Saturday, May 31, 2008

CRACKED (Chapt 21)

Drinking boose in a sauna will get you alot drunker than normally, same as drinking in the sun on a hot summer day, just as well as drinking on an empty stomach or early in the morning. Same applies to taking drugs- there is the ass kicking morning joint, for example. The one you smoke, still half asleep, having found the one that you`ve prepared the evening before or rather collapsed, before having a chance to light it.
 You crush back in your bed and stare in a daze at the TV, letting the thoughts flow and  a nirvana-like feeling spread through your body. As it is usually with the drugs it`s a fleeting feeling, soon replaced with numbness and unbelivable tiredness. So I usually took a morning nap, to wake up for another “first” joint of the day. So it went. I was so tired, after months of smoking non stop, that making a trip to the bathroom or to the fridge became an act of heroism and had to mentaly prepare myself prior.  So I lied there, in my bed, staring at the miriad of different cooking and travell shows and hoping for someone to dropp by with a snack. Third joint of the day didn`t however quite do the trick and had to be enhanced with akohol.
I was collecting wellfare for quite a while then, topping the checks with borrowed and donated  cash. I was still recieving drugs for free from friends, riding out my old dealers reputation. My apartement was beginning to look like a beer factory hit by a tornado, with hardly any free floor space left, being covered in daily delivered beer cans and boxes, still the shithole that I lived in was a popular place to get high amongst my old buddies and even my girlfriend was still tolerating all that, being inlove, or as she put it later: “I was clinically insane”. 
I managed to present myself as a fun, sociable character even then, however alone I longed for the good old days, when I could feel, get high, enjoy the summers and even had a job.
The work was stupid, something that meny of the Swedes have gone through. Packing, collecting and managing orders of some merchendise and driving a truck. I was excelling at it, working with an allmost manick tempo, partially thanks to heavy doses of the synthetic heroine, I was snorting in the tiolet. Before and directly after the work I was inhaling a littre of putrid 10,5% beer. It seemed as the fastest way to get drunk, without overgoing to the swadowy territory of hard liquor as well as avoiding the hangovers. 
Combination of drugs, boose and hard labour hit me hard with my first seisure, similar to an epileptic one.  I awakened on the concrete floor of the storage room, staring at the abulance personell with my hair and face sticky from my own blood.
- Sociall security…. What is your sociall secutity number, pal?
The words ment nothing. I didn`t know who, what , why or where I was, for about 15 minutes after. 
Two more seisures followed one another. I realised that the next time it was going to happen while driving a truck, probably causing someones death or hundreds of thouthands in damaged equipement, so I quit.
Having stayed in bed for the whole following summer, I often remembered the days, when drugs were still a way to get kicks, not just a way to make a day fly by.
I`ve snorted coke atleast 15 times, before starting to realise it`s full potentiall. My first encounter was meeting my best friend to be. He was still high on the cokaine, when I`ve met him, yet crushing down at the idea of not having anything left. I was a new guy in the group then, unable to speak Swedish, however getting by on my English. The guy amased me, talking in rhymes. He was freestyling rapping fluently, asking me for my name and talking about getting one more fix. 
I realised that Cokaine puts the mental resources into overdrive. I just had to try. My new friend showed up to be a tuff one- soon he came by my place, with some coke. Hardly standing on his feet, he pull up a gun, put it against my forhead and started mumbling something. I looked at him and smiled, untill he put the piece down and started laughing. He sobered up conciderably after snorting a couple of lines, while I still was just not getting it.
Nothing happened. But then again, even the speed balls (injection of the cokaine- heroin mixture) weren`t much of anythingh. Surely I was filled with the coke induced energy, or heroine numbness, still boredom seemed unescapepable. The two most known hard drugs let me down it seems. When I started dealing and had the unlimited access to the cocaine, I begun to understand what it was about. Ever High. Ammounts taken would be severall times deadly for a non user and constantly growing, still it was nothing so good, that one would get addicted, I thought.

One part of cokaine, one part of baking soda. Some water to dissolve them in a table spoon. A lighter to warm up the liquid, untill forming a yellowish, oil like goe at the topp. Collecting it with a tip of a match and dried, one got crack. Perhaps the heaviest drug of them all. Later, I found out that the goo, that I was producing was actually much stronger than what is normally called crack, which is a cheap byproduct of manufacturing the cocaine.
I still didn`t understand the “imagine your best orgasm, multiply it by a thouthand, and you are still not even close to a shot of heroine” from the Trainspotter movie. I wasn`t getting it. Heroine felt like a sleeping pill and coke hardly gave any kick at all, despite others saying that I had some good stuff. 
However hating the idea of the addiction-induced crime, I had to addmitt that coke was atleast partially responcible for all the crap starting to happen around me.  My friends were starting to steal, lie and cheat. Things were about to get even worse.

