July 2005 / Volume Six / Issue Four
Willie Smith

    We hit the junk. Layed around. Drove Story’s junker down to the store for spinada, junk food and some junk for around the house like t.p., toothpaste, a bottle opener, bug spray.
    Drove back. Parked the junker on the lawn. Swallowed the spinada. Collapsed under a tree – eyes spinning like manana de nada.
    I awoke spitting up. Story pressed a tab of acid laced with speed in my hand. Through vomit tears we chased the tabs with Rainier ale.
    By the time we killed the Green Death we were wide awake and totally insane. Story insisted we drive to Mt. Tabor, smoke hash, sniff coke, catch the sunset. We took along a bag of chips, a package of Oreos plus the opener we didn’t need because the case of Bud was poptops.
    Because the junker threw a rod, we left it at the bottom. Climbed the extinct volcano contained entirely within the city limits.
    Story forgot the pipe. So we ate the hash, the chips, the cookies. We had either lost the coke or sniffed it while stalled at a light.
    Story produced a jar of Skippy he had lifted from the store. Shoving the crunchy up his sphincter, he explained it was good to stick a finger up your ass then lick the Skippy off the finger, because the doctor would assume it was shit and you’d for sure get the 1-Y, even if the drugs failed to do the trick.
    He fixed more junk to assure frozen bowels; thus no loss of rectal contents before the passage of at least twenty-four hours.
    I passed because I still had my college deferment, was allergic to peanut butter, really didn’t need anymore anything anyway.
    The sun swallowed itself. Threw up in the East.
    I awoke on the living room floor surrounded by broken furniture. Me, the megrims and my double vision finally crawled to the bathroom. The caterwauling proved to be Story snoring facedown in the toilet. He had passed out on his knees.
    Between belches and dry heaves I called a cab. Disgustedly the cabbie, a veteran of Iwo Jima, loaded Story into the backseat. Delivered him a-stagger downtwon to the draft board.
    It was that kind of war. Bugsy Story got his 1-Y. Continued working in the mill, helping – in spite of himself – the war effort.
    Me they left alone, because I was helping the future by taking drugs, screwing, reading Milton, throwing up in strange places. While America sprayed and sprayed and sprayed 8,000 miles off target.
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