В колонках играет - Papa Roach - ...to be Loved
Настроение сейчас - а какое по вашему мнению настроение может быть в субботу =)

Crackman



Chapter 1

Damien awoke of painfully loud thudding resounding throughout his apartment. For a brief, unpleasant moment, he was unclear on whether the noise was coming from inside his head or outside it. He realized that the source of the pounding was, in fact, his land lord banging furiously on the door, and wearily hoped he was hallucinating. He heard a woman’s voice, high pitched and borderline hysterical, and recognized it as Lesley Tyler’s, attempting to calm her furious husband. Although Damien found himself mere yards away from his front door, sprawled unceremoniously on the floor like an inanimate doll , standing up to open the door and confront his landlord seemed like a rather impossible task. It was only after five difficult, muscle-searing minutes that Damien managed to shuffle his way to the door and shakily twist the rusty doorknob until it clicked soundly in place.
“Yes Mr. Tyler?” he said hoarsely, blinking stupidly at the fluorescent hallway lights.
He slowly turned to look at Lesley, who stared at him briefly with large, mournful brown eyes, then averted her gaze to the dirty carpeted floor. No matter how many times Mrs. Tyler encountered Damien in the elevator or at the main desk; she was always struck by his appearance. Her doleful looks as she regarded his worn clothing, emaciated frame, and limp, greasy hair never failed to make Damien acutely uncomfortable in her presence. Whereas his wife extended sympathy to Damien, Larry Tyler felt no such pity in the face of Damien’s sickly eyes and skeletal frame. Currently, Larry Tyler, a broad shouldered bear of a man with a ruddy face and icy blue eyes, looked every bit as intimidating as his wife appeared frail and comforting.
“Where the hell is my rent?!” Larry demanded, clenching and unclenching the first which was not firmly grasped by Lesley. “It’s been three goddamn months, you say you need time, I give you time. More time? I give you more time. But you never pay, do you Crepsley?” Here, Larry paused, smiling unpleasantly. “Anything you earn or steal or whatever the hell you do for money ends up going in your arms! I know the drill now, ol’ Larry finally caught on! I want the rent in my hand, in my pocket, right NOW.”
Damien sighed heavily. He had been through this routine several times in the past four months, but this time there was a distinct threatening note in Larry’s usual tirade. The man would put up with no more excuses. Damien could think of no more excuses. He cleared his throat, shifting from foot to foot. Lesley did not look at him, and Larry’s smirk had disappeared entirely.
“Just two hours.” Damien said weakly. “Please Mr. Tyler, two more hours and you’ll get your money. I swear it, no more games.”
Larry’s fist stopped clenching, his shoulders slumped. He closed his eyes. After a long silence, he opened them again.
“You’re damn right no more games.” He said finally. “Tonight. I’ll give you till eleven o’clock. No money by then, I call the cops.” His stance hardened. He stared openly into Damien’s red-rimmed eyes with his penetratingly alert ones. “I’m not screwing around, kid.”
Larry turned away, towards the elevator, Lesley trailing behind him. She did not say goodbye. Damien was left standing dumbly in the open doorway, unmoving. He took a wobbly step back into his apartment and carefully shut the door.
“I have no money,” he said out loud.
This seemed to make the entire situation entirely more realistic. Damien had not a cent to his name, and what little money he used to earn from his job at a Laundromat was spent, wasted, on speed and most recently, cocaine. The drug habit guzzled money at an alarming rate, and he found that friends, family, everyone – seemed to simply vanish from his life, unwillingly yet forcefully excluding his poisonous self from their clean, pure, functioning lives. The more he found himself uninvited to family gatherings, rejected from social outings, and meticulously shunned in the street, the more he came to bitterly regard narcotics as his only, loyal companion. He had been a heavy speed addict for the past five years, and cocaine was progressively dethroning speed as his most important friend. He had overdosed three times in his career as a junkie, and had vowed emphatically to quit after each one. His most recent overdose, resulting in yet another trip to the hospital, was the final snip to the fraying threat connecting him and his few remaining friends and girlfriend. They had brought him, still wrapped in the teal colored hospital blanket, to his doorstep, and left. Damien, shivering and disoriented, did not acknowledge that this was the last time he would ever see his girlfriend and two best friends again. He slowly made his way to the kitchen, where a battered leather wallet lay limply on the grimy countertop. It was empty, barren, exempting one faded photograph of his girlfriend, smiling widely at the camera whilst sitting on an impossibly green stretch of lawn, the sun reflecting golden highlights in her hair.
‘It’s time to get some money, get a fucking job, get a job just for today, get some money,’ Damien thought disjointedly.
He made his way into the bathroom, staring hopelessly at his reflection in the stained mirror above the sink. He reached for a plastic comb lying in reach next to the tap, and then slowly let his hand drop by his side. He left the bathroom, left the apartment, and began walking the five blocks to the bank. He would sit there all day, and pray that one rich, kindly person would give him a ten dollar bill, or even a five dollar bill, and he’d have some money to give to Mr. Tyler. As he walked past a dark alleyway, the sun glaring in his eyes, the unexpected sight of a fist protruding from a wrinkled leather sleeve was conjured like magic in front of his face. He felt his lips smash against his teeth as the fist made contact, and then felt two strong hands drag him by the arms into the shadowy alley. Another iron fist hit him in the stomach, and he fell to the filthy floor. Propping himself up on his elbows, he spat blood on the floor, breathing heavily, struggling not to retch.
“Ah, Damien. So good of you to drop in.”
The same powerful hands that had pulled him into the increasingly nightmarish alley and beaten him to the floor pulled him up, steadying him. He found himself facing his drug dealer, immaculately dressed in a slate grey suit, looking ridiculously out of place in the fetid alleyway.
“Let him go.”
The thug behind him released him, and Damien wavered tipsily. The man Damien knew only as Gomez and a source for his habit smiled down at him from his impressive height.
“Creepy Crepsley.” He said silkily, regarding Damien with an unreadable expression. “I haven’t seen you for a while.”
Damien, wisely, kept silent. He heard Gomez’s bodyguard shift behind him.
“That is quite understandable. You do owe me about $6,000. None of which I assume you have. Am I correct in this assumption?”
Damien shoved his cold, clammy hands into his pockets. Various excuses, defenses, and pleas dangled invitingly in front of him, yet none of them would justify his late payment to the man standing in front of him. Gomez was simply a cat, waiting patiently for the mouse to tire before swiftly going in for the kill.
“I thought we had an agreement. I thought you were good, at first. Deliver a little for me, get a little for you. Good deal, but it requires trust, Damien. Trust.” He shook his head, his face the epitome of harmless disappointment.
Damien was not fooled. He felt his heart flutter wildly in his chest as what could only be the muzzle of a gun pressed against his neck.
Gomez’s face was a mask of disdain He watched Damien coldly. “I only regret that I will have to waste even more money on you.”
“What?” Damien said unsteadily. Hope pierced the thick black cloud of certain death hanging over him. Would Gomez simply let him work off his debt?
“This gun happens to require some especially expensive bullets.”
The heavy hand of Gomez’s bodyguard clamped down on his shoulder, forcing him to his knees. Damien closed his eyes and steeled himself for the shot. He heard cars pass by, chatter on the streets, and the loud whine of a police siren. He took in all these things yet did not acknowledge them. Then, like a flash, the hand was gone. He waited an eternity, then opened his eyes. Gomez was not in front of him. He realized the source of his salvation and was wracked with a sudden, brutal shudders. When it finally stopped, he was drained. The police siren he had heard on the street, of course. Gomez was not stupid enough to let the careless murder of a worthless junkie be the offense that put him behind bars. He stood up, slowly, shakily. Spitting on the ground, he felt mild relief that he was no longer bleeding. He wiped his mouth and winced, his lower lip was swollen and split, and his front teeth felt like glass. Damien took several steps backwards and leaned against the wall, breathing deeply. When he opened his eyes, thoughts of suicide floated in his mind, the end of a story not worth finishing. He smiled for the first time that day. As he ran his hands over his hair, preparing to spit again to rid himself of the unpleasant metallic taste in his mouth, he caught sight of something small and white among the brackish puddles and dark waste. It lay next to the faint imprint of a shoe, where Gomez had been standing. Damien bent down to examine it. A white baggy, filled with powder. Coke? Speed? Heroin? He couldn’t tell. He picked it up, feeling its weight. Whatever it was, there was a lot of it. A dangerous amount of it, in fact.
‘Might as well go out this way.’ He thought, shrugging as he pocketed the bag.