Crack blows your brain. In the best way possible. One inhallation sends your body and mind into an orgastic tripp. Lasting for about as long as the reall thing or as long as one can hold onces breath. Then one crushes down- the “sobering up is so rapid and intence, that I saw grown men getting tear eyed, asking for another drag with the quivering voices. 
I had a non stop party at my place then, offering for free any dope if someone seemed to be needing a fix and had no cash and selling meny times as much to keep it all going. 
Crack was speciall. Meny have asked me to cook up some, after laughing, having fun at my place. I used to warn: after the first blow you will find yourself suffering from an acute depression and anxiety… plus you will turn into an asshole. And so it was:
“-Ha! You`ve allready had your turn. Don`t you fucking try!”
-”Fuck off! You have double size lungs… Plus you are holding it in infinitelly.
One can breath, you know. As in in and out.”
-”Wow! Take it easy, Huff`n Puff- I pay for my shit!”
A kill joy in a way, still a cool party trick, I thought. It seemed not that addicitive either, as long as you got some sleep- all that was left were the memories, more than one could say about the alkohol. 
That expression- “crack whore”… Were they selling themselves for a fix or was it one of the perks of working the streets? Was it the addiction that drove them to prostitution or was it just a way to make the job less depressing?- I wondered. 
Maybe it`s a generall expression, that has nothing to do with the actuall crack dependancy? 
It seemed like the European junkeys were less inclined to murder, highjack, robb, or sell themselves to to satisfy the drug craving, then their American collegues. Lie, cheat and steal- sure, but prostitute or kill?- that was something I`ve never heard about here. I guess I could`ve got layed for some coke, but that would be just depressing, I thought, ignoring the fact that I, myself has become a crack whore, getting much of the love and respect, by putting out- crystalls and lines. I was denying myself the true friendships, becoming distant from those who were closest to me and conciously choosing the shallowest of the relations. Not because my old friends would`t have liked some free coke or would judge me, but rather because I was afraid to see my old self in them, something that seemed so lost at the time. I`ve become hollow.  

Posted by Lexa at 13:05:49 | Permalink | No Comments »

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

THE POCKET GUIDE TO SUICIDE (Chapt 20)

DOPE CIVILISATION 2000

As the world was rolling to an end and the human civilisation was nearing it`s collapse through the multiple choice scenarios of the apocalypse, a new- somewhat morbit it its` futality, nevertheless A HOPE for the future was dawning on the collective conciousness.
Robbed of the faith by the religion, empoverished by the economics, made criminal by the law, poisoned by food and medicine and stupified by the greatest educator- the television, the utter numbness of denial or suicide were the two extremes, meny of us were left to face. Longing for an end- one way or the other was growing to become the self forfilling prophecy of the millenium shift.
The unrelentless pursuit of pleasure became the excuse for the otherwise pointless existance. Escapism became synonimous with the art of living, poorly masking the age old rythm: “work-consume-procreate-resume”.
However carefully avoidet, the painfull truth was driving one to the brink of madness: no ammount of food could dampen the hunger, no sex could satisfy, no wars could bring the peace, no violence could enterntain, nothing could deliver the relief from the restless boredom. Clinical depression was becoming a new plague.
Some started turning away their hypnotised gase from the mind numbing show of the gorish news and advertisements to the sunsetting horison, as if waiting for a new barbarian to tear dow the walls of the XXIst centurys Colluceum. Some stared in fear, some glared in hope as the cracks of the great division were opening into an unbreachable abyss, splitting the nations, beliefs and generations.  “We” and the cinister “them” was taking an ever more tangeble meaning, perpetuated by the media, as more and ever more of us felt that to defend once`s unjustified lifestyle,  may actually mean fighting for it. Lives per gallon of gasoline produced ,was becoming an acceptable price to pay for a slightly faster car. If it was to be once`s children`s souls- the good old patriotism was allways at hand to justify the bloodiest of the massacres.Majority was ever ready to defend its historical role of the brainless cannon meat to the last dropp of tranquilised blood. Few dared to face the enemy within- no other than their own sons and dotters, raising their voice against the mass produced insanity of the new world order. The stage was set and the countdown has begun. The appocalyptic war for the minds and souls of humanity was to take place in every concsiousness.
Opiates, painkillers, tranquilisers, antidepressants and alchogol were setting us upp for a new way of coping with the self induced collapse- the great ignoring.The less one knows, the better one feels. Ok- we may fry alive as the global warming is gaining strength, we may die of war, desease or some other form of self enihilation, however nothing is certain and the solution maybe just around the corner- a new penicillin to cure all our ills.  Or maybe after all there is a God? One, who`s sick plan it was all along? To teach us something maybe… Whatever… Untill then we can just sleep…

THE LULLABY

TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR
WHO GIVES A SHIT `BOUT WHO YOU ARE?
IF YOU LIVE OR IF YOU DIE
NOONE HEARS YOU LAUGH OR CRY
IF YOU DIE OR IF YOU LIVE
IT`S JUST ONE STEP RIGHT OFF THE CFLIFF

CRACK YOUR BONES AND SPILL YOUR BRAIN
IF YOU ARE UNLUCKY- DO IT AGAIN
ARE YOU HAPPY, ARE YOU FREE
FROM X-PILLS A DAY, FROM MISERY?

