The Prayer From Cell 145. . . .
Current mood:awake
It was November the ninth, 2002. I had been going without sleep at very unhealthy pace, and working all day as well, repairing Bunn brand slurpee machines; a rather interesting, and surprisingly difficult niche in the refrigeration industry. I had just scored big from my friend the Birch reduction king , and got the product uncut, as usual. Having just turned on a group of strangers-most of whom quickly hid themselves in different rooms of the house, I did my usual half gram blast, and felt nearly nothing. There was one fellow there, the only one I knew, and he locked himself inside of a bathroom, and refused to come out despite other folks asking him what the deal was in there.
After about fifteen minutes of not getting the rush that I was so used to I decided to do another half gram, and then hell, in all it's digital fury broke loose in my mind, truly, I saw images clearer than the monitor before me, and heard sounds and discussions, all gruesome, in greater detail than the tunes playing on youtube right here, and right now.
Everything was terrifying, and all the occupants of the house grew horns. I decided to take a walk, and this was a very bad mistake. Corpses hanging from trees, even when they are not truly there are not very nifty yard ornaments for a disturbed fellow to see. And when you walk around a Terrell, Texas neighborhood imagining death all around you folks start to notice you. Someone called the police.
When they arrived four two hundred pound officers, one on each side of me dived into me like linebackers. When my head bounced off of the pavement I did what any rational man would do and set one of their pants legs on fire with my butane torch lighter.
Cops don't generally approve of that sort of behavior, and so four two hundred pound officers of the law did the rain dance on my hands, but I didn't feel it, or anything then.
They threw me into the back of a brand new cruiser that hadn't had the reinforcement put into the glass yet, and so, having need of a breath of fresh air, I Kicked out the windows. Law enforcement officers, as a rule, don't approve of that sort of behavior either, and so they force fed me several cans of pepper spray.
Naturally, having only wanted to take a walk-I resisted the idea of the private cell that they wanted me to die in, and so I fought them for what was indeed a long time, I was told later that they shot me up with something, but I don't recall, and they failed to tell me what it was, or to care; police aren't typically certified for such things; irony, I know. When I got to my private cell I was wearing new clothes, a straight jacket and a helmet too. Being fashionably dressed, exhausted, and ramped up beyond my bodies ability to handle things-I could see that I was clearly about to die.
Truly, there was no way that I could arrange the jailhouse blanket with my feet, into an arrangement that did not look like the grim reaper, but what sort of bothered me more were the black misty shapes that were passing through the walls. I wasn't aware of how I was supposed to handle this sort of thing. I wonder what they had planned for me, were they hoping to frame it as a suicide, or just let Dr. Fortner call it exhaustion and cardiac arrest.
I asked a trusty outside the bean hole to please talk to me. He told me that I should pray. I had never considered that idea.
The first time I tried it it didn't work. The second time I emptied myself of all my hate, and came to truly regret all of the wicked things that I did on regular occasions. Strangely, and shortly afterwords I felt great peace, and was still very fucking high.
After about fifteen minutes of not getting the rush that I was so used to I decided to do another half gram, and then hell, in all it's digital fury broke loose in my mind, truly, I saw images clearer than the monitor before me, and heard sounds and discussions, all gruesome, in greater detail than the tunes playing on youtube right here, and right now.
Everything was terrifying, and all the occupants of the house grew horns. I decided to take a walk, and this was a very bad mistake. Corpses hanging from trees, even when they are not truly there are not very nifty yard ornaments for a disturbed fellow to see. And when you walk around a Terrell, Texas neighborhood imagining death all around you folks start to notice you. Someone called the police.
When they arrived four two hundred pound officers, one on each side of me dived into me like linebackers. When my head bounced off of the pavement I did what any rational man would do and set one of their pants legs on fire with my butane torch lighter.
Cops don't generally approve of that sort of behavior, and so four two hundred pound officers of the law did the rain dance on my hands, but I didn't feel it, or anything then.
They threw me into the back of a brand new cruiser that hadn't had the reinforcement put into the glass yet, and so, having need of a breath of fresh air, I Kicked out the windows. Law enforcement officers, as a rule, don't approve of that sort of behavior either, and so they force fed me several cans of pepper spray.
Naturally, having only wanted to take a walk-I resisted the idea of the private cell that they wanted me to die in, and so I fought them for what was indeed a long time, I was told later that they shot me up with something, but I don't recall, and they failed to tell me what it was, or to care; police aren't typically certified for such things; irony, I know. When I got to my private cell I was wearing new clothes, a straight jacket and a helmet too. Being fashionably dressed, exhausted, and ramped up beyond my bodies ability to handle things-I could see that I was clearly about to die.
Truly, there was no way that I could arrange the jailhouse blanket with my feet, into an arrangement that did not look like the grim reaper, but what sort of bothered me more were the black misty shapes that were passing through the walls. I wasn't aware of how I was supposed to handle this sort of thing. I wonder what they had planned for me, were they hoping to frame it as a suicide, or just let Dr. Fortner call it exhaustion and cardiac arrest.
I asked a trusty outside the bean hole to please talk to me. He told me that I should pray. I had never considered that idea.
The first time I tried it it didn't work. The second time I emptied myself of all my hate, and came to truly regret all of the wicked things that I did on regular occasions. Strangely, and shortly afterwords I felt great peace, and was still very fucking high.
~WTS~
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