Perc 30s N' Piss

      It's time to get vasodilated! Today my boy got more of the pressed 30's I'd been asking about since Tuesday morning. I say asking — I was a menace; texts every half hour and calls to my other niggas to see if they copped from him and he just wasn't telling me he re-upped out of spite.

      I'd often fall into the delusion that the dope man purposely stopped responding after becoming annoyed with me blowing up his phone. A short walk away from that delusion was the truth that he needed my money and I needed those pressies, those M-Box 30's that wouldn't break in half right when you tried to crush em', those fake boys that felt grainy and had specks all over them  like little whiteheads, little spots of fentanyl you tried to mix up evenly when you were ready to snort so you could get somewhat of an even dose, those heavy-eyed sleepy daydreams that smoothed out my mania, changing my thinking from "I'm going to save the world!" to "I'm going to save the world...but not right now." Those dick-breaking no nut busting constipated puking til-you're-just-puking-stomach-acid beauties; the thing that made life worth living again.

      "30s in!" The text reads and in a flash I'm running to grab my coat and keys. I think, 'I hope I don't get hit by a car and can't cop.' it's a silly thought but all manner of worry inevitably strangles me every time I'm about to grab, I'm the most mentally unwell right when I'm about to get good again with my thoughts vacillating between the pleasant idea of getting high and the murky mind-ghosts of somehow fucking up the meet.

      I thought about him getting shot again, maybe this time with something bigger than a .22 this time, him laying on the stretcher right as I arrived to cop and telling me with his dying breath "Sorry nigga, shit happens." I'd watch with torture in my eyes as he placed the last ten blues in his pocket and was lifted away in the ambulance.

      But, fortunately, none of that happened. I arrived, dapped him up, passed him the money and pocketed the blues. "You sure you don't just want this fetty bro?" He'd ask, he'd always ask. He never ran out of straight fetty like he ran out of the pressies but I had fallen in love with the lie, the lie that I was just fucking with Percs and not no REAL dope, no, no heavens no never touch the stuff thank-you-very-much. Deep down we both knew I couldn't afford the pressed jawns for much longer, fetty was the economical option, and I'd proved to him time after time that I was a nigga hurting financially.

      I hit a cut on the main thoroughfare, parked, and crushed up one-and-a-half M-Boxes. "Holy shit these niggas don't even try no more ." I thought, noticing the ease at which the pills gave up their facade and resolve to powder.  Line one, snort, line two. That bitch light shining through the windshield gained a glowing iridescence, draping it's golden light over my face like a warm sheet, teasing me with a finger dragged from my chin to my bellybutton, filling me with the knowledge of God himself and I swear I felt him whispering to me, showering me in a prelapsarian bliss where I hadn't committed the original sin after all. I caught myself in the mirror, eyes glazed with a satisfied grin on my face. "I need a haircut." I thought.

      I pulled into the parking-lot of the barbershop 'Ace of Fades' and, after tooting another line, entered. Big Momma's house played on the TV as I sat in the chair, it seemed so goddamn funny so I kept chuckling to myself. One of the stockier barbers noticed my dope giggles and shot me a look, a look that I met with a sincere grin and head nod.

      After five minutes with my back to the wall, head being propped up, I was out, silently snoozing. Ten minutes passed — hand on my shoulder — "You good?"  I sit up from my slumped posture and respond with something unintelligible and within seconds I've drifted back to dreamland. "Yo, my nigga what is you doin'?!" An angry voice groans, snapping me out of it.

      "Look what this nigga done did!" A second person chimes in; something was definitely happening. I felt damp between my legs and an audible dribble of piss was making its way from my leg to the floor, a puddle had begun to form and my ass and thighs were soaked in wetness.

      "You got to go, brotha." The elder voice says. A chorus of laughter begins from those cutting hair and those getting their shit cut. I stand up, irritated at my incontinence and start apologizing. "My bad my bad I'm sick, I got the flu." I said, removing my jacket. I grow more embarrassed as I use the letterman jacket's sleeves to ineffectually wipe up the mess.

     "Nigga you high, we seen't you nodding off!"
Says the younger man next to me — he looked built and carried a mean expression.
I felt the embarrassment rise, and upon hearing his words I grew defensive. "Who high? On God I'm sick and I'm sorry for what I did but—" I began to say before I was interrupted by the same young man. "Nigga you STANK can we PLEASE get this man outta here?"

      The hard pronunciation of 'stank' seemed to make everyone laugh, I became incensed at this and started to boot up. I toss my piss soaked letterman to the floor with a 'plop' and got in dude's face. "Bro what's good you talkin' hot!" I said, getting near to his face.

      "Back your pissy ass up before I knock you out." He responded. At this point, the two older barbers had begun making their way towards us, but it was too late. I stepped forward and swung, a right cross, it was elegant except for the fact that my front foot had landed directly on the piss-soaked letterman causing it to give-way under my footing. As my body turned and I lost control of my balance, I swung my body towards the man, missing him completely with my punch, and landed on both the jacket and puddle of piss.

      Amid a cacophony of laughter I felt blow after blow land as the young man punched me, violently jerking my head backwards as I clawed for something in reach to pull myself up. I tried to grab the young man's leg, heard him say "Fuck off me nigga!" as he kicked me in the face.

      I grabbed onto his leg once more, pulled myself up, grabbed the jacket and hobbled out of the barbershop. "C'mom Ty leave that man alone Ty!" I heard as I exited, I felt a fear of being kicked again as I clumsily made my way to my car.

      I entered, panting, clawing through the letterman's pockets to find my bag of pills. The bag was soaking wet with urine and the pills had dissolved into a mushy paste of blue and white powder. Dejected and near tears, I opened the bag, swallowed the powder — piss and all — and drove home.