FULL OF JOY OR FULL OF SHIT
MAYBE BOTH A LITTLE BIT
FAKE IT, BRAKE IT, HAVE NO POINT-
TAKE A DRINK OR ROLL A JOINT
LIGHT. INHALE. EXHALE AND SMILE
ATLEAST ENJOY LIFE FOR A WHILE

GRAB THAT MOMENT, SQUEESE IT TIGHT
IF YOU ARE IN LUCK- YOU MAY SLEEP TONIGHT

THEN WILL COME ANOTHER DAY-
FOR ONE BEFORE YOU`LL SURELY PAY
POPP A PILL OR PUMP A SHOT,
WHY DIDN`T MUMMY HAD AN ABORT?

Siucide is neither painless, nor does it bring “so meny changes” as an old song may led you to believe. Chances are that you are more likekely than not to survive and left feeling even more miserable and pathetic, having failed. Maybe there is some higher power, tearing that belt, tied around your neck or directing the blade around that vital arthery or making you vomit, before the pills had a chance to fully dissolve in your stomach. Or maybe it is the subconscious way of self preservation, sabotaging the attempts. Father of my friend had shot  himself in the mouth with a hand gun at two different occasions, trying to end his life. He had survived both.
It`s not as easy as you may imagine. Hanging once self is allmost impossible within the parameters of an average apartement and plaster covered walls. No nail would support the crushing weight of your tired of living body. You see… a successfull hanging is done through the breaking of the spinall cord, not choking. A proper vein slising is done length vise, not across and an overdose is rarely lethal, since the chanses are that you are allready a junkey with a body easily able to tollerate a quadruple dose of allmost anything. It`s rarely painless either. Execution for example is not a mercifull way to end a life. Chopping off once head often took severall blows, while a hanging man was often struggling severall minutes, doing the “wallsing
Matillda”. The longest execution took 40 minutues by electrecution, still concidered at the time as the humain way. Lethal injection concists of 3 parts. Tranquilisers, muscle relaxant and the chemicall that actually kills you. One often is immune to the first two, having abused the same type of drugs. Time stops completely, terrifiyed unable to move, waiting.WAITING. 3 shots and you are out- the American policy was excecuting the lost souls for stealing a loaf of bread. Tied down and looking through the glass window at once relatives and the bunch of bystanders, who came just to take a peak. There is no  humain way to kill. Still I tried. Myself.
After drinking a bottle of Vodka and swallowing 50st of the Rohypnols, then climbed up the window, stretched my arms as if being crucified and jumped, landing on the tarmack, 14 meters below. I was still conscious, when my mother, having run down the stairs, lifted my head from the thick pool of blood. I wispered something incoherent, before passing out for the next half a year.
I didn`t fear death for as long as I can recall. How can one fear something one is not aware of, such as a permanent sleep? If there was to be some form of an afterlife, I heavilly doubt, that a God would ever send us to a permanent torture of hell. Pointless, isn`t it? Besides if we are able to forgive, the God must be even kinder, -I was grabbing religious straws, however by that time I`ve completely lost my faith. Most of the people, having a near death experience, feel deeper appreciation for the life. Not me.
 I didn`t feel specially bad on the day of the attempt, except for being bored out of my mind. Drugs did not work anylonger. I was snorting allmost  gramm of speed at a time, resulting in a short sleep- before one tenth of that would have kept me awake all night long. 
Havingh lost all of my veins, I was injecting in my dick. Problem was that it had to be erect for the vein to popp upp, however being sexually aroused wasn`t that simple, holding a siringe in one hand and amusing myself with the ither. The beloved hasch just felt stupifying, emtying my last physical and mental resoursess. Pills and alkohol led to blackouts at the massive doses, while a normal social drink did not longer exist and even the psychedelics hardly gave anythyng more than a slightly vivider colours, which may have been my luck, since by then I was avoiding any deeper insight into my black hole life. Suicide seemed as the ultimate experience,the last experiment and the proper conclusion to the wasted life, no matter what lied beyond.
I allmost hoped that it was nothing. It`s just like falling asleep, not worrying about waking up again and having to face yet another day.
I became semi-concious for a while in the intensive care unit, hooked up to every imaginable machine there was. Faces were flashing by. My mother, followed by  my best friend, an angel-like doktor and the catoonish nurses. Later they told me that through the whole time I had the dumbest grin throughout my newly patched up face, not being able to pronounce any words. My head looked like an egg, turned on its side.
I was high on the opiate based painkillers, delivered by a 24/7  dropper, hallucinating the vividest dreams partially due to the brain damage, with a plot and all sences involved. I was watching a non existant large screen TV, across the room, being amused by a never produced new Simpsons episode. I was a worker somewhere in Asia, planting rice for a lollipopp as a form of payment from my fat Buddha like landlord. I was serving sharks caviar at Wills Smith`s second wedding party.
My best friend brought me a buquette of  flowers and huge poppy seed capsules, which were the part of the arrangement, the kind that the heroine was produced from. I remember trying to reach them, in a hope of chewing them up and getting even more opiates in to my system. My arm, hips, legs and the jaw were shuttered, still I made a futail attemts to reach the vase. Never enough. Never. Never.
NEVER…

