Sunday, July 10, 2016

Ricky the Megalomaniac

“Know the light of the Lord. His is the light of the Father and all that is. The light that burns away sins and makes all flesh anew. You can leave this life ya know. No more hustlin, no more rippin and runnin. God’s love is worth more than any amount a dope you can cram into yo bodies. Sniffin and shootin don’t compare to the love of…”

I held Amy’s hand as we walked past the street preacher, who was surprisingly lucid today. His usual albeit haunting blend of poetry, ghetto slang and song-like gibberish barked through his cheap megaphone was replaced with a new focus and determination. He really seemed to care and that was admirable. But Amy and I had other things in mind. We kept walking, leaving our new apartment in the not so savory part of town en route to Ricky’s parent’s… for lack of a better term castle on Grand View Drive. As we continued along the path I reached a moment of clarity a moment which made it impossible to hide myself from my thoughts… There were so many kids some rich, some starving in needle filled sleeping bags on roadsides not unlike the one we were traveling…despite their differences they were all dying on the same drugs. The drugs which drove people to the streets as much as they motivated people to take the commute to their office jobs and twenty-something liberal arts majors to ace their civics courses to keep the student loan checks coming in. They all formed a crowd in the morning and I enjoyed crowds. I liked the anonymity. It was easy to blend in and forget about yourself. A drug to match everyone else’s drugs. A temporary escape from yourself. I snapped out of it as Ricky's house came into view.

And on that note… fucking Ricky. He was an odd creature if there ever was one. The most extreme forms of BDSM (usually involving thirty-something men in cheap Halloween costumes sodomizing a wide array of tied up women) blared on his gleaming flatscreen television at obscenely high volumes. He was prone to getting fucked up and choking himself out while he beat off to it all. Alone or with and audience none of it mattered to Ricky. Today, we were spared from that fate, an open history book sat on his desk. Which meant...

“Did you know that Alexander the Great spent two days, I shit you not, two fucking days underwater in a glass dome…I don’t know how he did it man. He was just a kid when he inherited his father’s empire. He was fifteen!”
Ricky (among other things, as mentioned previously), enjoyed talking about ancient history when he was fucked up and he was fucked up all the time.

“People tell me all the time that I’m just like Alexander the Great.” He said while sharpening a set of throwing knives with a wet stone he had sitting next to his history book. Unflinchingly, one at a time with frightening precision. He had a manic gleam in his eyes as he proceeded to go on about Hannibal Barca and the Second Punic War between Roam and Carthage, never looking away from his set of knives.

To further complicate things, Ricky's parents were loaded. His father was a senior VP at Foster and Foster, his mother the heiress to a former grocery store chain that sold out to Wal-Mart in the 80’s for a ridiculously inflated price. The archetypal millennial trust fund baby on steroids. Ricky may have been a narcissistic monster, but he had fire dope.

“Here take these and call me on the morning. You can flip it to the street kids or park kids or hobos, whoeverthefuck. Just don’t cut it. If you fuckin cut it man…”

“Chill dude. We’re good.” I stared at the gram bags Ricky had flopped on top of his history book before pocketing them.

“What is it?” Amy asked.

“I don’t know. Poison? Don’t make me no difference.”

Amy stared at Ricky with must as much concentration as he was using to sharpen his knives. This went on for entirely too long.

“Shiiiit,” Ricky finally broke the silence.

“I really don’t know. Some sort of substituted cathinone analogue. Just…I don’t know just fuckin Google it. It’ll get people high and that’s why it don’t make me no difference… Bye!”

Amy got the hint after I motioned to the door. Ricky’s eyes still glued to his set of knives.

“Babe?”

“Yeah?”

“I think we should break up with Ricky.”

No comments:

Post a Comment