The Steampunk World
I'm a fucking idiot
...because I let Piloto convince me to drive him around the west side looking for la mota. Y'see, we were all partying at E-D's house, all four of the roomies, watching the four televisions that Cabuto had set up for some reason. One of those parties where you run out of beer at 1AM and turn to hard likker. Ooooeee!!! So anyway, at about 2:30 AM, Piloto wants la mota, so he's about to go drive around drunk looking for it. I'd never been suckered by him before, so I fell for it and drove him, but I never will again.
"I know three places where dey sell eet," he said.
"At two thirty AM?"
"We'll just drive by and see eef dey are outside. Eef dey are outside, dey are selling eet."
So we drive by the three places, and of course there's nobody there. It's fucking 3AM. I can't believe I'm doing this, but I knew he was going to do it all wasted anyway, and though he says, "Oh, I drive like thees all de time," I know that once he wrecked, drunk, went through the windshield with Cabuto, then ran from the cops to a friendly corner store where they gave them a change of clothes and hats to cover their bleeding scalps.
All the while, in this neighborhood, I notice that there's a guy standing on every street corner. Every corner. It's like fucking Night of the Living Dead. They're just standing there, watching the cars go by. One guy has a huuuuuuge rotweiler with him, spiked collar and all. When we stop at a stop sign, Piloto rolls down the window and asks a guy if he has la mota.
"I got rocks and blow," he says, "Good rocks."
Yes, I was offered crack. In a situation that makes it look like I was intending to buy crack, if the cops a) could legally sell you drugs and then bust you for them, b) ever busted a user rather than a dealer, except when they're trying to get people to testify against a dealer, and c) gave the tiniest bit of a shit in this city (no less than two times in the past week have I driven PAST a cop while I was going the wrong way down a one-way street and not gotten so much as a glance in my direction). "We Serve But Don't Observe." I think it has to do with the fact that they're engaged in a war, and you don't bust people for jaywalking during a firefight. But the point is, I was stupid to let that pinche guey drag me into that situation in the first place. I said, "Piloto, creo que no podemos fumar la mota ahora" (or something to that effect, it was a result of the "Drunken Gringos Think They're Fluent" factor), and we went back to the party.
But the fact remains that I was damn lucky to get outta there alive and free. Crack bad. Crack dealers bad. You never meet anybody who says, "There's a difference between crack use and crack abuse." In fact, now that I think about it, what the fuck did he mean, "good rocks"? Good? As in less addictive? As in lasts six minutes instead of five? Explodes your heart faster, or slower? Good crack. What a crock.
...because I let Piloto convince me to drive him around the west side looking for la mota. Y'see, we were all partying at E-D's house, all four of the roomies, watching the four televisions that Cabuto had set up for some reason. One of those parties where you run out of beer at 1AM and turn to hard likker. Ooooeee!!! So anyway, at about 2:30 AM, Piloto wants la mota, so he's about to go drive around drunk looking for it. I'd never been suckered by him before, so I fell for it and drove him, but I never will again.
"I know three places where dey sell eet," he said.
"At two thirty AM?"
"We'll just drive by and see eef dey are outside. Eef dey are outside, dey are selling eet."
So we drive by the three places, and of course there's nobody there. It's fucking 3AM. I can't believe I'm doing this, but I knew he was going to do it all wasted anyway, and though he says, "Oh, I drive like thees all de time," I know that once he wrecked, drunk, went through the windshield with Cabuto, then ran from the cops to a friendly corner store where they gave them a change of clothes and hats to cover their bleeding scalps.
All the while, in this neighborhood, I notice that there's a guy standing on every street corner. Every corner. It's like fucking Night of the Living Dead. They're just standing there, watching the cars go by. One guy has a huuuuuuge rotweiler with him, spiked collar and all. When we stop at a stop sign, Piloto rolls down the window and asks a guy if he has la mota.
"I got rocks and blow," he says, "Good rocks."
Yes, I was offered crack. In a situation that makes it look like I was intending to buy crack, if the cops a) could legally sell you drugs and then bust you for them, b) ever busted a user rather than a dealer, except when they're trying to get people to testify against a dealer, and c) gave the tiniest bit of a shit in this city (no less than two times in the past week have I driven PAST a cop while I was going the wrong way down a one-way street and not gotten so much as a glance in my direction). "We Serve But Don't Observe." I think it has to do with the fact that they're engaged in a war, and you don't bust people for jaywalking during a firefight. But the point is, I was stupid to let that pinche guey drag me into that situation in the first place. I said, "Piloto, creo que no podemos fumar la mota ahora" (or something to that effect, it was a result of the "Drunken Gringos Think They're Fluent" factor), and we went back to the party.
But the fact remains that I was damn lucky to get outta there alive and free. Crack bad. Crack dealers bad. You never meet anybody who says, "There's a difference between crack use and crack abuse." In fact, now that I think about it, what the fuck did he mean, "good rocks"? Good? As in less addictive? As in lasts six minutes instead of five? Explodes your heart faster, or slower? Good crack. What a crock.
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