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Monday, May 26, 2008

THE GRASS IS GREENER…(Chapt 19)

I came to realise that an addiction can have so, so meny reasons and forms.  I seem to have gone through the whole spectrum. Believing to be genetically inclined and growing up in the invironment, (both countrty and family), where alkohol was a naturall way of coping with life, meny would say I didn`t stand a chance from the beginning. Yet it was not a form of escapism for me then, not either a result of some trauma, but a search for the new experiences that drove me.
Later it had become a banal pleasure seeking and at the later stages the great escape. Boredom was a big part.
Tell me how you eat your cookies, and will tell you who you are. Do you eat the delicious filling, discarting the dough, do you eat both at once, as you are supposed, or do you eat the crust first, saving the best for the last? Yet when it comes to drugs, speciall rules, dictated by the addiction come into play for most of us. One seldom saves anything for later, even knowing that some rationing may save one from a hefty withdrawal. Smoking, injecting and snorting up all there is, untill feeling sick is the usuall way to go. One often gets high not to think about the future, adopting the pfilosophy, that problems solve themselves. Most of them often do and rarely are something worth worrying about. Drug abuse has it`s own logic and rules, except maybe for one. For every action there is an equall and opposite reaction. For the extra energy on speed one pays with a complete deplition of once reserves, crushing in exhaustion. After extreme excitement comes  extreme boredom, after a bullet proof calmness- a spirit crushing anxiety. It was worth it, I thought, specially that tired body can just sleep it off and boredom be cured with some pot, while anxiety turned into numbness with tranquilisers and booze. It was better to feel to the maximum, be it negative or positive, than hardly feel at all. Little did I know that I was on my way to a comlete numbness, missing the times I could feel… Love, grief, joy became nothing more than ubstract ideas.  
It was my personality as well- the restless mind, never satisfied. Searching, anticipating, hunting, but never standing still. I could not imagine what it is to simply rest, take a walk or a sunbath- I had to DO something. Read, talk, listen to music, get high or all of the above at once. I could not just watch a good film on the TV, but tried to watch several shows at once, constantly surfing the channels and a result completely loosing the plot. The same concerned even my drug use, when I was taking up to 6 drugs at once. A psychedelic trip would be enough of an experience for most of the people, but I was mixing LSD with alchogol, amphetamine, hasch and later during the day opiates. The weed was allways greener on the other side of the fence.
As there are meny reasons for doing drugs, there are just as meny to take a relapse once you try quitting. Self pity. Feeling bad- coping with sorrow or a loss. Feeling good- celebration of an accomplishement, which often is “I was staying sober for so long that I deserve a drink”. But perhaps the most dangerous one is the loss of meaning- that dark place, where one stops for a moment to reflect and realises that life has no longer any meaning or a goal.
I`ve mentioned that drugs are no more to blame for misery than a kitchen knife for a murder. Having a knife on you, however, dramatically increases the chances for a violent outcome. 70% of the time you would get hurt by your own weapon. Maybe one should never pick it up. Drugs that is. Yet the majority does not develope an addiction- some finding the first drug experience dissapointing, others managing to stick to that mythologicall one glass of wine with a good meal. Is it the emptyness that has to be filled with the chemicalls or the black hole developed by the drug abuse…
There it is again- the question of what came first- chicken or the egg. Was that my character that led me to becoming a junkey or was I, my personality a product of the constant drug abuse? Maybe one doesn`t have to know that to be able to quit and start life allover again- the cirkle of cause and consequence can be broken. It can. I hope it can…

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Saturday, May 24, 2008

BRING ME A RIOT (Chapt 18)

