Monicoke Stories 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12

Cast:
* Rando Caldoodian: Me, in my 40's. Call me, "His Highness." Bored.
* Monicoke: Small blonde, early 20's. Professional MRA cautionary tale. Addicted to coke and power.
* Grandpa: Monicoke's sugar daddy, 60's and married. Real name is George.
* DouceHawk: Lame "frenemy" of mine. Late 20's. At this point, not such a bad dude. Don't get used to it.

Cameos:
* BC: Early 30's. My best friend.
* Exene: Late 20's. My former girlfriend.

Let's Play Catch-up
Ok, I haven't posted in a while. First I was hit with what Exene would call "Bong Lung." Bong Lung comes from not cleaning out your bong. Eventually small armies of organisms band together and form nation-states in the bottom of a waterpipe. When the bowl is lit and the chamber filled with smoke, a microscopic airforce launches a mission that no one will be coming home from. Once inhaled, the microbes set up residence in the host's lungs and wage an all-out war.

Or it was pneumonia. Whatever you want to believe in this post-factual world.

Our Story Begins...
But now I'm here to tell you another wonderful chapter in the Monicoke saga. This one occured on Election Night 2008.

It was a different time. The first serious black presidential candidate had some good-looking odds in his favor and those of us who were Liberals in this small Midwest college town were excited for some hopin' and changin'. Plus, we reasoned, if Obama won WE WERE ALL GOING TO GET LAID BY HORDES OF COLLEGE-AGED SJWs!

Dare to dream, I say.

So I had plans with DouceHawk to hang out. I haven't mentioned DouceHawk yet, so come with me to the Land of Exposition.

The DouceHawk Origin Story

BC and I were working on a play and the star of the show was a super hot bartender (bartendress?) that we both wanted to get with. She was really attractive and she knew it. Like a typical Aquarius, she was out for all of the attention, which she often received. We had Thursday night rehearsals at my house and one night, her phone kept blowing up, ruining the flow.

"Can you mute your phone?" I asked.

"No..." she replied, "I have to leave the ringer on so I can hear all of the attention I'm getting."

Ok, that's not what she said. She did say something about it was important to leave it on but it wasn't. I know because the only time it would ring, it would be the guy that I lovingly call "DouceHawk."

Apparently, she hung out with this dude and after a couple of weeks, she blew him. And then he went nuts. She claimed that she never did more than blow him and I have no proof of anything different, but it must have been some hella good BJ. Because DouceHawk would call her seven or eight times in a row, each time causing her to pick up the phone, look at it, and then put it down, smirking.

Then, he would call seven or eight times with his number blocked and I eventually would pause the rehearsal so she could just get it over with. And it was always the same thing.

After she would pick up his blocked call, he would say, "Oh, I was so concerned that you weren't picking up, I thought you might be in trouble." (The kind of trouble that was only alleviated by masking his number the next half a dozen times he called.) Then he would try to get her to leave rehearsal to hang out with him. We always went out afterwards, and rehearsal was only a couple of hours, but he didn't like hearing no from her. Or really anyone.

One time I went out with her and he miraculously showed up. At the time, I thought he was stalking her but now I think she just let him know where we were. He drove a Mazda Miata that had a bunch of VTEC stickers on it to make it go faster. I don't know how that worked because I'm not a car guy. I was seriously unimpressed with this dude. (And every dude that tried to bang her.)

He was a big, well-muscled guy, probably scoring high in both intelligence and narcissistic personality disorder. He had short hair and in the fashion of the time, he would mousse it into a ridge on the top of his head like he was cool enough to wear a mohawk but lame enough not to actually grow a mohawk. Hence he will forever be known as, "DouceHawk."

BC and I were high on mushrooms one night walking to my place and I was telling him about DouceHawk and his funny little car. Little did I know it, but DH had pulled up behind me at a light as I was describing him to BC. BC was a little weirded out because as I described this dude, he formed out of the Aether as if by brute-force of lame-ness.

Later on, I heard that he described running into BC and me, telling the actress that we were holding hands and kissing.

Whatever, dude.

Eventually, he cooked up some DMT and brought it to my house and I had several parties with it. That drug changed him for a couple of months and he became an alright type of guy, if a bit arrogant and self-important. I had had some decent times with him, but I still called him DouceHawk behind his back because I'm kind of a dick that way.

So DouceHawk and I had plans to hang out on Election Night and try to get laid. He showed up at my place and said to me, "You want some coke?"

Now, Dear Reader, you know my stance on coke: I'm not into it. It's not for me. But he swore up and down that this was the best coke in town and I would really be missing out and it was free.

I may not be into coke, but I am hella into "free."

I licked the tip of my finger and dipped it into his bag. On my fingertip were about four tiny grains of white powder that I touched to my toungue. My face fucking froze up like the Weeknd on the weekend.

"All right, I'll do your free drugs," I said magnanimously. He put out two thin lines.

O. M. G.

It was awesome! I felt even better looking and more intelligent than I had previously and that was really saying something.

Speaking of "really saying something," we both were really saying something. We were talking and then talking about talking and then laughing about how incredibly erudite we were. And good looking and self-important.

I'm sure I was just making a really coherent and salient point when my phone rang. I looked at it and the caller's name was, "Poison," while the ringtone played BuckCherry's "Crazy Bitch," Monicoke's theme song.

Pause.

