While sitting around waiting for The Man, TJ wondered why the hell dealers and runners are called connections because half the time they didn't connect. It's like trying to play a game called "connect the fiends" instead of "connect the dots." She pictured a little girl sitting at a counter attempting to draw a line from one dot to another, just as she was playing "Connect the Fiends" now. When she got halfway or 99% done, the almost completed line would all of a sudden disappear in front of the little girls eyes (this was the 10th try?) every time she almost completed the task of connecting one dot to another.
TJ wasn't having any better luck than her imaginary little girl friend in the constant never ending parade of her mental pictures. TJ saw herself playing the adult version of "connect the dots." Sitting and diligently going about the task of playing "Connect the Fiends," her mind was showing her animated black shapes, ones with spiked hair representing fiends cause meth heads are up, awake, and stick out all the time. The other black shapes were shaped like large scales used for weighing large quantities of dope. On one side of the scales paradise in the form of crystals and the other side excessive amounts of $$$$$$ signs everywhere balancing out to big dope and big money. Behind the dealer's scale, she could see a banner in the background informing customers of 50% discount prices on large quantities, all of this taking place in TJ's mental picture of a sketched (no pun intended) drawing of this whole scene. In this sketch was some dealer's place, the banner, and a radio. The radio came to life.
A happy animated Shadow Steven’s like voice blared out of the speakers "Don't miss this bi annual dealer's special! The price is so low, it's practically a steal (thieves will be prosecuted to the fullest extend of the pusher's wrath. Only the finest cash paying customers need apply) Buy 2 pounds of glass and get your 3rd pound of the same or lesser quality ABSOLUTELY FREE! The supply won't last forever, it's going fast, so call now! Supplies are limited, as they were stolen off undercover cops and DEA agents making meth arrests of unfortunate dealers whose identities are unknown. Since the identity and whereabouts of the owners of this giant stock are unattainable, our team of dedicated meth dealers have done the next best thing.
They valiantly underwent a mission of great danger and the stakes are high, just like you, and any select cash paying meth head will be for the rest of his life, (which will SPEED by and you will be dead in 2 weeks, but you and your inner fiend are guaranteed to die with a smile folks!) So fellow meth heads of America, land of anal retentive corrupt War On Drugs staff from FBI, CIA, IRS, DEA, to your average Joe small scale undercover narcotic cocksuckers, don't let this sale of a life time go by! Call your local connections near you. Some restrictions do apply."
"They ought to bust you for false advertising, motherfucker!," said TJ to the voice on the radio after the commercial had finished. Once again turning her attention to "Connect the Fiends," after 3 hours (which was supposed to be 1) just as she was 99.9% finished drawing a line from a spiked shaped black form to a black scale balancing $$$$$ and bits of crystalline glass, the line had disappeared, then an animated black hand slammed down the telephone receiver behind the scales on a night stand at some dealer's place in this picture drawing. So as usual instead of connecting like her connections were supposed to do, these cocksuckers were terminating her link to meth and a dial tone could be heard followed by silence, indicating that connection was cut off.
"Fuck!Shit!Piss!Cunt Motherfucker Cursed Donkey Dicks," yelled TJ in frustration. What was more frustrating was she got yet another mental picture of a game show on TV. As the camera zoomed in on a couple tweekers playing the national televised game show "Connect The Fiends!" and so far 8 out of 10 tweekers had come out ahead easily drawing at least one (or more if they hit the jackpot) line from a fiend to a connection with success. The game show host could be heard saying, "Congratulations tweak freak couple number 3 you have scored a teenager. Place your $100 on the dealer's scale, make him richer, make you more tweaked! Thankyou for playing "Connect the Fiends!"
Another couple won an 8 ball. Then yet another couple won after putting up cash from not one but FOUR connections scoring 1/4 lb from each dealer. They all panned out at once. "WHOAA!," said TJ "Shit that would even be enough to kill me!," she proclaimed. Nah she wouldn't want to score THAT big. After all she wasn't greedy and besides she knew what happened to fiends that got on the speed only to find they had no brakes. They couldn't slow down or stop and the end result was an orgy of carnage and fragmented pieces of what was unrecognizable as having once been among the speed freaks of the living in human form.