Chapter 2
On his way back to the apartment, he stopped in front of a Wal-Mart and received four dollars in change from various people entering and leaving the store. His next stop was a drug store, where he picked up a three dollar packet of syringes. He muttered something about diabetes to the clerk, but doubted he was fooling anyone. When he was back in his apartment, he studied the powder for a few more minutes, and was still as undecided about what it was as he had been when he found it. He measured out half the baggie. Whether it was cocaine, speed, or heroin, a dosage that large would be bound to do the trick. There would be no friends carting him off to the hospital this time, no chance of being foiled. He carefully prepared the powder, using a large blackened spoon and his faithful Bic lighter. When it was ready, he took a cotton pad from a half empty packet beside him, tore open the package of syringes, and filled the syringe to its full capacity. He expelled any air trapped inside the syringe, and flicked it with a practiced hand. He had no words for a suicide note. He realized, cynically, that junkies never left a note. There was no point. Everyone knew that the heavy addicts always reached the end of the tether within a few years, and he had had his few years. Rubbing his arm, which was vaguely bruised, he grinned, plunged the needle into his flesh, and forcefully pressed down on the plunger. The room filled with black fog then went dark. Then Damien started to see light. “NOOOO! I don’t want to die!”.“Shut up !You useless creation. Spent you life, this holy gift, on nothing! But I’ll teach you, yeah, I’ll do it.” Now Damien could better see the guy judging him. Tall, strong, serious. Looking like epical hero. “Now you are the cause and the king of your sin. Live with it. Help people. Or not”

первая часть нашего общего творения =) я дописал лишь явление ээпического мужика в конце =)

другие новости:
я спокоен
я проснулся пьяный
я поел завтрак сделанный не мной
мой друган из Швеции которого я не видел полтора года толкает меня в алкоджедаизм
но это сосна ниче =)
а еще я сеня нормально принял ванну
ну и нажрался у Миши перед сном =)


-Как сказать Я высчитываю угол
-Какой?
-Ну геометрический блядь какой еще =)

-How to say I am searching for an angle?
-What type of angle?
-Geometrical angle for fuck sake u idiout, what do u think I am doing?

фраза вечера =)))

Аррива пипл =)