Fraser Magor: "The Things That Happenned Last Night"

The Things That Happened Last Night

The plastic is torn away in stages like the instructions say. The strong smell of cigarette smoke, booze, and warm man refuse to be dominated by the exposed portion of green paper tree.

What font do I think in? What the fuck goes through my head that you'd want to type out?

The unlikely assault of freshly picked pine.

He whipped out a whole new car-fresh pine stage just for me. Asshole. You smell worse than me, fuckwad. Doesn't even have the guts to pull the plastic all the way off his cheap fucking Car-Fresh stink tree. No one ever does that. You just rip it away and deal with too much pine.

This fucker is too fucking anal, eh.

Fucking, eh anal. Fucking eh fucking null anal.

Static, beeps.

No one does this tearing away in stages thing like it says in the instructions. No one is this anal. Rock Hudson wasn't this anal.

Calling out.

I can't deal with this shit right now, I'll get back to him in a minute or two.

Creaking and shaking.

Fuck OFF, buddy don't touch me jesus fucking christ I'm just fuck it fuck buddy

So, FUCK OFF.

"Pardonmepleasesir"

They always call you sir when they're angry.

Sharp.

Was that percussive impact, or a noise so sharp it stung my forehead...hey I just thought the word "percussive" without even trying.

Sharp.

"Owch"

A ripple of clarity that dissipates as fast as does the cool of the other side of the pillow.

Asshole flicked me, Twiceost of them just shake you a bit. Shake, shake, shake...shake senora, shake, shake, jump in de line, move your body in time okay I believe you. Who was that? Was that Buster Poindexter? Yeah, good old Busty.

Sharp.

"Owch, fuckmanalright!"

Sit up. Wordless fumbles with a slim, steerskin wallet.

Right in the forehead, Prick. I wish I was racist.

A one eyed peer at crisp banknotes smoothly moving to the withdrawal of the perfect amount of tender legal tender.

That leaves a mark, I make Allah jokes.

A complete reversal of the pantomime that just occurred.

Blessedly unscented air.

I'm gonna freeze my balls off out here. This is insane, I can't go inside, I have to pee. I can't pee in there, my mother lives in there. I can't pee with her in there, fuck.

The immediate bite of the damp west coast air brought him a delicate focus that carried a shattering moment of crystal clear thought that held fast. It was late. In fact it was exactly

according to his thrashed Timox (purchased for three american dollars in Northern Mexico, "Real oo-tent-ick Swish, senor. No shit for you. I-M is Swish for A-M, you'll see, meester.")

But where the hell have I been?

The narrow, car lined street didn't say where he had been, only that he was here now. The Yellow Cab that had just pulled away from the curb. The venom that he felt that it's driver so richly deserved died on his tongue.

The instrusive tatoo of the cab's four-way blinkers turned the corner, still beating a pulsing orange message into the deep night. He could hear the steady drone of traffic just a few blocks away but apart from the foul smelling cabbie who flicked him, he was the only sentience on the street. Everyone on the block was deep down into deep down duvets, or arranged in bizarre post-coital snooze positions. He wiped his mouth with the back of a pale hand and looked up at his watch.

Up?

"Two ten in the eye-emm," he said, "have I been passed out in these fucking hedges for ten L's?"

He had done just that.

Foggy recollections of slipping his keyring into an oversized, novelty martini glass began to emerge. He located his spare house key deep within his now pine scented, bluejeans. It was tied to a glow in the dark condom which told him that this was not the first time this particular key had been out of his pocket this evening.

Unsoiled prophylactic in my possession, no wonder I came home. I bet they kicked my drunk ass out.

Next, he discovered that he'd had himself dropped off two doors down from his house, instantly solving the mystery of "Why This Fucking Key Doesn't Work".

I don't live here. Big fucking deal, fucking NDP household won't mind a squatter in their fridge. Do you have any Grey Poupon?

He shouted, "fucking NDP household! Go fuck a superferry, you Stephonopolous cocksucker. Don't just resign, Glen. Give back our jobs and THEN resign, BITCH! Ian Waddel's cultural cock with an N-B-I peeler ya dyke! Turns your stomach to think about anything but dirty nailed pool boys bangin Sheila Copps! Who the fuck gave you that haircut Christopher Reeves? You look like Ralph Nader!"

Pinko fucks aren't even home, and I bet the only put the sign out front because it matched their fucking perennials.

No one said Steev could hold his liquor, but by all that is degrading and painful he can cuss you inside-up-stupid faster than a drunk Australian in Whistler after the Mad Max trilogy and a half sack of Fosters. As drunken and sloppy as he was, our Mr Steev Fanning took an important cue from his body. It knew Steev's intended verbal assault was not to be played to completion. It saw whippy blue clouds that lashed across the deep velvet sky and played over the face of a bone white half moon.

It felt the the delicate sounds of trees growing, and the moist symphony of the worms as they consumed and defecated their way through the connected flora of Mrs. Fannings beautiful rhododendrons. His nose could smell the clorophyl laced oxygen that the new grass under his feet was busily creating, and after three or four ticks on his Timox, Steev punctuated this free display of Darwinism, grace, and raw majesty with a musical belch.

