Note:It would have been fun in the seventies..


They lie in a haze of smoke. Ashtrays brimmed with cigarettes and old joints littered the tabletops and floor. Smudges of week-old ash covered the simple décor; battered gray table and cracked picture frames on the walls were covered in a dark luster. Along the carpet in scattered rows were the leftovers of burnt candles, the wax taking residence in the carpet.

The hero of this story was stretched long on the only piece of actual furniture in the room. His hair was the color of the orange upholstery, a bleached and perfected white trash stereotype. The other, the client/dealer, was half on the floor with legs crossed together, and half on the couch with his head in the hero's lap. The hero, who's name was currently Jason at the client's request, mechanically stroked the older gentleman's head.

Such a situation as this was habitual for them, and more often than not they would come across each other thus: Jason, real name Ashburn, realized at half past midnight that he couldn't stand life anymore, and having no money on his person, for spending was one of his weaker traits, came tapping on Peco's door. Peco was in no condition to lend perfectly good toot to Ashburn, no matter how hard he argued that he wanted to die, so he proposed that Ashburn do his line from the space between Peco's ass and withered dick and they would call it even.

And although both humans weren't on the most friendly of grounds, they both held similar shame; track marks along each arms, various decay in their noses so that when they blew hard a faint whistle could be heard, and assorted bad coughing spells. In a way their malady was beautiful, their motions played again like a bad cassette that one couldn't stop listening to because they were the band of the moment, the in and now of the times. Whatever that meant.

Ashburn concentrated on the ridiculous rush that spread through his body, and not the greasy hair he kept touching. At least now he knew that no more sexual acts were to be performed, for cocaine was the nectar of middle-aged pro-rights and stereotypical lesbians, the nectar of impotency.

His fingers began to twitch and drum on the back of Peco's head as he butters his hand with Negro-wax. The peak was now.

PEAK.