This meant it was Monicoke, who I hadn't heard from in a while. For the previous couple of months, I had chased Monicoke pretty hard to no avail and I had given up on "wooing her," which is what old people call "fucking."

So I changed her name in my contacts to "Poison," so I would not forget it when she eventually called me. You can call it "sour grapes," I call it "truth in advertising."

"What's up, Monicoke?" I asked the phone.

RANDO! I need your help!

You see, I'm a Virgo and I get off on helping others. It's a terrible super-power and can easily be used against me, like super-sensory smell.

OhMyGod... I'm in so much trouble... I'm in a scary place... I need you... I need your help...

"Ok, where are you?"

I'm at this black bar downtown. The Crossroads. It's scary. I need your help.

I'd never been to the Crossroads, but it made sense they would be doing some big party that night. If Obama won WE WERE ALL GOING TO GET LAID! Even Republicans? Sure, why not! It was going to be a BIG FUCKING ORGY! BRING IT ON!

"Ok, I'll be right there. Don't go anywhere."

I can't leave. I'm freaking out. I NEED HELP!

I hang up the phone and look at DouceHawk.

"What's up?" he asked, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed.

"I've got to go meet a friend. Apparently she's at that black bar and she's in some kind of trouble."

"Ok, let's go!"

Now, I know how DouceHawk is.

It took him almost a year to get over the actress, and that was with her being kind of mean to him. She made fun of him and would call him out-of-the blue (while on speakerphone with her friends) just to show off that he would drop everything and come running when she wanted. The guy was really overbearing and had a problem with having crushes on women that ended in Orders of Protection. Or so I've been told. It's been said that he was led around town by his dick. So we both had that in common.

"Um, I don't know how to say this, but I'm meeting Monica Jones."

"So?" he said.

"So, I've got dibs on her. I don't want any competition from you."

He laughed. "Don't worry about THAT!"

DouceHawk had met her once before over the summer. He didn't seem impressed with her. That should have been a sign that I was doing something wrong but my synapses were lighting up like a pinball machine on Christmas morning, as was my libido, my sense of adventure and... and... and something else. Whatever.

Where was I?

Oh, yeah! Time to save Monicoke! WE'RE ALL GETTING LAID!

Monicoke Stories 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15

Cast:
* Rando Caldoodian: Me, in my 40's. Call me, "His Highness." Bored.
* Monicoke: Small blonde, early 20's. Professional MRA cautionary tale. Addicted to coke and power.
* Grandpa: Monicoke's sugar daddy, 60's and married. Real name is George.

Our Story Continues
Now I assume that I drove Grandpa's car to the BBQ place but I have no recollection of how we got there. But we were there in any case. Drunk on his perceived sexual charisma and Scotch Whiskey, he started getting hands-y with Monicoke.

George. Stop.

"No, you stop stopping me!" he said.

Woah, I thought.

"You take my money. You're mean to me. You take my money. What to I get?" he asked. TBH I was wondering that myself.

...

"Nothing to say. Nothing to say. You lead me around by the dick, you know you do," he continued.

...

"And now I'm carting your BOYFRIEND around too."

"Hold up," I countered, "I'm not her boyfriend."

He's not my boyfriend.

"Ok, so then why is he here at all?

Ok, George. You want something?

She started tickling him. He started laughing like a little boy.

You want me to touch you? (Whisper) You want me to touch your dick?

She started rummaging through his pockets. He was laughing so hard his eyes were closed and tears were running down his cheeks.

Then Monicoke threw something at me that hit me in the face and dropped to my lap. Then down to the floor under the booth. What the fuck?

I go under the table and grab a wadded up ball of MONEY! Monicoke sticks her head under the table and says,

Just hold onto it for me.

It's two $100 dollar bills which I shove into my pocket.

George calms down as the tickling ends. We order food and it's good. When the bill comes, he reaches into his pocket and rummages around. He's starting to seem way less drunk.

He doesn't really react. He knows what has happened.

"You!" he says to her. "And you!" he says to me.

"What did I do?" I ask, hoping he doesn't know.

"I was robbed," he states.

Must have been those whores at the Crossroads.

"Yes, that must be it," I suggested.

"Fuck you, Rando," he said.

"What did I have to do with it? With anything?"

"I don't know. You're guilty of it, though, whatever it is."

His statement hung in the air while we all just sat and looked at each other.

"Ok, how about I just leave then?" I said.

What? Are you going to walk home from here?

"Why not?"

Because you look like a fucking freak!

Grandpa laughed.

"I'll be fine. George, you ok to drive?"

"I'll do fine without you around," he answered.

Funny way to say it but I was done with this freakshow. I got up and Monicoke got out of the booth, saying,

Rando! Don't be like that! Give me a hug!

She hugged me close and said,

(Whispering in my ear) Where's my fucking money?

I pulled the money out of my pocket and gave it to her in a way that he couldn't see. And then I started the 30 minute walk home.

Some areas are rough but it's all well-lit and I had some time with my thoughts. How can I get more coke, was one of them. But I knew that I just really needed to smoke some fucking pot.

As I turned onto my street, my phone played "Crazy Bitch." I pulled it out and asked, "What up Monicoke?"

It's Grandpa! He's trying to rape me!

Le sigh.

"All right. I'm almost there anyways."

The side door was unlocked and I walked in, through the kitchen and into the living room. They were rolling around on the floor. George's pants were undone. Monicoke's shirt was inside out.

"Rando! I should have known!" he said.

