Wallpaper

I found myself staring at the wallpaper again. In a house where you wouldn't think you could find weed but this was the best place apparently to get some fine home grown shit.

An old woman wearing a floral dress approached us with a tray filled with baggies and samples. Now this was my kind of drug dealer a little old lady, she must have been shit scared of us, Caden being a 160 pound Mexican and me a scrawny white middle aged man sweating uncontrollable. the heat always got to me, even though I was born on the hottest day of the year I was probably sweating lots that day to, help me to slide right out PLOP! right into the doctors arms.
The old lady let us try a few spliffs of her stuff and we settled for some purple haze and was on our way.
We stepped into the blistering heat of down town L.A and clambered into an Buick Wildcat 1967 a bit beat up but still runs good with the roof down. We sat down rolled up and rolled out in 3minutes both clutching a joint in one hand and a drink in the other.
'So where do we start?'
'our hotel is the Mayfair Hotel should be just around the corner and tonight we have a party with the fashion people that want a story about it.'
Another faceless party full of faceless people sporting clothes made from the sweat and blood of Taiwanese children.
'Sounds good..I'm their.'
It was another 5 hours before the party we holed up in the hotel room and took shots of tequila snorters (instead of salt on the hand it was a line of coke) and a few caps of mescaline. we were tripping hard by the time we got into the party.
10 foot high banners of a the new line of clothing by Frebby Jackson I hated these parties the socialites squealed like pigs about to go to the slaughter house know that their lives were meaningless and were about to end, these people try to give themselves purpose but their all just corpses waiting for the grave so they can party with the maggots and worms.
'So what the hell am I suppose to write about these pricks.' mescaline hitting me hard.
'I dunno your the writer,except right now you look like Mr Tumnus just write about the event.'
I could see the mescaline was kicking in for him too, they want a story I'll give them a story.
I walked right up to Frebby Jackson introduced myself to the best of my abilities and told him I just wanted to listen to conversation they were having.


'I was in america,'the conversation went,'and over their I have my cabin of boys in this camp.'
WHAT IS GOING ON is this guy a pedo I thought to myself what have I got myself into.
'....and then we all stripped off and jumped into the pool.'
Is this the norm in the fashion industry i thought fuck it I'm out i don't give a fuck about the story I'm getting the fuck out.One big hit of their coke and i'm out of here.


Next morning I wake up aching all over and with no memory of leaving the party, I had a split lip and bruises on my face and body. What the fuck happened? did I do something bad? Probably always turns out that way.
My laptop was on next to me on my e-mails there was one sent message from 1am it was to the editor:
'I'M NOT WRITING A STORY ABOUT A FUCKING PEDO FASHION DICK MAYBE YOU SHOULD STOP TAKING ACID BEFORE YOU GIVE ME MY FUCKING STORIES!'
The phone began to ring aggressively.
Oh shit.