So because of this crippling addiction, we sold everything. My landlord was in love with me so we didn’t get kicked out when anyone else would have been. The cops were always there busting in with guns drawn. Swastika boy asked one if he could touch his gun. They were not impressed. One of the cops hung around. He asked me where my grow was. Said he had only been on the force for a year and knew I had one. I did. The damn cop took out a penknife and made me cut my own plants down.
That cop had the balls to pull me over a few weeks later because my plate didn’t match my car. Asked if I had any pot. Told him hell no. He laughed and gave me a pen to fill out the forms I needed to transfer my plates to the new car. All the while he was complaining that my plants had reeked out his car. That it still smelled. That the guys at the station were making fun of him. Tough tits man. Tough. Tits.
Suppose I wasn't much better than swastika boy. They pulled us over again as they tended to do whenever they saw us. Some guy with a warrant was driving. I was drunk and had like five crack pipes in various places hidden around the car. Ordered us out and searched the car. I poked my finger into one of those bullet-proof vests they wear. Just to get his attention. They gave us back our shit and sent us on our way. Should have been taken down then but cops like me. It isn't mutual. Guess its because I look so small and girly innocent. I’ve never been arrested despite all this shit. I was always the mule, they never suspected I was carrying anything.
This other guy came around. Him I will name only because it was so damn memorable. Johnny Pipes. He was a lift, could steal anything. Also was an aspiring tattooist. Offered to give me one, I declined. He held me up with a box cutter for a few hours one day. I wouldn’t give him anything he wanted. Knew he wouldn’t cut me. Well, he could have. But I was confident. He was a lift, not a murderer. Left his tattoo gun and sketchbook at my place. I still have that sketchbook. Not sure what happened to the tattoo gun. Probably pawned it.
He showed up again a few weeks later. Tried to get in my car. Asked me if I was mad. Yes, Pipes. I’m mad. Didn’t see him much after that. Jail I suppose.
Back to my landlord. He was this fifty-something, huge guy. I’ve known him since I was eight or nine. He used to date my riding teacher. Did mechanic work for the hells angels. Those kinds of people often came over to drink. He had a fridge that he had rigged up to dispense beer out of a spigot. I’d play beer wench in exchange for beer. Sometimes they asked me to dance or get in the hot tub. I did a lot of stuff in exchange for beer or money.
Had a short-lived affair with the son of this guy that ‘owned’ a grow house for the bikers. He had gotten in an accident street racing. Was in a wheelchair so it was a pretty innocent affair. He took me to their clubhouse. Being an idiot I had no idea who these big guys on bikes were until it was pointed out later.
Used to go to the skin bar they owned downtown because I knew heaps of the guys there and they didn’t ID. Still wasn't old enough to be in a bar. Remember the fake vanilla and stale beer smell of the place. It was always poorly lit, even in the mornings. They used to serve breakfast. Tits and eggs. Dingy, seedy, my kind of joint.
The strippers always smelled sweet like candy. I used to slip them the occasional bill. Think the guys liked seeing me do that. One girl did a set where she danced to Closer by NIN. Wore a little tie and hat. I really liked her, we talked sometimes. Pretty sure they all knew I was underage. That place got shut down.