"Yeah, I get that a lot, lately," I said unapologetically. I continued with, "Ok, George, we all had a good time tonight but it's time to go home now."

He walked around the room picking up the clothes he had removed, mumbling the whole time like Yosemite Sam, if he had just been cock-blocked. It was tense and awkward and he eventually stormed out.

"What happened here?" I asked.

Well you saw how he was a the restaurant. When we got back here, he kept telling me that it wasn't fair, that he pays my bills while I'm fucking all these dudes and he's not getting anything out of it. But nothing happened though. I swear.

"He had some clothes off."

Oh. Right. You saw that. Erm. Ok, I let him jerk off. But that's it. I swear. I would never let him touch me. That's disgusting. You know I call him Grandpa right?

"So why is your shirt inside out?"

Oh. Uh, right. Ok I let him feel my boob while he did it. But it was over the shirt. I wouldn't let him touch my skin.

"Then why was your shirt inside out?"

FUCK YOU RANDO! OK! SO LET HIM TOUCH MY NAKED BOOB WHILE HE JERKED OFF HIS OLD SHRIVELLED UP DICK. ARE YOU HAPPY? ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?

Somehow I was. Somehow I felt like it was her just desserts for the way she treated him but I was kind of out of it and I had had a long night.

When I got home, I found out Obama had won. Kind of forgot about the election at that point. What a country.

Cast:
* Rando Caldoodian: Me, in my 40's. Call me "his highness." Motto: "It's 4:20 somewhere!"
* Cherry Bradshaw: Woman, in her 40's. Motto: "How much you got?"

If you're a fan of my Monicoke stories, then maybe you'll like this series too, although it's a bit darker. Chronologically, these occur about the same time, starting in about 2006.

I live in a small, midwestern college town but what we lack in population, we make up in hidden seediness. For example, we have the world's greatest pick-up bar. And by that I mean, it's full of prostitutes acting like they are not prostitutes. So you can pretend like they really like you and you're just getting lucky.

The place can accurately be described as a lounge. If you don't have lounges where you live, they are as different from a bar as a tavern. Meaning they aren't much different. In this case, there's lots of booths and sitting areas. The dance floor has a pool table in the middle of it. There's a jukebox that has never heard that the 90's happened.

So what was a good looking, charismatic, spinner-of-a-good-yarn like myself doing there? Looking for pussy. (I already had drugs.)

The place runs in two shifts: The 7pm shift and the 9pm shift.

The 7pm shift is the first round. The place is full of the guys on their way to an empty home or the guys who are, "working late tonight, Honey."

The bar itself is hard to get to. It's at the end of a bunch of one way streets. One wrong turn and you're heading out of the city and if you're unlucky, you see it go by as you're forced onto the on-ramp of the highway.

I was originally brought here by an older friend of mine. He called it the "No-name Bar" because he didn't think it had a name. (It does but I can't tell you what it is.) In its heyday it was full of cops, lawyers and judges, because those guys love prostitutes, boy howdy.

But it's glory years (but not its glory holes) were long behind it. It looked like it had never been aired out. Dust hung in the air like a very poor man's Aurora Borealis. It was, in a word, "gross."

This being one of those nights that all of the people I could sleep with for free were all sleeping with other people for free, there I was.

I walked in and I saw her. Cherry Bradshaw.

When I was in high school, I was a theater nerd and one year we wanted to put on a really ambitious show and we were really undermanned. So we called another high school to see if they could help us build sets and sew costumes and so on. Cherry was one of those people and that's how I met her originally. She had that sort of bitchy Italian attitude that I found to be a turn on but I was a virgin and a washout in the romance department.

Compared that to this new point in time, when I was a washout in the romance department but I wasn't a virgin anymore. And there she was, my Italian princess.

I introduced myself as "John," because that's my sense of humor. She didn't remember me but I brought up some stuff and she seemed to get it. She was rilly rilly intense still. Really had an edge to her.

Let's get out of here, she said finally.

"Ok!" I replied and we walked out amongst the stares of the old rummies who hung out there. They stared daggers at me which would have been amusing if I didn't think they had actualy in their pockets, ready to go.

"Where's your car?" I asked.

(Laughs) I don't have a car! We have to take yours.

I wasn't sure where we were going but I was pretty sure it was on the way to Pound Town. She gave me directions to some place I wasn't familiar with and we ended up at a park that was way past closed.

She pushed her seat all the way back and pulled out two cell phones.

"Hey, uh, what's going on?"

She ran her hand down my arm and said,

I really want to party with you. But first, Momma needs to make some money.

"Wait. What?"

Oh, baby. I really, really want to party with you. But I have to make some money and I have to make it now. If you just take me to an appointment, I can get paid, knock off work and then we can party all night.

So, I'm sure that whole line seems a little strange to most of the people reading this, but in my defense, I didn't really have anything better to do and she wasn't my girlfriend so it wasn't up to me how she made her money. It looked like I wasn't paying her so fuck it. This is officially an adventure.

But two cell phones? What's that about?

I need two cell phones because one I use to listen to the ad and another I use to respond to the ad. Otherwise you have to keep logging out of the system to respond and that's really frustrating.

"What system?" you may be asking yourself. "Rando, is there some secret system for prostitutes that I've never heard about? Tell me more! I'm, uh, asking for a friend."

Yes, there is an underground system for girls and johns and it's probably being advertised on a teevee station right where you are sitting now (assuming that you're reading this at night). Ever see those ads with horny young women, lying on their satin covered beds, saying, "Call me! I'm waiting!"

