Reptilian Update

Nov 27 2017

You know what opioid sweat looks like?

Your skin is gray and there’s this thin layer of cold, slimy sweat .

Its shiny filled with the biproducts of the drugs your body is expelling.

It does not drip. It sits. It collects.

It smells like poison when it dries in your clothes.

It stays with you.

When It comes off in the shower it’s like a film.

Dissolved by soap and hot water.

We had a customer that would trade painkillers for weed.

She lived close to the 9th Precinct on E 5th Street.

Mary Kay.

Have I talked about her before?

She’d call later in the night 8 or 9 o’clock when you’d already been on the clock for 11 hours.

Mary Kay knew at that point you’d take the pills.

Brain Fried from a day of traffic and dickheads.

Coffee and BCsters.

Legs sore from pushing fixed gear the whole day and into the night.

All Pedals…Like Meak’s track bike crew.

Financial District to Chelsea to the West Village to the East Vilage to the Lower East Side across the Williamsburg. Lorimer. Bad call. Go to Greenpoint.

Keep riding.

Back to Park Slope.

Flatbush back to downtown Brooklyn.

Back across the Manhattan Bridge.

Chinatown.

Back to the East Village.

Back to Mary Kay.

She was part of the 80’s east village.

Older.

Tougher than this 00’s East Village.

She had cancer and so many pills.

People think of addicts as victims or villians.

Mary Kay was neither of these things.

She just needed weed.

Nothing fancy.

Big chunks of mids.

The couriers joked about her.

“She’s from the 70’s.

They can’t handle real weed.”

She was a hoarder.

Crowded into a studio apartment.

Piles of magazines and costumes and jewelry and dresses.

We’d meet in the kitchen.

She pulls me in after I knock on her door.

Her neighbors might rat on her.

She says.

The refrigerator was old and green and covered with magnets.

Bills.

Dr’s Appointments.

Postcards.

One Fluorescent light on

Shining through a frosted dome

Stucco Walls

East village mint green.

There was a table in there. Piled high with fashion magazines.

All the doors covered with coats and scarves.

I never saw any food .

She had:

Morphine.

Oxycodone

Hydrocodone

Muscle relaxers.

Benzos.

Valiums.

Xanax.

Shit you never saw before.

Sometimes she was high as shit.

Covered in pill sweat.

With a sweater on. maybe a jacket.

a knit hat like Mary Tyler Moore.

Clammy hands.

Cold fingers as we exchange products.

hold on.

I’m going to take you back to the early 90’s when the free masons and the Illuminati was discussed on summer nights sitting on walls or standing on corners by crews of skateboarders and graffiti writers.

Before the real track bike explosion.

Older kids schooling the youth about the pyramids on the dollar bill.

The Freemason Temple in Philadelphia is close to Love Park.

It captured your imagination.

There was no real internet to research these things.

Knowing anything about conspiracy theories put you on a step above those that didn’t.

NYC 2000.

There was a show on Public Access.

Real late night.

3:30-4:30 in the morning.

Three Black Israelites really getting into it.

VHS tape quality and titles.

The leader sits at the table.

His hype man next to him

Behind them the biggest member stands silent.

This one episode they had a Conan the Barbarian comic book out on the table.

The hype man reads.

Going through it panel by panel.

Talking about Cimmeria as if it were a real place.

Bible quotes to explain the comic book panels.

I’d watch this show. Drunk and high as fuck. Hands covered with paint.

I loved it.

I’d been exposed.

Take it back even further.

High School

Before I heard about Free Masons and the Illumaniti.

Before I heard about Yakub.

I thought of myself as a realist.

I didn’t believe in god or the bible in anyway.

Roman Catholic Dad

Methodist Mom.

No Church except with grandparents.

Sunday School.

My parents lied to my grandparents.

Told them we went to church.

not sure how long they kept that up.

When Hare Krishna made its big move into the remants of the straight edge/ youth crew scene I wanted to know more.

I had a crush on this girl Billy who moved from Toronto to New Jersey.

She was a devotee.

a year or two older.

Maybe she was recruiting.

Or maybe she wanted a friend.

I went to the temple she went to in north jersey.

At some point down the line

we got to the part about people existing

at the same time as dinosaurs.

I lost interest.

I couldn’t be a believer.

I lost touch with Billy.

2001 East Village

Standing in Mary Kay’s crowded kitchen.

Maybe she was a dancer or an actress at some point.

Her stove piled high with hat boxes and newspapers and magazines.

Her forehead shining.

Pale skin.

Glassy eyes.

Now she’s mumbling and she starts in:

she hates Democrats.

a quick and painless slide into Lizard People.

She’s explaining who’s really in charge.

Telling you who’s a reptilian.

Telling you how to spot them.

Shapeshifters.

You need to be careful.

“You know the only way I’m leaving is when they drag my cold dead body out of here.”

A smile maybe.

Some quiet laughter and I’m going down the stairs.

Take a cocktail of pills before I walk back out onto the street.

Stand in the lobby of her building.

So cold outside.

Open up any capsule and pour it onto my tongue.

No gelatin for me.

Chew some other pills or dry swallow.

That horrible bitter pill taste.

Pager goes off.

One more call.

Far out in Brooklyn.

The pills kick in on the way across the bridge.

My own Pot Belge.

By the time I reach that final call I’m gone.

Obliterated.

Smoke a cigarette standing on a dark corner,

Reach down and tag on a garbage can.

my bag full of receipts.

my brain swimming in fuzz.

body numb.

not cold anymore.

pedal home.

all pedals.

Stop at the deli.

buy a 40 or a six pack.

whatever.

roll the biggest joint.

sit on the couch at home.

Nightly News on TV.

Sound down.

radio on.

talking on the phone.

making plans.

go out and do it.

blackout nihilism-post idealism.

experience and action.

destroy the moment.

come home and turn on public access.

black israelite show might be on.

2017

Alex Jones with the opiod sweat look

Screaming about Reptilians

and fluoride in the water.

The president loves him.

I wonder if Mary Kay is alive.

I wonder if she is into infowars

I can’t picture it. Sitting in the same apartment.

More stuff on the stove. And on the table.

Pepe the Frog poster on her wall.

No fucking way.