I responded to screaming from outside. When I looked off the deck there were two men on the north side of Division on the sidewalk. One in the street. We'll call them Les Trois Mousquetaires, or maybe just The Three Musketeers, since none of us are cheese-eating surrender monkeys. The one in the street, Athos, was on a Rascal mobile device, typically used by the handifat, though our protagonist was 130lbs wet and wearing moon boots. The heroine of our tale, Aramis, was standing on the sidewalk making noises that I could only equate to an elephant being put down with a fucking razor blade. As Aramis was going through various bodily convulsions, constantly hitting himself in the leg and back with his right arm, bending into shapes a contortionist wouldn't dare, and wailing the wail of one of those Iraqi women on TV after an heroic American drone plane mistakenly drops a daisy cutter on her granddaughter's wedding. Our third Mousquetaires, Porthos was screaming at Aramis for losing his shit in the middle of the street. Athos could only drive his rascal around in circles, stopping mid-day traffic and crying like a little bitch. Athos was never one for high-pressure situations. Aramis had dropped various contraband on the sidewalk during his interpretation of "Black Swan". Porthos, cool as a cucumber, continued to berate Aramis for cracking (double entendre much?) up as he quickly scooped the contraband from the sidewalk. From my 6th floor vantage it appeared a bag of drugs, a wallet, a gun and perhaps a paperback companion copy of "For Whom the Bell Tolls". Porthos the wise then spirited the items west on Division Street as he astutely surmised that uniformed bring-downs of some sort were surely to arrive. As Porthos made his break Athos gave chase on the Rascal, continuing to shout the shout of the damned and drive in the middle of Division like a snake with a broken back. Aramis was left to battle his invisible demons alone. I yelled from the balcony unto Athos and Porthos, "What the fuck happened to all for one and one for all, you assholes?". But when you are higher than 10 kites and staring a come-down at Cook County Jail in the face, shit breaks down. Poor Aramis, he fought the good fight and hit himself another 20 times before succumbing to his formless attackers and falling to the sidewalk. He continued to writhe, flail and wail on the sidewalk as passersby chose either to give wide berth or stand and stare from afar as though they were watching a really despicable act being performed at a sex club in Amsterdam, yet couldn't avert their gaze. As I left the balcony (mostly due to Aramis being now 90% shielded from my view by a tree branch) I knew the sage wisdom imparted by Rick James was certainly true, "Cocaine is a hell of a drug".
So former Cabrini Green neighborhood crack dealer, this Bud's for you! How do I sign up for a hit of this magic crack? It looks fun as shit. I have no idea why you wouldn't do it???
***Seriously though brah, might want to dial the ether and pcp dosage in your tincture down a notch or two. People are going to start snapping their own fucking spines trying to escape their buzz.
This is your ticket! You should become the Jane Goodall of the crackheads. Observe them and learn their ways so you can go live among them and study their social dynamics...publications, a book, and I daresay a movie are in your future.
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