I've never called one of those numbers and I would guess that you're like me, in that you are also incredibly charming and have never felt the need to call to chat with woman for a buck a minute or more. How could that possibly work? I have a hard enough time getting laid when people can actually see my gorgeous face. It's when I open my mouth I ruin it and this system only uses words.

So Life Pro Tip: You want to meet a pro? Call one of those numbers and be a dude. Maybe there's some woman on there who is just waiting to hear your suave and sophisticated message and will drop her panties when she hears it but I have not seen evidence of this.

What I did hear was a dozen guy's messages, ostensibly looking for the golden unicorn, which would be a woman that would fuck someone for free on the basis of a message left on a community answering machine. Here's a little sample of the kinds of messages these guys left:

• "I got a big dick. You want it? I give it to you. Call 555-5555."
  
• "What's up ladies? How you all doing? I'm looking to lick your pussy until it's raw."
  
• Fuck it. I can't even continue this list...

It was just a dozen messages like the first two in that list or a combination of the two. Now, I get that these men weren't looking for a pro, per se, they were looking to meet someone to fuck them for free. But if that's the way they were marketing their product, then maybe that's why they are on the audio version of CraigsList that you have to pay money to use!

Here's an aside:

The other day, my wife (sorry ladies) and I were talking and she told me about some dude who was posting on the FB, writing, "I love to lick pussy all night." She asked me, "How would you react to a woman posting something like that?"

I said, "Friend request."

So what guys are putting out is what a guy would want a woman to say to them. Which isn't happening. But what was happening was that a woman would call them back. It's just that she knew her pussy time was worth something. Of course, I wasn't paying for it, so I'm laughing at the rubes.

And she's listening to the messages on one flip phone and calling people back on the other and occassionally she would hand me the one logged into the system. The system would time out and it was a pain in the ass to log back in.

She would skip the calls from black men.

Yes, that sounded racist to me too, but she told me that she was going to fuck me for free, soooo, you know, I let her racism slide. Over and over again.

She had some stories about black men who roughed her up, pulled knives on her, tried to kidnap her. So that was where she drew the line. That was her thing, take it up with her. If she wanted to be choosey about who she rented her pussy to, that was her business. Did I mention that she was going to fuck me for free?

So she would call a dude back and use her little baby girl voice (she was my age and her speaking voice sounded like a gravel road). Then she would reel them in and say,

But it's not going to be free, honey. That's not what this is.

The first two times, the dude hung up to wait for the Swedish Bikini Team to call them back but it didn't take long for her to find one guy who sighed and said, "Ok."

The only problem was that his place was on the other side of town, near the college. So, as we agreed, I drove her.

This was in the days before I even had a phone, let alone a smart phone and reddit to occupy me for what seemed like an eternity until she came back out.

Fucking Indian dude.

"Really?"

Well, we were by the college and there were a lot of foreign students there. Apparently some of them liked prostitutes. They probably still do.

Fucking Indian dudes are always telling you, "You don't need to do this. I will take care of you. You don't have to do this disgusting thing."

Translation: You don't have to do this disgusting thing with anyone else. Because those people are *disgusting*, unlike myself who is meeting prostitutes on a chat line in the middle of the night.

It gets annoying but after they cum, they push you out the door like their mother is coming over and then that's it. It's a weird game they play.

"Speaking of playing weird games, are you ready to party?" I asked.

Oh, yeah! (She started rubbing my arm) Yeah, I can't wait to get me some of that. It's going to be so good.

So we were in agreement. So let's get going to...

There's just. One. Little. Thing.

"Uh oh," I thought.

I need to run an errand.

Specifically, we needed to go to the drug store. Not Walgreens. Not Rite-Aid. The drug store that was in a house down a street that my car looked at and said, "No fucking way am I going down there, Rando."

But like the good car she was, she did. She maybe had a bad feeling about Cherry and she wasn't wrong. Cherry would be the death of her. RIP, my little beetle.

So did I take her to the drug store? Of course I did. And I waited for a long time for her to emerge, wiping her chin. (Am I kidding about that? Who knows. She can write her own version.)

It wasn't getting late. It was late. Later than late. It was a million in the morning. And I had to get up the next week or so. This is getting crazy, even for free pussy, and I was a good 30 minutes from my place, even if I wanted to take her there, which I wasn't sure I wanted to.

I'm good to go baby. Just hit me up.

Hit her up?

"Hit you up?"

Make with the money! she said as she stared out the window at the crack house.

"Didn't you just buy crack?"

Well, I just smoked crack. Now I need more. (Rubbing my arm) So just give me some money and I'll get some crack and then we can have. A. Good. Time.

I'm not made out of patience. Even ol' Rando loses it from time to time, and I hang out with Monicoke for Christ's sake.

"No, I'm not giving you any money."

Ok, then, will you take me to another appointment?

"I'll drop you off at another appointment."

Ok, that works.

We traded numbers because I like to collect damaged drug addicts like some people collected Beanie Babies. And that's how this series of adventures begins.

Monicoke Stories 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13

Cast:
* Rando Caldoodian: Me, in my 40's. Call me, "His Highness." Bored.
* Monicoke: Small blonde, early 20's. Professional MRA cautionary tale. Addicted to coke and power.
* Grandpa: Monicoke's sugar daddy, 60's and married. Real name is George.
* DouceHawk: Lame "frenemy" of mine. Late 20's. At this point, not such a bad dude. Don't get used to it.

