is when reality bitch slaps him up alongside his cracked out, pain medicated, ugly assed, white face. He just spent $50 on a decorative white volcanic rock, that still had dirt on it. This is when the Maniacle laughter enters the picture, both Sarah Jean's and my own...

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David is an environmentalist, student, writer, gardener, and all around good time. When not trekking through the high lands and low lands of California in search of flora and fauna, David can be found writing at Sacramento Organic Gardening Examiner. That is, when he's not laughing his ass off at his crackhead neighbors.

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If you're interested in guest ranting, please feel to drop me an email with a short summary of your idea. I'd love to hear from you.