NYC After Party= $30 Shake Down

10 Apr

I always figured moving to New York City, I’d see some crazy shit.  I have.  Absolutely.  No doubt this place finds the strangest things I could ever view, and plants them right in my personal bubble.

Before I go on some tangent, I’m getting good at finding people whom are going to ‘lose their shit’ before they actually do.  Generally, being in a subway tunnel or on the train itself.  Most Bus-People have it together.  Standing on the platform for the subway, I see people on ‘my-way’ side, and across the tracks to the other diving board.

I see the person twitch.  Pace back and forth.  He mummbles under his breath.  Yep, I’m on him.  I begin taking bets with people within arms length.  When will he snap?  Twenty before the train, five he stays after, another five if he boards.  It usually goes like this.

“Fuck trains and fuck you.  I’m sick of you playing my movies, my guitar and eating my sea food.  Ohh, go fuck yourself.”

If he boards, $20.

Mind you, no cell service below the surface rails.  Atleast, taking swings at the sweaty atmosphere are better than a full assault and battery.  Back to work, crazy man.  I saw it before it happened.  Seven minutes, I declared.  But, he boarded and I win.  I’m getting good at this.

“Fuck dice.”

$20 bitch.

This last week was pretty weird.  I had sobered up more, much more than usual in the last few.  I was having creeper memories of past mistakes.  I never thought I’d have so many.

How could I’ve done this to myself?  No worry, we’ll fix it tomorrow.

I’m in a bar in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn.  A place where Mike Tyson, Jay-Z, ODB, Biggie, and so many others were born and raised.  Mind you, I am very white.  Big mouth, that never closes.  Constant fear and constantly spitting bullshit, I have no right to spit.

I sat down at one of my local spots, where I’m loved by the bar-keeps and hated by the folks on my side of the plank.  Bad place to be.  Most people tend to think that if the service loves you, not matter the case, you are in good favor.

NOPE.

I grew up in Oregon.  Drugs are nothing new.  I grew up along the I-5 corridor.  Drugs are nothing new.  As a young man, and still to this day; I am a connoisseur of illicit substance and paraphernalia.

I attend a gathering with friends at a local dive.  Drug-fueled dive.

“Want to come with to another bar?”

“Absolutely.”

We arrived via cab to a bar of exquisite antique.  Very strange.  I fall on a motorcycle parked with kickstand next to the bathroom.

Confusion.  4 am.  Closing.

Got to leave.  Got the blow.  Got the weed.  Got the X.  Got the mush.

Let’s move.

Chapter 2

Freezing.  Literally, that cold.  We walked way with intent on the after party.  I’d never been to a NYC after-hours-party.

Five blocks later.  We see a giant Pollock, guarding a door.  I wonder why?  Everyone else in my Donner Party starts to question as well.

Private “Get-together,” says door man on the metal-clad stoop.  Stairs of injury on each step.

“$30!”

“GO FUCK YOURSELF.”

I lose half-team of thirsty bitch-bags.  They run.  THEY FUCKING RAN AWAY.

Fuck, should have known.

Now, standing in line to be frisked; I dive my illicit into my sock.  Arms out.  Can you swallow your whole hand?  No.  No, in a fist.  Nope.

In the party.  Weird.  Very weird.  Two ATMS are literally on the dance for.  Cords extended.  Fire hazard.  Cash only.  Eat my ass, $3 fee.

I flip off the bartender and get a free drink “because of my spirit.”  Jesus.  Fucking idiots.  Wait, I paid $30 to receive generous tithe.  Walk upstairs.  Cigarettes are allowed and abundant.  FUCKING GET DOWN.

Stumbled to the top.  “Fuckin’ right, John Mink’s here to party.”

Fucking concessions.  Stacked.  For real.  On the table though, of course, the menu sits.  Fucking Yin-ling, Bud, Budloser, and water.  All great sources of hydration.  FUCK.  Bottles out in the open and knowing I’m going to pay $11 for a shit beer.  Koreans.  Jews will kill ya during the day, Koreans in the produce aisle.

“How’s your hunchback mother doing?”  Fuck.  Wrong words.

“How’s your mother’s back?”  Fuck.  It seems like a ‘I fucked your Mom joke’.’

Not doing well.

Ohh, Gay Guy wants to battle in the dance world.  What you think of that?  This?  God damn it, Travolta.  Get real pants or fuck off.

I FUCKING WON.  Don’t care what he/she says.  I win.

Here comes the mushrooms……..

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