Shit coke don’t kill my vibe
Welcome to the Show
It’s Sunday morning: Again.
I’m struggling to breathe. This time it’s shit stuck in my nose somewhere just out of finger range — even the little one. It probably had something to do with the half bag of the ultra-low-quality-substitute cocaine I had last night. This is definitely fucking up the good and honest work of my respiratory system. I’m sure what I snorted was cocaine — once. I’m not so sure when it stopped being cocaine and when it just started to be cutting agent. If your face is numb, does it even fucking matter anyway?
A street chemist (I’m using the official name at the request of their union) is like a modern day Christ — Watch as I cut the drugs and make the purity disappear. Under no illusions that our local Christ could deliver us nothing but shit, we call anyway.
Pros (Couldn’t see any cons.)
- It costs $200 a bag.
- It’s $100 cheaper than anything else.
- It costs $200 a bag.
- He delivers.
- $200 is easily divisible.
Plus, the substance is strangely moreish — this is another big factor in the decision making process. Synapse and neural pathways formed long ago go off like Chinese New Year at the mention of another high.
The dealer sends out group messages every couple of weeks. I’ll be lying in bed, running or driving — something un-cocaine related — and I’ll get a text asking me if I want ‘tickets to the rock-show’.
My friend sends him a text while we’re at dinner in the city, which was Japanese and it was delicious by the way, and the Saturday-night-road-warrior-cocaine-dealer comes and meets us by the time we walk to the party at a pub in Surry Hills. Inebriation of equal parts booze and Show. A half heated attempt at a dalliance with a hot ex-co-worker. Salacious entry denied (a problem always solved by hand) and too drunk to get into the next pub.
Cocaine in Australia is a bit of a wonder: Where does it come from and how does it get here? What is this super-mother-fucking-expensive white powder in this shitty little bag? I don’t care where our Street-Christ gets his shit from. At $200 a pop there’s a tacit agreement that you get what you’re given, and as long as the white powder at least makes you go numb and gives you a little kick, business will continue and everyone is happy and conjecturally high.
From time to time friends claim that they can see dealers ‘chipping it off the rock’. Does this mean that this person is getting their cocaine direct from the importer? I think not. The person he gets it off probably has the capacity to repress the product into blocks once it’s been cut with whatever, and then they hand it off to the next guy down in the dealer chain. When it finally ends up on the streets of Sydney, and someone gets a rocky bag, a.k.a the MotherFuckingRockShow, their either getting a high purity product or their getting shit that’s been repressed. Either there is a lot of cocaine making it into Australia or Office Works does a roaring trade on pressing machines. I don’t know, but I think the latter — Most people can’t tell the difference anyway.
Blessing in disguise. The Clock toilets probably wouldn’t have been the choicest place for the Show to go down anyway. Semi-early night made possible by Wayne. Early rejection stopped me from making a further disgrace of myself in public. That’s a privilege reserved for my “friends,” and for Wayne and Candy. They’re the two who see me at my most fucked up / worst / brilliant.