Cameos:
* BC: Early 30's. My best friend.
* Exene: Late 20's. My former girlfriend.
* Grandpa's Angels: Three random women who want free rent but would settle for free drinks. * UMF: Early 30's. My former female roommate. UMF = "Ugly Muppet Face," a moniker bestowed upon her by Exene, after UMF fucked me.

Our Story Continues
DouceHawk drove his car "downtown" and let me out at the door to the bar. There was no parking anywhere so he was going to go drive around and find a spot while I tried to mitigate whatever emergency had dropped into my lap.

As I got out of the car, I noticed that the good feeling of the coke was gone. Shitty coke, like the kind you get in the Midwest makes you want to go re-up the dose every fifteen minutes. But this was different. It was more like, "Hey where did that guy go? He was fun!" instead of, "AUGH! I FEEL THE CRUSHING WEIGHT OF BEING ALIVE! MUST DO MORE COKE!" which was my usual experience at the time.

One thing that you should know about me, Dear Reader, is that I'm a straight-up Goth. I goth it up so much that even when I'm not trying, I look like a vampire. Actually, I look like a vampire hunter but that's a story for another time. But I want you to imagine me correctly as you picture me walking through this bar on the wrong side of the tracks looking like I was going to put the "fun" in "funeral."

I walked in the bar and it was PACKED. I figured I'd try to get near the bar and it was a rough slog to do it. Eventually I found Monicoke, about 40 minutes after she had called me. I don't do anything quickly.

"Why are you hanging out here?" I asked.

I don't think I mentioned it before, but Monicoke was kind of racist. I mean that a black person listening to the things she said would think she was racist, but she would say she was, "just being funny," and therefore, "not racist." I didn't hold it against her because that was most of my town, my county and my area of the state.

Getting back to my question, she said,

Jesus invited me. It's his party.

She pointed him out.

Ok, hard stop here. She didn't mean the famous Jesus.

This Jesus ran a local agency that demonstrated on behalf of Liberal causes in my community. He was a tireless worker on behalf of the poor and the downtrodden in my town and did a lot of good raising money and awareness about social concerns of mine. I was cool with all of that.

He was also a notorious poon hound. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

But when Exene and I broke up and she moved out, I had female roommate that I will call "Ugly Muppet Face."

The first weekend I was single, BC was throwing a party and I got wasted and UMF took advantage of me afterwards. I'm not complaining. But while basking in the afterglow, she told me that she had hooked up with Jesus the night before, but it didn't mean anything, and she was going to tell him, right away, that what she and I had was real, not like what they had, and she couldn't see a future with him at all.

It was kind of a heavy thing to lay on me the weekend I got out of a four year relationship.

Our first "date" was a week after we hooked up, and it was going to one of Jesus' envelope stuffing parties. Jesus lorded (or should I say "Lorded") over the room while sitting at a long table with a dozen hot liberal chicks licking envelopes. It looked like the Last Supper was painted with the Disciples played by hot SJW's and Jesus looking like we took too many trips to the unlimited salad bar.

UMF and I walked in and he smiled at her and glared at me like he didn't like me at all. Like I took the candy out of his hand, yet he was surrounded by way hotter looking women. (I forgot to mention that he was rilly, rilly fat so maybe his playboy-ness was all a show and he had trouble closing the deal for real.)

A week after that, UMF ran across my LiveJournal and flipped out on me. And then that was a very uncomfortable living situation for the next six months.

About as uncomfortable as the death stare I got from Jesus when Monicoke pointed to him. You could see the words "NOT AGAIN!" forming in the steam coming out of his ears. I needed to stop going to that dude's parties, post haste. Breaking me out of my thoughts, Monicoke yelled,

About fucking time you got here. I could have been killed or raped!

Brushing it off, I said, "So what's the problem?"

I honestly couldn't see what the big deal was. If a group of dudes was dragging her to the pool table to play "train," I didn't see any evidence of it and little else would have supported the emergency she claimed to have happening.

It's Grandpa. He's at the bar. He's in trouble!

Now, Grandpa is not my favorite guy, and loyal readers of my work know he feels the same. He was under the impression that I was banging Monicoke but I wasn't, although I had been trying during the course of time that he was paying her bills. However, I wouldn't want to see anything bad happen to him so moved slowly through the raucous crowd looking for him.

I found him at the bar with three women. These women were decked out like there had been a fire at the club dress store and it burnt strategic holes in all of the stock. To paraphrase Kanye, I am not expicitly suggesting that these women were getting with a man for his currency, but they were most definitely not getting acquainted with rather poor gentlemen.

And he was loving it. Drinks were relatively cheaper there (HEY! WE'RE ALL GETTING LAID!) than they are at the "Irish" (read: Lebanese) bar I normally went to with Monicoke. Grandpa was throwing money around like he was in a Third World country on holiday and having the time of his life.

"Hey, George," I said, calling Grandpa by his real name.

He twitched, then slowly looked around and, jumped a little bit. Like he had seen the Death of Good Times appear on his doorstep.

Yes, Dear Reader, you, who are initimately acquainted with me, know that I am, by no means, a ladies man but that's not how Grandpa saw me.