It's so hard to slow down when all your life you've wanted to go fast and ride hard. Still, TJ knew slammin meth was like putting a V8 turbo fuel injection engine meant for a heavy metal body/high performance car (Not that there is such a thing, but IF) and putting it in her small, economy Hyundai rattle trap and exchanging the motors. The small, light weight of the car's frame combined with the engine meant only for a big rig or oldsmopile Cadillac, high performance, and turbo charged to boot, made the user like a mad gorilla able to propel himself 10 times around a lap to his normie opponent’s one. Hell he could even fly off in orbit to Mars and back and maybe have 2 hours engine life left over before the inevitable crash.
High performance and race cars while operating on high velocity turbo charge blow out parts, tires, gaskets, equally as fast. They are down 4 times as often, in need of servicing 4 times as often, and their down time longer. Ignoring the repairs or maintenance on a "normie" model is one thing. Ignoring maintenance/repairs on race cars meant a swift and certain death though. Those high maintenance, high performance systems simply blow. One second pedal to the metal, next being hungrily consumed by half a dozen flames eagerly licking, tasting the dead burnt flesh passionately. The flames embracing the victims as if they were greeting a long lost lover on a one day leave.
Savoring every scrap of metal wreckage and burnt, crisp, human flesh of what had been but a thin, outline of bones, sunken face, hair, and half of the muscle mass of your standard normie human, the flames nevertheless consumed eagerly and ate voraciously of those that crashed. One second what had been human while on this plane of existence could very easily crash and be in the embrace of engulfing flames the next. How very easily she herself could have been and still could be consumed by a dozen flames should she ever actually be foolish enough to score 4 pounds, or even a pound of fine glass all at one. She knew as soon as she saw into the eyes of the contestants that scored 1 pound from 4 sources totaling 4 pounds that they were going to crash and burn fast. Something in their eyes. Half dead, yet half frenzied sort of energy. Ready to take off faster and harder than they were ever meant to travel without stopping.
Although her inner fiend would have grabbed it in a hot second had that opportunity crossed her path, the external forces whatever they are, be they fate, chance, or some super natural powers intervening to prevent her from encountering said opportunity, so far dangerous choices that to her would have or could have been fatal eluded her. Sighing and once again returning her attention to her tedious game of "Connect The Fiends" and visualizing any attempts at viable connections being severed and cut off yet again and disconnected, "Ok fine," she said out loud. It was those pesky gremlins only known to dope fiends (and even casual users hoping to score for that special occasion) were at it again.
Like a computer that caught a virus, the virus slowly (or rapidly) doing damage to programs, boot records, and files making access inaccessible, so are these gremlins a virus unseen to the naked eye, but she could see them in her mind's eye. She would have to go purchase a product called "Friendly Fiend," a spray that was a deadly poison to the meth gremlins. Couldn't go to the store that sold it until tomorrow though. They were closed on Sundays.
Hearing the radio start to blabber in her mental picture of the picture drawing at some dealer's pad in her "Connect the Fiends" drawing behind the scale by the dealer's phone came to life announcing, "Attention meth fiends! Are you tired of your connections not connecting? Are you disgusted with the waiting and red tape? Do you have a runner that cuts your dope or dents your stash? Are you tired of leeches trying to pawn off bogus dope as the real thing? Well great news! Visit our grand opening store "Meth Dealers Are Us!" We have dealers in all areas, and runners that we personally screened! These runners will sprint at the chance to supply you in your need for dope cause they are in need of your cash! They are guaranteed to be reliable and courteous at all times or your money back. Prices vary depending on the type of dealer. We have our top notch normie dealer prices starting at our one time only GREAT price of $500 (with no criminal record of theft) or if you want to try our 2nd and 3rd rate models, we have tweekers that deal for a one time $50 charge ($150 for Canadian dealers, Beverly Hills, and New York) so what are you waiting for? (tweeker dealers a bit more sketchy and liable to experience time lapses 2/3rd's off!) Tomorrow May 20th Visit the Grand Opening store Meth Dealers Are Us! 15069 Santa Monica Blvd where the Fast Lane and Crash and Burn off ramps collide. Certain restrictions apply."
