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Ok, well here it is, no holds barred. My hellbender Halloween story. Names have been changed to protect the guilty. I am moving tomorrow so I figured I should finish it before I bust the hell out of here. I hate loose ends…

A little background info first. I had just resigned from the local university earlier that week so I could take two full time jobs to pay off my debts and afford another motorcycle. (Public transportation here leaves a lot to be desired and being on a bicycle after dark in my neighborhood is a bit of a liability.) I had just started job #1 two days prior to Halloween. My roommate, Pimp Doggy, is executive chef at a restaurant in the French Quarter and had put in a good word for me.

I got off work about midnight and changed into my costume. I met up with my dear friend Oral-B, who had just finished a shift as well. We were far too sober to deal with the raucous crowd so we found refuge in an empty bar on the outskirts until we could get loaded enough to join the scene.

Four beers, three lines, and a mind eraser later, we headed back to Decatur St, but Oral-B decided he’d rather go to the “Fruit Loop” section and get his dick sucked or something… we parted ways.

Alone, but nicely buzzed, I strolled into an old favorite hangout of mine, kind of a biker/punk/tattoo/heroin haven, best jukebox in town. Immediately, I ran into some people I hadn’t seen in awhile. One of them had this stupid tripping chick hanging on him that kept squirting people with large quantities of fake blood.

So we’re drinking and get ahold of some acid about 4:30 and like a dumbass I go ahead and drop 2 hits, because I figure that way if it’s weak at least I’ll get off, and if it’s good, I’ll be in for a real nice ride.

It turned out to be some really good shit. We stood outside the bar and fucked with straggling ½ costumed revelers until the sun came up, at which time it became painfully obvious that we needed to find an alternate plan.

We hit a couple more bars but nothing seemed to strike our fancy, so we decided to head home. One of the guys I was with, Ted, is a tattoo artist downtown. He kindly offered to drive me to my apartment. It’s broad daylight at this point.. As we got closer to finding his car, he said he was too fucked up to drive, but I was welcome to it. I heartily agreed, until my eyes rested upon the deathtrap in question.

His car is an old Volkswagen Beetle, with every inch of its exterior airbrushed into a loud advertisement for his tattoo parlor. I had seen it before, but had never envisioned myself behind the cow print covered steering wheel. I had a good laugh and slid into the driver’s seat.

Being that this was my first experience driving a bug, I was frying my brain, and we were nestled very snugly in between two SUV’s, I had a slight learning curve with the clutch. Nothing too traumatic, but it did lurch unexpectedly out of the parking space, badly cutting off the poor schmuck coming up the street behind us. He caught up with us at the next light and pulled along side us. Before he could bitch, I was yelling, “Look, I’m sorry, Dude. I know I totally cut you off back there, but I’m really fucked up right now.”

This, coming from a strung out chick in a full-length purple velvet dress with fake blood smeared all about the head, neck, and chest area. Fortunately, the other driver was on his way home too, as evidenced by the axe through his head, and had a sense of humor about it, in spite of Ted protesting loudly, “Fuck You! She’s NOT sorry; she did that on purpose, ya fuckin’ faggots!”

I managed to navigate home and the two of us came in to see if we could scare up some much needed herbage. As we entered, I noticed the dogs (one is mine) were a little slow greeting us at the door, but I didn’t think much of it. I walked to the back of the house to let them out in the yard through the kitchen door.

I was standing down a step or two, holding the door open, waiting for the usual “running of the bulls” behavior that the dogs usually exhibit when I let them out first thing in the morning. But they weren’t interested. That’s when I saw my roommate.

Pimp Doggy was seated on the kitchen floor in between the island and the counter (which is why I didn’t notice him when I came through), half passed out, with his pants down. He was still wearing ½ of his Halloween costume (he had been dressed as a pimp, in full regalia). I yelled at the dogs to hurry up and go outside, still not realizing the full gravity of the situation ­ partially from my drug induced retardation, and partially because of my obscured view.

That’s about when Ted came into the room. From his vantage point, he had a much clearer shot of the sordid scene, and immediately set to interrogating Pimp Dog at a high decibel. “What THE FUCK are you DOING?!? You SICK BASTARD! No, REALLY, what the FUCK are you doing? Jesus CHRIST! What is WRONG with you?” Etcetera, etcetera…

Pimp Dog whipped his pants up and shakily got to his feet, but the damage had already been done. The casserole dish spoke for itself, as had the image of the 2 dogs lapping macaroni & cheese off his nads. Ted and I were simply astonished beyond all comprehension. I sternly told my roommate that I would discuss it with him later, and headed upstairs to change into something more comfortable than a blood drenched costume, leaving my guest to verbally abuse Dog boy as he saw fit.

I was thankful he was with me, I can’t imagine walking in on that alone… or SOBER for that matter. Although, I could’ve done without the LSD for this one.

Ted made his way up to my room a few minutes later, at which point I excused myself to take a shower, as I was still covered in fake blood. When I returned, I saw that he was making calls from a cell phone, leaving messages with everybody he could think of ­ all from my roommate’s cell phone. I thought that was a nice touch, but offered him mine instead.

We were so fucked up that he ended up leaving two semi-incoherent messages on my own voicemail, which I savored for nearly a week. Ultimately, however, what I needed most was to think about something else ­ indeed, anything else - for awhile; but naturally, we could talk of NOTHING else. So Ted went on his way (yeah, he sobered up enough to sure as hell drive away from here). And I was left here alone with a head full of acid, wondering what the fuck I was going to do.