The key to his front door unlocked the locked lock of his front door. Unlocking the locked lock with less grace than you've already pictured was difficult, but Steev doesn't disappoint. The unlocking of the front door caused the ripping of screen door.

Inside, fuck finally. Homo sweet home. I'm not gay, but if I was I wouldn't tell the cocksuckers in radio school, They'd just try and make me fuck Svend Robinson. Svend you wild and crazy guy, you.

Memory gap

After an eventful but dumbfounding stint with the cool, mocha-frost coloured porcelain, Steev felt much relief. He sipped gingerly at a plastic cup of lukewarm water and inwardly remarked on the lucid feeling he'd finally recovered from the beery depths.

Oh THERE I am...

"How the hell did I get home?" he asked his reflection. His reflection didn't say.

Steev is not a habitual user of recreational drugs. Not that he's scared of what they'll do to him, on the contrary. He's scared he'll like what they do to him. Before tonight he had never dabbled in the secret sins of cocaine. This night he felt strong. It had been a good day, and he felt that his constitution could handle a little white line.

"Sure," he thought at 9pm, "a bit of blow, cuttin rails, choppin em up with a card on a disc case, doin some Charlie, some vitamin C, gotta get up-town, blowin rails...not a problem"

He nervously rolled a twenty dollar bill in his fingers as the crap coke was scattered all the over the fucking place as it was crushed and organized on the plastic CD case that is ironically used to keep dust off. The bill Steev had rolled into a tube was not his own. He had, "sprung for half the trip uptown, and this particular twenty dollar bill was now the property of the scary, but friendly enough young man with the gun shaped bulge under the left breast pocket of his black blazer.

Oh fuckin eh, he's coke head crip. Great.

I should shout nigger in his face. White people hate that.

I hate white people.

It was at that point that Steev wanted instead to do the MDMA he'd been offered earlier. Same twenty bucks, but the EXTC dealer had talked endlessly about good rave dj's, and how the scene is moving back under ground. The other guy, the blow guy, acted like he'd never had any fun in his life. Plus the guy who was cutting and crushing and cutting and crushing was getting dirty looks from the best looking women in the small apartment; those women lived there and...I'll call my piece of shit good buddy...BiL, did not live there.

After he bought I actually talked to the dealer and was the one who physically handed him the cash the shitty half gram of what passes for cocaine in poor neighborhoods he actually had people move an entire game of Risk to make room for him. So much for subtle. He talked the whole time he broke the flap into a manageable paste. Steev knew more than BiL gave him credit for, he could tell right away just because of the way he was talking. The whole time we were stuffing plastic and poison up our noses he maintained a steady stream of chatter, and chatter, and more chatter. The more he talked the less I believed, and besides he had a ripe booger that I was eagerly watching, hoping that it would fly across the table into coke guy's drink. Anyhow I could tell BiL was full of shit with three casual observations:

Things that told Steev

that BiL was full of shit

BiL said he once bought shit off Bindy Johol in the back of the 7=11 in Pitt Meadows. The crap alarm almost snapped a spring.

BiL said his 1991 Harley Davidson Fatboy needed a new belt. 91's are chain driven, not only that the only way BiL could afford a Harley is if he sold his entire family to Philipino whore traders, and slave vendors.

There was one thing though that tipped me off more than anything else. Two things, really.

The Clues that marked BiL as "Full Of Shit"...

BiL is a stupid fuck.

BiL is a STUPID FUCK.

Not accustomed to the three ^{cheap little} lines of ^crap cocaine ^{which he could still taste} that ^{a fucking stupid fuck of}a friend had^{sloppily, poorly and in plain view of others} carved out for him, Steev remained awake in bed.

Then, like a great, black wind through the bones came

Terrible Desire

itchy sweat and sleep miles away can't stay awake can't just do nothing, nothing I can do but gotta do something besides sit here and make tooth-powder with my manly but overactive jaw which is crushing my teeth

RELAX

...maybe I'll

...nope can't do that, coke doesn't let you do that

...damn thing can hardly piss let alone do

THAT

all those great-sex rumours are lies

I'll read, read because what's on tv

no tv rots your brain and my

brain hurts and won't stop

spinning in circles of grotesque

spinning

in grotesque circles of

spinning in circles of

porno internernet web browser

spinning in circles of web porno internetterneter spinning in

FuckFUCK

!!!

A Moment of Reflection

"I really should have listened to Fraser," Steev meant to pontificate unto his attentive flock of fluffy stuffed things that adorned his otherwise tastefully decorated room, "Fraser says cocaine is a bad for me and that I should resist the temptation to try it"

His stuffed bears, kitties, and a googley-eyed OJ Simpson Acquittal Figurine has aural apparatus heard nothing but:

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck Fra, gotta call Fra, gotta get more"

Then he stopped breathing

and his eyes became fixed and dilated for a full three Mississippi's.

Breathless.

Immobile.

No More No More No More No More No More No More No More No More