Reaching into the animated drawing of "Connect the Fiends" she snapped off the radio. Making a mental note of the address and place of the store, TJ picked up her loaded rig and held it up to the radio and yelled, "RESTRICT THIS YA TWEEKER!." Fuckin broadcasters always tended to have this annoying habit of talkin shit and delivering nil. They were all heavy tweakers. At least the ones over the years she had met anyway.
TJ wasn't having any better luck than her imaginary little girl friend in the constant never ending parade of her mental pictures. TJ saw herself playing the adult version of "connect the dots." Sitting and diligently going about the task of playing "Connect the Fiends," her mind was showing her animated black shapes, ones with spiked hair representing fiends cause meth heads are up, awake, and stick out all the time. The other black shapes were shaped like large scales used for weighing large quantities of dope. On one side of the scales paradise in the form of crystals and the other side excessive amounts of $$$$$$ signs everywhere balancing out to big dope and big money. Behind the dealer's scale, she could see a banner in the background informing customers of 50% discount prices on large quantities, all of this taking place in TJ's mental picture of a sketched (no pun intended) drawing of this whole scene. In this sketch was some dealer's place, the banner, and a radio. The radio came to life.
A happy animated Shadow Steven’s like voice blared out of the speakers "Don't miss this bi annual dealer's special! The price is so low, it's practically a steal (thieves will be prosecuted to the fullest extend of the pusher's wrath. Only the finest cash paying customers need apply) Buy 2 pounds of glass and get your 3rd pound of the same or lesser quality ABSOLUTELY FREE! The supply won't last forever, it's going fast, so call now! Supplies are limited, as they were stolen off undercover cops and DEA agents making meth arrests of unfortunate dealers whose identities are unknown. Since the identity and whereabouts of the owners of this giant stock are unattainable, our team of dedicated meth dealers have done the next best thing.
They valiantly underwent a mission of great danger and the stakes are high, just like you, and any select cash paying meth head will be for the rest of his life, (which will SPEED by and you will be dead in 2 weeks, but you and your inner fiend are guaranteed to die with a smile folks!) So fellow meth heads of America, land of anal retentive corrupt War On Drugs staff from FBI, CIA, IRS, DEA, to your average Joe small scale undercover narcotic cocksuckers, don't let this sale of a life time go by! Call your local connections near you. Some restrictions do apply."
"They ought to bust you for false advertising, motherfucker!," said TJ to the voice on the radio after the commercial had finished. Once again turning her attention to "Connect the Fiends," after 3 hours (which was supposed to be 1) just as she was 99.9% finished drawing a line from a spiked shaped black form to a black scale balancing $$$$$ and bits of crystalline glass, the line had disappeared, then an animated black hand slammed down the telephone receiver behind the scales on a night stand at some dealer's place in this picture drawing. So as usual instead of connecting like her connections were supposed to do, these cocksuckers were terminating her link to meth and a dial tone could be heard followed by silence, indicating that connection was cut off.
"Fuck!Shit!Piss!Cunt Motherfucker Cursed Donkey Dicks," yelled TJ in frustration. What was more frustrating was she got yet another mental picture of a game show on TV. As the camera zoomed in on a couple tweekers playing the national televised game show "Connect The Fiends!" and so far 8 out of 10 tweekers had come out ahead easily drawing at least one (or more if they hit the jackpot) line from a fiend to a connection with success. The game show host could be heard saying, "Congratulations tweak freak couple number 3 you have scored a teenager. Place your $100 on the dealer's scale, make him richer, make you more tweaked! Thankyou for playing "Connect the Fiends!"
Another couple won an 8 ball. Then yet another couple won after putting up cash from not one but FOUR connections scoring 1/4 lb from each dealer. They all panned out at once. "WHOAA!," said TJ "Shit that would even be enough to kill me!," she proclaimed. Nah she wouldn't want to score THAT big. After all she wasn't greedy and besides she knew what happened to fiends that got on the speed only to find they had no brakes. They couldn't slow down or stop and the end result was an orgy of carnage and fragmented pieces of what was unrecognizable as having once been among the speed freaks of the living in human form.