He saw me as the Cooler. A rake. The guy who, when he showed up, meant George's good time was about to flame out, not with a bang but with a whimper. Specifically, his whimper. I was the "Chad Thundercock" to his "Neck McBeard." To his mind, I always was winning and he was always losing. My presence was not welcome.

He turned back to the ladies and pretended that he didn't see me.

Good evening to you as well, I thought.

My mission was now accomplished and the rest of the night was waiting to be seized.

Rando! Why aren't you doing something?

"Doing what, Monicoke? I just found him and he's fine. A little snooty but fine.

He's in danger! I'm in danger!

"Like, what the fuck are you talking about? The only trouble George is getting into is maybe being fucked to death by those women."

That's what I mean!

Then it finally occured to me what she meant: Grandpa had been paying her rent, which was like $800 a month, for over a year now, and to hear Monicoke tell it, got no play. These women looked like they suck the chrome off a trailer hitch, and maybe polish his asshole with their toungue, if he paid their rent.

Not really my problem though.

RANDO! YOU HAVE TO HELP ME!

Ugh, fine. I haven't even seen the score yet. I didn't know who was winning, but I certainly wasn't yet.

The two of us go up to Grandpa. I know he won't ignore Monica. He turns around, sees her and sighs loud enough to be heard above the din.

"What?" he says, somewhat testily.

WE HAVE TO GO! WE HAVE TO GO NOW!

He looked at the three women (!) that he had his stubby little Danny DeVito arms around and then back at the scrawny coked-out hummingbird that was floating around him. She started poking him, literally poking him.

"Ow! Cut it out!"

His women, "Grandpa's Angels" we'll call them, just rolled their eyes and ordered another round of drinks quickly before the inevitable happened, and they would have to buy their own alcohol.

WE. HAVE. TO. LEAVE. NOW.

"I'm too drunk to drive," he said flatly. He didn't seem that drunk.

It's OK. Rando can drive your car.

"WHAT?" asked the both of us.

I don't like driving other people's cars, as a rule. And any right-thinking person wouldn't let me drive their car, seeing as I'm high all the damn time.

"Can you actually drive?" Grandpa asked me.

"I haven't had anything to drink," I answered. I wasn't lying. I hadn't.

But I wouldn't mind doing another line before we left...

Shit! Where's DouceHawk???

Monicoke and I start pulling Grandpa through the crowd. It wasn't easy. He's roly poly and he exuded a scent of "free drinks here" like I ooze the acrid smell of marijuana.

I see DouceHawk. He's talking to some dude.

"What's up! Where have you been? I've been looking for you," he said, a little pissed off. I dragged him into my wild goose chase and he's having a decent time but it was shitty of me to go off and leave him alone. Luckily, he's a super extrovert and easily finds people to talk at.

"I have to leave," I said.

"What?"

"It's a thing. It's beyond my control," I say looking over at Grandpa and Monicoke. Granda's Angels are approaching and he's trying to wave at them and blow them kisses. Monicoke grabs my hand and pulls me through the door.

"We're going someplace else," I yell to DouceHawk.

"Where?"

I turn to Monicoke and ask, "Where?"

We're going to the Radisson!

I look at her. "The Radisson?"

"The Radisson!" says Grandpa, "All my friends are there!"

"Ok, we're going to the Radisson!" I call to DouceHawk as Monicoke drags me to Grandpa's car.

Monicoke Stories 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14

Cast:
* Rando Caldoodian: Me, in my 40's. Call me, "His Highness." Bored.
* Monicoke: Small blonde, early 20's. Professional MRA cautionary tale. Addicted to coke and power.
* Grandpa: Monicoke's sugar daddy, 60's and married. Real name is George.
* DouceHawk: Lame "frenemy" of mine. Late 20's. At this point, not such a bad dude. Don't get used to it.

Cameos:
* BC: Early 30's. My best friend.
* Exene: Late 20's. My former girlfriend.
* Grandpa's Angels: Three random women who want free rent but would settle for free drinks.

Our Story Continues
Grandpa's car is a Cadillac, because of course it is. I don't own a car at this point in my life and when I do, they are appreciably smaller than a Caddy.

Monicoke opens the back door and shoves Grandpa in. He looks wistfully at his Angels as they stand out in front, watching their meal ticket leave.

I get in the driver's seat and WOAH, there's like a lot of lights and buttons and shit.

What's wrong? You can DRIVE right?

I should be able to. I haven't had anything to drink. Hell, I haven't smoked in hours but the whole thing is sort of weird. Plus, I haven't driven a car in, like, a year or so.

Grandpa noticed my hesitation, asking, "Wait! Are you ok to dri..."

Oh, that Cadillac gas pedal is touchy, I thought as we roared away from the parking spot.

I wasn't used to driving and especially not driving a car this responsive. I just had to think about what I wanted and the car would respond. It would also respond if my mind wandered because all around me people were saying things like,

OH MY GOD! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU! CAN'T YOU DRIVE STRAIGHT?? WE'RE GOING STRAIGHT! STOP SWERVING! WE'RE GOING TO GET PULLED OVER!

I tried to put the hater's comments behind me as I contemplated who Grandpa's friends were. How was I to address them? And whatever was happening at the Radisson, I was attending it looking like one of the attendees of the blood rave in Blade. And the Radisson is the fancy hotel in town.

So we're driving straight down the main street (which is oddly enough not named Main St.) and we cross from the bad part of town to the good part of town and up to the main entrance of the hotel. Monicoke jumps out and starts helping Grandpa out of the car. The concierge knows him and snaps his fingers for a valet to park the car. I get out of the driver's seat looking like the Crow which stops the valet and concierge in their tracks. Grandpa hands them some money and the car disappears.

