Jeramia Talkin

He was banging on the door of the crack house at 2 in the morning and no one was answering and there were boards in the windows and you could just barely see thepiss yellow light streaming out someof the cracks at the top of the boards where the boards din't quite fit in the windows.It was that cheap wood, the placard type shit theyusedtothrow uphovels along the railroad tracks where thebums could go inand shelter together, trying touse their body heat as their filthy stinking unbathed bodies pushed into one anotherin a crowded little shelter trying togenerate a little heat while the winds outside howled like wolf teethripping right through yourprotective epidermis, your inadequate coat and thepainfeltlike a sharpserrating bite that wouldn't letg,but kept rippig across the skin, staining its teeth red clutchung its teeth right on the bone whichit had rippedout of the body encasement.The wind waspure agony, unrelenting,pitiless agony, he knew well of this kindof abandonment wnere death seizes you and fills you to your deepest marrow with anguish but it won't show one hint of mercy and throw your ripped asundercarcass of flesh and body to the mob of rabid dogs and just give you the sweetestkissof relief and release and let your spirit or is it just your awarenessif there is no afterlife , release it from the flesh that clings to it and transmutes all the violating pain nature imposes onit til it races like poison into the unprotected soul.He knew well the anguish because he was deeply, convulsively in the thoes of that phsical anguish right now, he felt pain allthrough himand the demons of hellwere excreting out of his soul as it tried ineffectually to excrete the poison that was enteringin him without letting his souljust receive the blessed kiss that would sever it from the connection to the body and nature ad mortality, he had the need manandhe knew if he went in here , he owed about half the dealers who were sheltering up inside to escape the winter, it was not a night people wanted to stand on street corners all night, llof them had congregated in this section 8 welfare house, junkies have antennaes, and the wind would blow their way as the need gnawed through the bone and down to the soul and they'd make their way here, no need for the goodyear blimpto fly over, beeping neon lights advertising why the usual rock spots were nthing but desperate,barren windswept wastelands,word would get out, crack is a sellers market, you could hole yourself up in a barricaded fortress and junkies like rats would get in to cop, look at some of the shit they did to get the money to begin with. Junkies were like roaches, there are a trillion of them, you don't notice them in the underbelly of a city and when civilization collapses, they'll be the last ones left alive, if only on the basis of sheer numbers, a million guys with brooms could seepthemall in an Aushwitz pile and he wouldn't even make a dent in the population of them, They'll cause the cities tofall into ruins at the end and they'll be the last ones surving on the last subsistence,placenta of a doomed world, because what have they beensubsisting on all along and whoelse knows where the last remnants of survival lie once the storehouses are depleted. He had to go in this place because it was where every mother fucking pusher was holed up tonight.What heliked to do was buy on credit, burn a pusher, then never go around the territory thepusher ran,go to a whole other side of town where he wasn't known where he could talk some other damned fool who hadn't heard of himinto advancing him dope, he was good for it, and hope toGod the new pusher was eithr naïve or hadnever talked to any of the othermembers of the trailof scorched pushers his begging and not paing back had left hima target to through laser beamone track minds of people whose only interest in him was to squash him like the annoying assbitchbug he was like kock him down, put a pistol barrel right up against those rotting front teeth,let him snivel for about 5 seconds untilthe level of nausea in the pusher rose to excrusable height and the trigger was yanked back,blasting his mother fucking head to some goddamn place beyond recognition. Tonight virtually every pusher that wouldn't kill each other on sight because of beefhad takenrefuge in the unheated house and he had to go in because he needed so bad he was swooning, the craving was beyond all reason, it had to be, because half the motherfuckers cooped upin there had him on some bitch list to kill or beat senseless. Just his appearance would likely set it off with one and it be a stomping thenthe guns would empty open into
beaten carcass.Hell, even half delusionalhe knew this, but you buy the ticket youtake the ride. Besides he just got out of the hospital fom a od coma and here he was, I meanyou don't live forever right, you heard of suicide bycop, shit junkies never runoutof ideas, or drama and in this life taking the big risk is what its gonna eventually come down to.Cockroaches might inherit the earth, but every individual one is expendable. He saw the door open in front of him, his bad heart beat like anvils falling from the skies and there was somuch reefer smoke in there, the lights the electric company hadn'tturned off yet were apiss yellow smear seen through exhaled smoke. They were all sillhouttesin the smoke as he stepped across the threshold into the house he figured he'd die inpainfully. Bymorning, they'd find him
in the street and that guy with the broom would have toanswer the whistle again to sweep another dead cockroach into the mile high pile. Shit, was this humanities legacy.Was this its attemt tobuild a tower of Babel.What a fucking wrong ass mother fucking species this one was.