Tuesday, March 1, 2005

The Hell of Bang Bang Bang

I am fortunate enough to know the nicest drug dealer on the face of the earth. Not only will he extend a credit line the size of a Third World Country's GDP, ride his bike in the rain to meet me at 6am at someone's house to deliver but he will also give me a Christmas present and a Birthday card. His name is...no.

This has not always been the case however. Many years ago at a club known affectionately as Revolta, I happened across a man who would become the Only Man Who Ever Pulled A Motherfucking Gun On Me. His name I shall happily share, as I am pretty damn sure he will be by now either dead, in Jail or at the very least, kicking back Dealer stylies and not in the least bit concerned with some motherfucker's blog.

His name was Ray. And even though I am Satan I still feel a pang of shame when I honestly say that I really do hope that scary man is actually dead.

It all began at my going away bash, the night I finished working at Beat Magazine. Everyone feeling the lurve we of course decided that there would be a shitload more love to be felt if we coonie-eyed ourselves up and got all festy touchy on the couches by taking some ecstasy. I thought this was an especially good idea as there happened to be a hot little blonde girl amongst us and I was sure as Hell that if I pumped her full of drugs it would follow that I would have the opportunity later in the night to pump her full of me. Now, for a music magazine Beat had remarkably few contacts in the area of Pharmaceutical Phriends. I, however, was always of the opinion that if you don't ask you don't get, so downing a shot of Absolut Mandarin (this blog now being sponsored by WLTBWA) I proceeded to scope out Revolta for a suitably suss looking banana.

I didn't have far to look. Ray was new in town and he was also looking for a suitably suss looking banana.

Thus our Mind-Banana-Meld began.

He approached me with typical forthrightness.

"Hello mate, do you want pills? If you want pills, I'll give you 20 for $15 each and you can meet me here next week and give me all the money"

*Cue soundtrack: Pennies From Heaven. (Not your Pennie Kranki, though I'm sure she's a little angel)

Later in the night, I discovered that all 20 pills had somehow found their way into either my mouth or the mouths of my friends with little or no money being exchanged. Whatevs, I was cashed up back in those halcyon days so I had no problem reimbursing Ray the following week.

All good. Except, these were my TOTALLY FUCKING WILD DRUG PIG FANATIC DAYS and a guy who keeps wanting to give you more and more pills to sell for him at ridiculously cheap prices was not exactly the sort of thing I needed at that point. Well, actually it was exactly the sort of thing I needed but....you know.

Needless to say over the next few months I was a hit at many a fancy soiree, and even more that were not so fancy. In fact some that were downright fucking fucked up. I would go to Ray's, he would give me sometimes 20, 30, 40, 50 pills and off I would frolic a happy little clam necking these fuckers like there was no tomorrow and selling them cheepcheep to all my friends.
Tonight we're gonna party like it's 1999...

Except it was 2000. I think, my memory is very hazy...

There were times I would go to his house and he would offer to make me a cup of tea. I would accept not wanting to appear like a ungrateful guest. Ray would open his kitchen cupboard and thousands of pills would fall out and he would exclaim, "Hahahaha, I've been looking for those!"

Don't you just hate it when that happens! Yeah...I know I do.

One rainy day I was driving my girlfriends car down Chapel St when I stopped at an intersection. All of a sudden there was a sharp rapping at the passenger window and there stood Ray ten times a' crazy. I let him in. He asked me to drive him home.

About a block later he pulled out a gun.

I used to live on a farm with an old Vietnam Vet. He had all sorts of guns and would let me take them out to the paddock and the shoot the absolute fuck out of trees and shit. BANG BANG! Woohoo! An old .303 sniper rifle, a pump action shotgun even an underloading old school cowboy Winchester Rifle. BANG BANG! Woohoo! We used to hunt Wild Goats up on Mt Delegate and I was always concerned that he was having some creepy Nam Flashback where all of a sudden he'd yell out "You're Charlie! DIE!!!!" Thankfully that never happened. Maybe it was because I was his Pot Supply and he knew not to fuck with me.

Anyway I'm generally pretty comfortable around guns, when they're in MY hand. But when there's a psychotically deranged drug dealer in the passenger seat of my car waving a pistol around and mumbling shit like, "They think they're boss of me, they think they're the boss of me, fuck him, FUCK HIM, I'm gonna fuck that fucker up. Then I'M THE FUCKING BOSS" well, refer back to the shitting of my pants story if you want to know how that made me feel.

It wasn't the whole gangster thing that scared me. At my mother's funeral her past came out and I had a bona-fide Hitman sit down next to me whilst I was staring into space and ask me in all honesty if I'd like my Step Father whacked. I said no, it's cool, but thanks for asking. I've never seen that guy again. Pity, i've got a big list now.

No, it was THE GUN. EEEK! THE GUN! And the fact that I owed Ray $280 at this point. EEEK! THE GUN!

Just keep driving, he said.

I didn't wanna. I wanted to go home. I wanted a beer or a hot chocolate or a marshmallow or a doona or a fucking pacifier at this point...

I tried my luck. I mean I really fucking tried my luck.

Sorry Ray, I've really got to be somewhere mate, I'm really sorry, can I just drop you here?




They talk about how time can stop. Five of the longest seconds of my life they were as his empty fucking eyes stared straight at me. As did the not so empty chamber of that fucking gun.






Yeah. Sure Matty. See you soon.


But I never did. And fuck me, I hope I never do.

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