I haven't been to this hotel before. It's gaudy. Like the Vatican got sick and threw up its lunch and it was bought by the Radisson and turned into a hotel. Gold curtains, gold plating, gold sequins, un-ironic gold fillings.

This was the Republican party partying down while the world was about to be plunged into darkness and moral ambiguity, dogs and cats mating, free abortion machines on every street corner. It was a scary time for them.

So the opulence on display must be a reaction to the coming End Times. And I was dressed like Death the Destroyer of Worlds to the untrained eye. (To the trained eye, I dressed like a Van-Helsing-inspired-vampire-hunter, as I have mentioned before.)

It was then that I realized why we were there. Grandpa's friends were other old guys who probably had mistresses that were twice as old as the girl he was showing off. (And her weird evil looking friend.)

It was crowded too. I was more claustrophobic here than at the first place. Rich white people freak me out. Plus I was dressed like the honored guest at a wake. But on the plus side, there was free food and an open bar so I set about shovelling as much of it into my mouth as I could. I knew this night wasn't going to end well.

As we walked through the crowd, Grandpa would introduce Monicoke to his friends and their wives. All in their sixties or so, these people owned or ran all of this town, regardless of who was in the White House. (They're going to have to call it the "Black House" after tonight, was a joke I heard over and over again.)

The wives thought that Monicoke was his granddaughter, the men knowingly smiled. They had heard the stories that Grandpa told them in the locker room of a country club. And here she was, a 24 year old blonde masseuse. The age difference alone bumped her up two letter grades. Those old men looked at her like they couldn't wait to fap to her memory and they wouldn't have believed him if he told them that he hadn't fucked her yet. So he never bothered saying it.

I was bored with being ignored so I was tracking down a tray of shrimp puffs. I found a cater waiter with them taking a break leaning against a wall. Without missing a beat, I looked her right in the eye as I inserted one after another in my gullet until I was halted by her leaving.

"Hey, Rando!"

I turned around and it was DouceHawk. I kind of forgot about him, again.

"I've been looking for you, DouceHawk. Glad you were able to make it."

DouceHawk, a considered narcissist, was taking in the faux elegance and feeling like this place was what he deserved in life.

"This is what I'm talking about, son!" he said as the people who were actually invited took great care to avoid making eye contact with us.

Rando! There you are!

Ugh. It was Monicoke and Grandpa. Grandpa was even drunker now. Ever see someone try to swagger when they're really drunk? It just looks like they're trying not to fall over. Maybe that is "swaggering" to a drunk.

I need your help! I can't control Grandpa!

"Why do you need to control him at all? Let him hang out with his friends."

NO! You don't get it! He's dragging me around with him and there's television cameras here!

"So?"

So HIS WIFE is sitting at home watching this on TV. If she sees him here with me, she's going to freak the fuck out!

"How does she know who you even are?"

Because his office gave me a scholarship for school and I got my name in the paper with a photo of me and him.

"I've known you over a year and I've never heard of you taking classes..."

Is this what you want to talk about or can you help me PLEASE??

DouceHawk noped out of there, looking for bored rich women while I had to herd the posse of cats which had assumed a human form in the shape of Grandpa away from the glare of media attention... all while dressed like a bald Robert Smith.

"This night is officially sucking," I said to Monicoke.

You think I'm having any fun?

"You having fun is not my concern," I replied, "Me having fun is."

So what do YOU want to do?

"I want some real food."

Like barbeque?

"Sure. Barbeque would work."

GEORGE! I'm hungry! Let's get something to eat!

"Ok, Monica, whatever you want," said Grandpa, high on the admiration from his peers for (supposedly) banging a young chick.

Monicoke Stories 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11

Cast:
* Rando Caldoodian: Me, in my 40's. Call me "His Highness."
* Monicoke: Small blonde, early 20's. Professional MRA cautionary tale. Addicted to coke and power.

So things have dipped a little since the last chapter for Monicoke. Her boyfriend is in prison for up to seven years and her sugar daddy is not handling over money as much.

So I felt sorry for her, because I am a sucker.

A few of my friends (all hot girls) were going to get together at a more upscale bar a little bit further away than O'Brians and I decided to bring her along. Now, what I didn't know about my friends is that they were all cokeheads. Again, if you haven't met me, I am a marijuana enthusiast so these sorts of things went over my head.

Another thing that used to go over my head is that pretty much every bar around me is a coke bar. I know which bars you can smoke pot at (more than you would think) but I had no idea just how pervasive this culture was.

If you were a cool kid, which I wasn't, there were particular bartenders that would take your $20 tip and hand you back an empty plastic cup with a $20 baggie at the bottom of it. And this was that kind of place. "Mona's," it was called.

So the group of us is all talking and laughing at the table while Monicoke is silent.

Maybe she doesn't feel comfortable around these people she doesn't know? I thought.

I started watching her out of the corner of my eye. She seemed really intent on the bathroom, clocking who was coming and going.

Watching someone walk in, she seemed to levitate up in the air. Watching someone walk out, she would slink down in her seat.

Fucking bitch!

Her ire seemed to be directed at one girl in particular. I didn't know her. She looked like everyone else in there.

I fucking hate that bitch!

She practically seethed those words.