I put on the new Tool album and pondered my predicament:

1) Rent is due today
2) Roommate is having sexual relations with the dogs (at least in the Clintonian sense)
3) One of them is MINE. Ewwwww
4) I now also work with my roommate
5) Ted is a walking billboard and the whole town is likely to hear about this by sundown ­ everybody knows everybody here, if you hang around long enough
6) I am out of weed
7) This is the best shit I’ve taken in years, and I just missed out on some really good sex (the mood just wasn’t the same after the Incident)

I sat at my computer and laughed hysterically at the absurdity of my predicament for about 5 solid minutes. I called Oral-B, who had just moved in a week prior, and told him to get his ass home before I had an aneurism, but he couldn’t make it for a couple hours. That’s when I thought of all you fuckers at Fugly, and how much you would appreciate a gritty tale of this caliber.

Oral-B wasn’t much help to me when he arrived. He was still coke-addled, and kept trying to convince me that I was over reacting. Not what I needed to hear. On top of that, he had harbored a crush for Pimp Doggy (there was some funny business going on between the two of them that they were careful to hide from me until after Oral had moved in) and was urging me to be lenient and understanding of Dog’s “problems.” Wrong answer again.

I threw him out of my room (my only sanctuary) and tried vainly to get some rest. It was almost eleven, and I still wasn’t sure what I was going to do about the fact that I was supposed to be to work in 4 hours. I mean its one thing to go into work and suffer for the sins of the night before. But this was a little different.

Next thing I know, PD’s alcoholic crackhead mother is standing in my room yammering to Oral-B (who had slipped back in to use my computer while I was apparently unawares) about whatever longwinded bullshit she was on about. A little history on her: I had gotten fed up with constantly cleaning up after PD’s dogs (an enormous STUPID codependent Weimeriner and a teacup Pomeranian) because he was never here to take care of them.

I told him I was over it, so he took it upon himself to hire his mom to come by every day and pick up his slack for $100/wk. I was more than annoyed that he hadn’t consulted with me before arranging for a stranger to be in my home EVERY DAY, but it wasn’t until he paid her that first time and she no-showed for the next 3 days that he confided in me that he was worried she had used the cash to buy some rocks. She was really weird and kind of obnoxious, and my friends and I had joked about her doing speed, but DAMN, a CRACKHEAD HAS KEYS TO MY FUCKING HOUSE???

Oh, she’s on welfare too, big fucking surprise. Anyway, that stupid cunt caught the brunt of my wrath. I just couldn’t believe that in a 1900 square foot apartment, the morning after Halloween, the two of them could think of no place better to carry on an inane conversation than in my goddamn room ­ within arms reach ­ very dangerous. Neither one of them should have been in there to begin with. Finally, a good friend of mine that NEITHER of my roommates knows (Elvis) called me up from his job to find out how my night had been. I immediately commenced begging for a place to stay for a couple days in exchange for a really fucked up story. He was happy to oblige, and picked me up 2 hours later. As I was waiting for him on the front porch, the Sick Bastard staggered out of the house and had the nerve to ask me what my evening was like. (?!?) I told him it was scary and that he should inform them at the restaurant that I wasn’t going to be in. I couldn’t even look at him. I drank almost an entire bottle of vodka at Elvis’s house before I was able to pass out that night. I woke up early the next morning, still drunk, still disturbed, but calmer and more confident in my ability to be rational. I looked at the call record on my phone to see who all I’d talked to the night before in my alcoholic stupor. I hadn’t left too many stones unturned. Flashbacks of bits & pieces of conversations. I had joked about moving to Kansas… Strangely enough, the more I sobered up, the better the idea sounded. I called my mother at work (in Kansas) about 8:30am to break a censored version of my experience to her and see what advice she had to offer, if any. Much to my chagrin, one of my friends (a 21 yr. old clean cut college boy/US Army Reserve Drill Instructor from Southern Louisiana bayou country) had already called and told her the whole story the night before, while trying to hunt down my brother. He was kind enough to leave out the part about the drugs and the specifics about my “friend” Ted. She knew everything else though, which was sort of a relief, because that meant I didn’t have to explain it to her myself. She was surprised, but happy to hear that I was thinking of blowing this gumbo stand, and quickly made preliminary arrangements for me to move out to my cousin’s house.

That’s pretty much it, there’s a bunch of other dirty little details that I won’t bother to get into. I’ve been waiting on Pimp Dog to settle up with me on bills for the past week an a half so I can afford to get the fuck out of here. As it is, he shorted me on some of the rent because he has to pay kennel costs for his sexual partner. (I told him if they were still here when I got back I would take them both to the SPCA. His mom took the little one, so it’s probably in good hands… not.)

What the fuck do I care? Not my problem. Oh, and he’s still in denial about the whole thing, doesn’t want to talk about it. Hmmmm.. Maybe he should have thought about that before choosing a common area of the house as a stage for his bestiality. Anyway, his days here are numbered. The girl that owns the place is a good friend of mine and is completely repulsed by the whole thing.

All I know is I’m outta here tomorrow and I’m taking my dog, the electricity, the water, and every stick of furniture with me. Wonder how long it’ll take him to figure that one out?

Sick Fucker.

credit given to original author if known

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