The Crack Homes

Oft used subtle phrase,
An answer, quandary solved
Mystery is hawt!

Check out my Bombayvideo at the bottom of the screen, then make one yourself and post, we'll vote on it and the winner will get a free date with Smeagol or Mystery, butt pleasures included! Or I will buy them lunch, either way...

The apartments: DUB Edition

Alright so soon after the "You Ligget Steve!" story, like everything else in life, my dad failed and lost his sweet apartment on Central Avenue, the one where you could get drugs, guns, alcohol and syphilis and still not have made it to the front door leading outside. JJ moved out and in with my mom, he had had enough, and dad and Janet moved to these 100 dollar a week apartments by the downtown airport, sadly kind of a step up from the previous place, though those apartments seem to breed crack smokers (you can interchange 'pole' for crack, it's the same thing), as was evidenced by the 3 or 4 propositions for blowjobs in exchange for the aforementioned commodity on my way to my dad's apartment during moving day. Let me explain: these "apartments" are essentially those hotel rooms the vilains plan their heist in in those really bad movies, the ones where it would actually be brighter in there if you turned on a blacklight from all the different kinds of semen implanted literally everywhere, at least that's how it smelled in there.

Anyway, things went on for awhile there, Dad engaging in cracketry, Janet strangely coming up with crack while he was at work all the time, and then it happened.

Dad had gotten a decent check from work, all of 300 dollars, and it was time to Par-tay! I heard this all second hand, but that, in this case, is better than being there because I would not have helped, I don't like to touch crackheads.

Dad came home with some rocks in a baggie, foolishly holding them in his hand instead of tucking them away under his shirt next to his heart like usual. Jenkins, which is the name I will give the smarmy crackhead who ran up and defeated my dad in a hurried bout of fisticuffs to attain the rocks he had used almost his whole paycheck to acquire, probably had been waiting in a darkened corner the whole time, trying desperately not to jitter and make a noise, possibly holding back some liquidy shit, kind of like Smeagol in a way (and yes people have asked numerous times, Smeagol does not smoke crack).

I came by later that day, as I had purchased his car yet again, and I was there to get the keys. Picture this with a dramatic musical score, not unlike an action sequence: I walk around the corner into the courtyard, Dad is standing in front of his hovel, wearing only tight faux-silk burgundy boxer shorts and house shoes, his pale skin and somehow obscene looking tufts of black hair glistening in the early summer sun with sweat, gently scratching his ass as he reads some book outside.

I try to be quiet, like a deer he will flee if frightened or surprised, and he had not answered his phone all day so I know he did not want to give me that car. WHOOSH! I yell out "Hey Dad!" and start towards him, a brisk walk bordering on a jog. He jumps a bit, and, seeing me coming, closes his front door and runs out of the courtyard toward his car, which I had not noticed until now was parked on the other side of the apartment complex from me. I start to run, but it is too late, the crack has given him the advantage and he is already in his car, starting it up and trying to run, the throaty V8 purring like a kitten as he guns it out of the complex. It would be the first time he has run from me rather than pay me, and would not be the last, though it was the last time he would be able to do it in a car fast enought to get away.... I will always remember though, the Crackhead in the Mist....