I was taking a walk trough the town one evening, drunk and depressed at the same time, thinking about how pointless my life has become. I was passing by a power pole, when I`ve noticed a familiar mark on the surface of the paint job. It was a round indentation, left by a bullet. I took a picture of it with my mobile camera. It was a souvenir from the last time in my memory, when my life had a deeper meaning, when I felt as a part of something bigger, than my daily rutines.
Guthenburg riots were a proper start for the new millenium in my mind, a due expression of everything my generation thought and felt about the new world order. It was the G8 summit and president Bush was visiting that summer. Media hysteria went overboard, warning against probable terror attacs from the anarchistic youth. I remember one article, where police successfully managed to disarm a group of Danish activists, who tried to smuggle a number of Molotov coctails to be used in Guthenburg during the riots. The whole point of the Molotov coctail is that it can be made by anyone anywhere with a botle of gasoline and a piece of cloth. A blunt lie from the police, trying to vilify any protestors and  activists in advance. Later meny people would be charged with a violent rioting, which was hard to comprehend, since no violence from our side has ever taken place. Can one be violent against a Mc Donalds or a parked car? Property destruction- sure, however it was not unprovoked. Police had put all of the activists, coming from all over the Europe under arrest behind the police-biult barricades, in a school, where they were staying long before a first stone was thrown. That was a breach of the agreement which allow peacefull demonstrations. Reaction was a bunch of broken windows, partially destroyed pavement and burnt cars. 
I was standing at the crossroad, where the culmination of the riots was to take place. Police had surrounded us, armed with newly issued telescopic bats. A few cops were beating to a pulp some teenagers, who were sitting on the grass near by. One flower-power girl was screaming, trying to cover her boyfriend`s motionless body with her own. A two meter long cop was continuing the assult, despite her face being already covered in blood, and her boyfriend being unconciousness. Huge german sheppards were surrounding them, barking, ready to tear the poor kid into pieces. It was stunning to see an expression of such pure hatred.
I heard a gun shot. Later the world news showed a clip of a young guy (Jonas), standing infront of the police or what looked like a massive wall of shields and helmets, then bending to pick up a stone. There were two near his feet- a hefty piece of the pavement and a small stone chip, which he picked up and threw towards the cops. It has landed meters from them, being rather a symolic gesture that any possible threat. Jonas was about to nearly pay with his life for that, when the bullet hit him in the stomach. Closer to where I was standing, panic broke out and demostrators, as well as just some curious bystanders scaterred in all directions. 6 more shots were fired. Atleast one towards a group, trying to escape upp a nearby hill. It has hit the green power pole, leaving a mark at a head level, that will say around 1,7 meters from the ground. Those, hired to serve and protect, were now shooting to kill. Noone from the force was ever made accountable for an attepted murder or anything at all for that matter. Public had swallowed the news as a given and even now most of the people are supporting the police actions that day. 
Something has died with in me. I started loosing my political engagement, more drugs and boose aided in achieving the desired numbness. They win. They allways will. All I can do is remember that day, when they`ve flexed their muscle and taught us a lesson: they will shoot to kill without thinking twise at the smallest signs of disobedience. Jonas got half a year in prison for the violent rioting, after barely making it alive. 
I looked at the picture in my mobile for a few moments, then deleted it and went on down the street, searching for a place to get wasted.
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Friday, May 23, 2008

IN THE HAZE of GLORY (Chapt.17)

The seeds of the Morning Glory, DMT,  different forms of psylocibine, sage- there was a whole new territory to be explored. All natural, all non addictive and I had just the guy to do it with. With long hair and very soft spoken, he was somewhat
of a New Age hippie. By the time I got my own place, so we set ourselves for a week long trip on the whole bag of tricks he had with him. Seeds, nuts, powders, pollens- everything was legaly ordered via the internet, I presumed.
Sharing his hobby however did not bring any satisfaction or a new insight, as I was expecting from a mixture of potent hallucinogens. I felt something- weird for most of the time. Tingly and as if my head was a baloon, rubbery in the whole body with weird perception of time and sence of touch, unable to pronounce words, experiencing vivid colours and so forth. It was not the usuall pleasure seeking that I was accustomed to during the latter years, but rather the mind alchemistry that facinated me so much, when I was injecting ketamin as a 14 year old. I was no longer that boy with a mind of an explorer. My addiction had outgrown itself from experimenting on the sences to being out after the kicks.
Soon I was degrading further, when tranquilizers with alkohol became my staple diet. Self medication. To be numb, to forget, to sleep. The little green pills of Rohypnol were delivered to me weekly, 1000 st. at a time in a plastic bag.
I begun eating them as candy- 5-10 at a time, several times a day, which combined with gallons of beer allmost allways lead to complete blackouts. Every morning was beginning with an intence anxiety, while scrolling through the call register on my mobile, to see that I have called numerous people, most of whom
I had no business talking to whatsoever. It was getting scarrier, when I begun to wake up with merchandise and bundles of cash, without having a clue to their origin or with spots of blood on my clothing. Thieft was against my nature, however I had to admit to myself that a bottle of the truffle oil , goose liver pate and some techno gadget were not payed for. I begun to get flashes of uncontrolable rage, when for a few moments the brain went completely blank and all that was left was the primal, animal agression. That was also not who I was- I was a pacifist to the core, believing that violence in any form is never a solution. I was changing, and I needed change to save me. Used to the drugs being the source and the solution of any problem, I stopped doing the pills in those ammounts, replacing them with more synthetic heroine. Alkohol though stayed with me allways- I was not drinking to get drunk, just to be slightly buzzed. Day and night, often waiking up in the middle to take a couple of beers and continue sleeping. Sleep was becoming my primary goal. A little death. No longer heroin seemed as a pointless drug- sending the user into a deep slumber like a strong sedative.  Still, the synthetic heroine was the drug of my choice, giving me atleast some energy to live. I was building myself up for a month long withdrawal…