It's so hard to slow down when all your life you've wanted to go fast and ride hard. Still, TJ knew slammin meth was like putting a V8 turbo fuel injection engine meant for a heavy metal body/high performance car (Not that there is such a thing, but IF) and putting it in her small, economy Hyundai rattle trap and exchanging the motors. The small, light weight of the car's frame combined with the engine meant only for a big rig or oldsmopile Cadillac, high performance, and turbo charged to boot, made the user like a mad gorilla able to propel himself 10 times around a lap to his normie opponent’s one. Hell he could even fly off in orbit to Mars and back and maybe have 2 hours engine life left over before the inevitable crash.
High performance and race cars while operating on high velocity turbo charge blow out parts, tires, gaskets, equally as fast. They are down 4 times as often, in need of servicing 4 times as often, and their down time longer. Ignoring the repairs or maintenance on a "normie" model is one thing. Ignoring maintenance/repairs on race cars meant a swift and certain death though. Those high maintenance, high performance systems simply blow. One second pedal to the metal, next being hungrily consumed by half a dozen flames eagerly licking, tasting the dead burnt flesh passionately. The flames embracing the victims as if they were greeting a long lost lover on a one day leave.
Savoring every scrap of metal wreckage and burnt, crisp, human flesh of what had been but a thin, outline of bones, sunken face, hair, and half of the muscle mass of your standard normie human, the flames nevertheless consumed eagerly and ate voraciously of those that crashed. One second what had been human while on this plane of existence could very easily crash and be in the embrace of engulfing flames the next. How very easily she herself could have been and still could be consumed by a dozen flames should she ever actually be foolish enough to score 4 pounds, or even a pound of fine glass all at one. She knew as soon as she saw into the eyes of the contestants that scored 1 pound from 4 sources totaling 4 pounds that they were going to crash and burn fast. Something in their eyes. Half dead, yet half frenzied sort of energy. Ready to take off faster and harder than they were ever meant to travel without stopping.
Although her inner fiend would have grabbed it in a hot second had that opportunity crossed her path, the external forces whatever they are, be they fate, chance, or some super natural powers intervening to prevent her from encountering said opportunity, so far dangerous choices that to her would have or could have been fatal eluded her. Sighing and once again returning her attention to her tedious game of "Connect The Fiends" and visualizing any attempts at viable connections being severed and cut off yet again and disconnected, "Ok fine," she said out loud. It was those pesky gremlins only known to dope fiends (and even casual users hoping to score for that special occasion) were at it again.
Like a computer that caught a virus, the virus slowly (or rapidly) doing damage to programs, boot records, and files making access inaccessible, so are these gremlins a virus unseen to the naked eye, but she could see them in her mind's eye. She would have to go purchase a product called "Friendly Fiend," a spray that was a deadly poison to the meth gremlins. Couldn't go to the store that sold it until tomorrow though. They were closed on Sundays.
Hearing the radio start to blabber in her mental picture of the picture drawing at some dealer's pad in her "Connect the Fiends" drawing behind the scale by the dealer's phone came to life announcing, "Attention meth fiends! Are you tired of your connections not connecting? Are you disgusted with the waiting and red tape? Do you have a runner that cuts your dope or dents your stash? Are you tired of leeches trying to pawn off bogus dope as the real thing? Well great news! Visit our grand opening store "Meth Dealers Are Us!" We have dealers in all areas, and runners that we personally screened! These runners will sprint at the chance to supply you in your need for dope cause they are in need of your cash! They are guaranteed to be reliable and courteous at all times or your money back. Prices vary depending on the type of dealer. We have our top notch normie dealer prices starting at our one time only GREAT price of $500 (with no criminal record of theft) or if you want to try our 2nd and 3rd rate models, we have tweekers that deal for a one time $50 charge ($150 for Canadian dealers, Beverly Hills, and New York) so what are you waiting for? (tweeker dealers a bit more sketchy and liable to experience time lapses 2/3rd's off!) Tomorrow May 20th Visit the Grand Opening store Meth Dealers Are Us! 15069 Santa Monica Blvd where the Fast Lane and Crash and Burn off ramps collide. Certain restrictions apply."
Reaching into the animated drawing of "Connect the Fiends" she snapped off the radio. Making a mental note of the address and place of the store, TJ picked up her loaded rig and held it up to the radio and yelled, "RESTRICT THIS YA TWEEKER!." Fuckin broadcasters always tended to have this annoying habit of talkin shit and delivering nil. They were all heavy tweakers. At least the ones over the years she had met anyway.