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THE CALL of DUTY (Chapt. 16)

I was free again. I went straight to the nearest liquire shop from the prison and treated myself to 12 bottles of the finest hard spirit, all the size of my thumb. It was summer and I was feeling something close to being content if not happy by the time I`ve reached the centrall station. I felt like I could just sit on a bench indefinetly, absorbing the sunshine with a dumb grin, yet there were pressing matter of reistablishing connections, old friendships.
I had allmost no money left and had to find a new place to live, while keeping myself clean. The year was 2004. I had some supervision time left, having to visit the “criminal ward” now and then to show my proper ways, while living in a communal house, where I had to leave the urin samples and breatheliser tests. It was still possible to sneak in an occasionall drink and some synthetic heroine, which did not show on the tests, however I didn`t feel the need to get high. 
Perhaps I never had- it was just my occupation, something i did. Plans for the future were unclear- a part of me even concidered a “normal” life, although the idea of having a job with a tie, a wife and kids was still completely foreign to me.
I suspected that I`ve stopped maturing in meny ways, the day I started getting high. I`ve noticed the same tread with meny of my dopehead friends- there was
a certain charming childishness and simplicity. If one wants to get into the kingdom of heaven, one should be like a child- the idea from the bible was somewhat comforting, besides I was not about to get into the main stream rat race, not that anyone was waiting for me there anyway.
Yet I was waiting for the day when they were going to contact me from the baltic amphetamine-producing land- just days were left. I didn`t know how to feel, rather thinking that it is quite unlikely that anything was going to happen.
Contacts made in prison were reminicent of the friendship bonds tied while being drunk- you sober up and all that is left is a slight anxiety. 
The phone started ringing at 10 in the morning-  the call was from abroad. The only person it could be was the amphetamine guy. It must`ve ment that a new shipment was ready and waiting to be dellivered. Signals were persistant- 5… 10..
15…
I realised that there and then that I was about make it or break it- depending on whether I answered or not I was about to decide my entire future. Becoming a multi millioner and probably fearing for once life or the uncertain future in poverty? I couldn`t imagine how it feels to be filthy rich-perhaps the feeling of power compensates the worrysome nature of the business? Perhaps I would not even have to do any dirty work after a couple of shipments, having people doing the job- I was going to simply collect the money as I allready did at much smaller scale with the stolen computers, concidering myself a PC Robin Hood. Probably that is how it was going to be- I was certainly not to be the one dealing on the street level. Just making a few calls to decide the place where I was to pick up the suit case with cash, leaving the coordinates, where the dope load was hidden. If it was to be done as planned- I would never have to handle the drugs myself, acting as a link in between, It was a safe system and I had the exclusive rights, not having to worry about anyone going behind my back, since my delivery guy had no connections in Sweden whatsoever and the guys who were to buy would be interested in keeping me happy.

 I stared at the dile, feeling strangely numb. The phone stopped ringing after a while. I picked it up, scrolled through the phone list, found the KFC professor`s number and pressed delete. As for my Baltic friend`s son- he never called again, having enough to do as it is. The bridges were burnt- there was no turning back. I was to become a proper… normal… whatever.

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Thursday, May 22, 2008

KING PIN (Chapt 15)

I`ve never met a person, that I could call evill. I`ve met some with violent psychosis, but that was temporary and hardly descriptive of the personality in general.  Being a devil`s advocate I could allmost allways see things from anothers perspective, no mater how screwed up it seemed. But then again,
I`ve never met a mass murderer or a sadist. Untill now.
Arriving at the new place, after getting unpacked and settling a bit, I went out of my cell to mingle. Inmates from my block were sitting around a young guy, telling some story and seemingly not noticing me taking a place near by. After a few minutes listening I felt physically sick- the guy was amongst other, telling in detail about recently torturing another fellow with electric shocks, after tying him down. The worst part was his laughter- high pitched, almost hysterical, following every sickening sentence. Others, around him were smiling and nodding. It was going to be difficult to make friends here, but then I heard a joyfull ”privet!*”. A slightly older Russian guy was standing beside me with a wide grin, streaching his palm for a handshake. It was a relief.
After chatting about everything possible,, we were to talk some business. He gave me his son`s number. The kid was a major supplier of amphetamines and was looking to do some business in Sweden. I was to meet him at a harbour to pick up the ammounts of the drug that would easily lend me a life sentence or a bullet in the head from the competition, since the stuff they were shipping in was to set a new standart in purity. I knew what he was talking about- the new Russian speed was rather more like cokain with as few side effects, sich as loss of apetite and sleep deprivation. The root by wich the stuff was to be brought in was impecable and the exchange of goods and money was very well thought through.
For a while I forgot that I was not a criminal, not by nature, but at the time I didn`t see it as anything more devious than bringing in a shipment of liquire and sertainly less vicious than distributing nicotine, weapons or some pharmaseuticals. I wasn`t even thinking of the potentiall millions to be made, rather was excited to be involved with such high quality goods without having to work with the classic gun toing maffia types, but instead a couple of nice guys from the motherland. 
A week later at the prison`s work shop I`ve noticed a guy, looking like the KFC curnal, with a white beard and a kind face. I went to talk to him. Turned out that he was newly arrived, also Russian and even from the same part of Moscow as me. Things turned even more surreal, when he told me that he was a chemistry proffesor. By the things that he told me, I had not a shadow of a doubt: the guy was the real deal and had the knowledge and the means of mass producing anything within the amphetamines family, be it MDMA (ecstasy), 2CB (psychedelic amphetamine), crystal meth (crank) or some stuff I`ve never even heard of, which ment that it was potentially still not illegal. What he wanted in return was a way to stay in the country and some percentage of the business. Both were easily doable, concidering my new passport connections. The last prison was opening doors to potentially being the number one amphetamine distributor in Scandinavia. Money were to be absolutely insane, risk minimal, since we discussed the ways of distributing, which would keep us virtually invisible. Besides- the really big fish gets big by not being caught and I was about to become the biggest fish, skipping all the growing pains. And once again, I loved that my new Russian friends absolutely lacked the usuall criminal bone- there was no violence or weapons,
just smart and civilised busnessmenship.
My trial was in a few weeks. I was accused of posession with the intent to supply within the prison walls, which made it alot more serious. The inmates I spoke with, promiced me atleast half a year extra. The one gramm of pot, that I had, was weighted in together with the tobacco, showing it to be 16 gramms of “cannabis mass”, plus the pill or two of the tranquilisers were simply classified as narcotics, or a class A drugs. I could easily double my sentence. I left any hope for a decent defence and was preparing to be my own lawyer, after 2 visiting policemen explained to me, that when it comes to my 1,2 gramms of hash- such was the law:
had it been a gramm of amphetamine, hidden in 2 kilos of flour, it would be counted as 2 kilos of low quality drug, when the quality plays no role.
“Your honour, I realise the gravity of what I`ve done, but please for the justice`s sake note, that the pills I had in my posession are in the same group as the other tranquilisers, available to anyone with anxiety disorder…” I went on to explain about hasch amount being equivalent of two joints and me buying it to the contrary of celling as the procecution tried to convince the judge. Incredibly it worked- I got just few weeks added to my sentence. Back at the prison the inmates turned suspicious at me, thinking that I must be a snitch, cause noone gets off that easy.
Yes- once again I got off easy. It seemed to be the story of my life. The rest of my time inside I could have done standing on one foot. Great future awaited me. All I needed was to stay sober. Not even the occasionall heroine I was bying inside was to be acceptable if I was to be successifull dealer. I had to get a job or continue the studies in order to lead a proper double life, being a criminal. In my own mind however I was not a criminal at all… I was after all the kindest guy I knew.
______________________________
* privet - “hi!” in Russian
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BORROWED TIME (Chapt 14)

I started to count the seconds, measuring time it would take to break out of the work shop, reach the gates, for the guards to react. I`ve concidered which days were the fattest guards on duty, who were less likely to start running after us.
My new Georgian friends agreed to join me with joy, seeing as there was no light at the end of the tonnel. I felt like I was doing it for a noble cause, plusI was not about to miss a summer, being locked up.  
It went smoother than I could have imagined- the fat guards never even tried to chase after us, istead going for a minivan, parked on the far side of the yard. My condition was worthless- I`ve lost my breath completely after only a few hundred meters and stopped. Luckily the prison`s van speeded by, while I was standing behind the bushes on the sidewalk, bent in two. My escapee friends met me at the centrall station a few minutes later, being alot faster than me.
After hiding out in a small park, we took a bus to the nearest big town, still wearing prison uniforms. Noone seemed to care that it had “Criminal Ward” written all over.
 My jail bird friends had some connections. Those turned out to be two Iranian guys, who offered a place to stay and hasch untill I puked. They also could fix excelletnt quality passports , registered to more or less any nationality for a decent price, so my Russian palls were set.  It was exilirating to break free- the best kick I could remember in years, made even better by the thought that I`ve helped two allmost innocent men. We exchanged numbers and I took a train home. I had about a thousand and a half dollars stashed, all I needed to do was to break into my own safe, since the keys were left back in jail. After I realised that the safe itself was alot more valuble, being from 1800-th and as tall as me. 
Still time is money and I wasn`t about to wait another half a year, becides there was some dope in there as well. With some help from my safe-breaking proffesionall friend, we were set to party. 
Few days later I got a call from one of the guy`s girlfriends, to inform me that both of them got busted and are back in jail. That was strange- no one was coming after me, and I was living at my usuall address. I was not worried, having cash and drugs, I was partying like I never have before, so much infact, that I can not recall a single day. Money runned out fast and I was on my way to the nearest prison, with my rectum full of speed, hasch and pills. I was held in there for a few days, getting high to a near dellirium, staying awake all of the time, drawing policemen beating hippie-like girls into a pulp with the new telescopic bats. On their helmets were swasticas. Then I was taken to the fortress- an old prison for much tuffer croud, than I was used to up till now. Punishment for the prison brake- 2 weeks extra. Even that was somewhat against the rules, since escapee is not to blame according to Swedish criminal justice system at the time, but I guess they`ve figured out that I was an accomplice to the two Geoprgians, since they didn`t speak neither Swedish nor English. 
I still had drug charges pending and things were looking bad…

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Wednesday, May 21, 2008

THE INSIDE JOB (Chapt 13)

…I soon was feeling so good, that I just had to make myself feel even better. That is the nature of an addiction: it is often easier to stay sober, when it feels like shit and nothing to celebrate. To smuggle drugs into a prison can be difficult, but never impossible.Things here however were simple- if not thrown over the fence, the package could be delivered by a visiting friend or a relative. The prices were tripple atleast and one often got less than promiced. I wasn`t about to get cheated, so I was back in business, however money were of no interest, since the only extra nessesary expence when you are locked up are just drugs, so  I kept them for my self, sharing a few hits now and then out of the kindness of my drugg pumped heart. However as bonus it have bought some extra respect- very few dared to smuggle here and I was soon to find out why.
I was without a care inthe world, flying high as a kite infront of the guards on speed and smoking evening joints in my cell.
 The search was like a lightning from a clear sky. 2 officers asked me to vaccate the cell. I took my rolling tobaco pack and was about to leave when…
-Put that on the bed, son.
I was fucked: incide the package was leftovers from the recent hasch and benzo (downers) delivery. I knew I was in trouble, just not in how deep. I was taken to the isolation cell in the basement. The room was tiny, barely having place for a yellow vinyl madrass on the floor and a metall toilet, sticking out of the wall. It was so dark without a window that it took a while for my eyes to adjust. Even if I had a book it would be impossible to read. The toilet was jammed and there was no water. I finaly saw what prisons must be like in most of the less civilised world and the US of A. Well, according to some humane European laws, complete isolation for longer than 3 days and nights is concidered a torture- I tried to comfort myself, knowing very well that meny of my friends have spent months with no human contact, waiting for a trial. Time has stopped. There was no night or day-the only thing to look forward to was the feeding time, also giving me some idea of how much time must`ve passed.
I dreaded the time when once`s psyche starts playing tricks. Talking to once self… Then starting to hear the answears… Luckily I never got that far. A few days later I was taken to another jail, to waite for the trial.
The new place was alot shabbier and alot more heavily guarded. The same day I arrived, I met two russians, who got busted in a stolen car or something. They were locked up indefinetly, since they could not be deported due to the absence of any documents, plus they were coming from Georgia and Sweden had no diplomatic relations with that old Sovjet republic.
I had to think of something, but for now I discovered, reading the lable on the facewash that one of the inmates recieved from the jail doctor, that the liquid consisted of allmost pure alkohol. I got really drunk that day and decided to visit the church group. I don`t remember what I was saying exactly, but remember playing the devil`s advocate, trying to convince the priest that God does not exist and leaving him speachless, mostly because of me wreaking of boose.
Days went by making toys for a large company in the prison workshop and enjoying an occasionall heroine delivery. Time went by and I was getting restless. I noticed that certain days the main gates would briefly open to let in and out the delivery truck. This should automatically trigger the lock mechanism in the work shop`s door, situated in the same yard, but according to the red indicator lamp above the door- it often did not…

Posted by Lexa at 20:58:42 | Permalink | No Comments »