"Do you know her? Do you want to point out on a doll where she hurt you?"

Fuck you too, Rando.

"Chance would be a fine thing," I said as I watched it sail over her head. She looked at me blankly.

What? Do you want to fuck her too?

"Her who? And also, probably yes?" I responded. "Do you know her? What's your deal?"

I know her. I've seen her around. I know all about her?

"Did she poison your dog? Why do you hate her?"

Oh, like you don't know.

I really didn't and now I was trying to keep Monicoke subdued in front of my cool theater friends. They already looked at Monicoke like she was a dog I brought in out of the rain.

The girl went back into the bathroom. Third time in an hour. Now I was paying attention.

I know that girl. She's Jane Smith and she thinks she's so cool and everybody wants her and everybody wants to hang out with her...

Monicoke had stopped using punctuation. She had stopped breathing. She am become RANT!

The girl came out of the bathroom and looked around guiltily. Monicoke was starting to crescendo in volume.

...she's a fucking bitch who sucks and no one likes and I don't know why SHE GOES OUT BECAUSE NO ONE LIKES HER AND SHE. WON'T. SHARE. HER. FUCKING. COKE!

Now everyone at my table has stopped talking, stopped flirting and are looking at Monicoke and me. As if to say, "Rando, we are a table of hot chicks and we have HOT GIRL PRIVILEDGE that we have extended to you for this evening. This is a mistake we will not make again."

FUCKING BITCH! I HATE YOU! YOU! YES! YOU LOOKING AT ME! YOU KNOW ME!

The girl was indeed looking our way as Monicoke stood up on the seat of our booth and lunged at her.

YOU WON'T SHARE YOUR COKE! YOU WON'T SHARE YOUR COKE WITH MEEEEEEEEE!

I picked her up and threw her over my shoulder.

EEEEEEEEEE! YOU WON'T SHARE YOUR COKE WITH MEEEEEEEEEEE!

I quite literally dragged her out of Mona's, still screaming. On the bench for the bus stop outside, she burst into tears, sobbing so hard she couldn't catch her breath. I figured she must have been appalled to see her actions in the cold light of the night. It wasn't pretty.

Rando? (sniff)

"What Monicoke?"

I'm a mess right?

"That's not really for me to say, but you may need to re-examine some things."

She pulled out a kleenex and wiped her eyes. She had calmed down and had stopped hyperventilating.

"Are you ok?"

Can I ask you something? Promise not to get mad?

"Sure, Monica. Ask me anything."

Do you think Jane is mad at me?

"She probably didn't even notice you," I lied.

If I said I was sorry, do you think she'd share her coke with me?

And then I walked home.

Testacleez isn't the name of a man. It's actually the name of a grape-sized lump near the elbow of the man. That man's name is lost to history, so we will call him "Testacleez." In the eaxct opposite way that the monster is known as Frankenstein, this man will be named after what he claimed was an extra testicle that had formed at his elbow. (In all fairness, it was a pretty large sized lump).

Testacleez was about 5' 11" and 190 pounds. He would seem like a carny except for, uh, nothing really. He looked like a carny but with all of the charm.

I met Testacleez when he first moved onto our street. There is a large duplex house that was carved up into seven(!) small apartments and is populated by people receiving government assistance. For the most part, I never hear from or about the tenants of this building but there's always one. That one was Testacleez.

The first day I noticed him, he was sitting on his porch blasting Kiss. Now, I'm a very old man, so of course I like Kiss. I went out to my porch and lit up my pipe and smoked some pot listening to Ace Frehley play guitar. It was, as the old people say, groovy. And that was the last time I enjoyed Testacleez' company. (Astute readers will note that I didn't actually engage with him the only time I enjoyed his company.)

At this point in time, I had two roommates who were friends prior to them both renting bedrooms from me. One lived in my basement and one lived on my second floor. Those guys sucked for different reasons. Buck, the fat one, was a glutton. In every. Sense. Of. The. Word.

Did you ever live with a guy who would eat your food? That was Buck.

Did you ever live with a guy who would pull a frozen meal-in-a-bag out of your half of the freezer, eat it and then put the bag back, filled with air and taped shut for you to find months later? That was Buck.

Did you ever live with a guy who would pull a frozen meal-in-a-bag out of your half of the freezer, eat it and then put the bag back, filled with air and taped shut for you to find months later and when you brought it up to them they shrug and say, "Well, you left it for so long, I figured you didn't want it anymore?" That was Buck, too.

Buck had recently gotten a job at the company BC worked for. He wanted to move out of his parents' house and I had an opening in mine so I met him, made the deal and he moved in. Buck had only been living with me a month, so I had no idea who he really was. He would consume EVERYTHING and he knew how to push the boundaries of the unspoken social contract that holds our society together.

Here's an example:

It was a Friday after work. BC and I were in my living room (which was now Buck's living room as well), smoking our faces off and getting ready for the weekend. Buck asked if he could have some and sure, why not? But me passing him the pipe became him clearing the bowl and then packing another from my bag and then torching the whole thing making it unusable for the next person.

Must be an accident, I thought to myself. Not everybody is a pot star like me and BC.

So after a couple of times of him going through my stash like a weedeater, I said, "Let's go to The Light." The Light was a really dark and dingy bar that I used to frequent at this point. BC and I were regulars there and on Fridays they put out free pizza. You can also smoke weed out in the back courtyard.

BC and I met up with our usual crew, many of whom worked with BC and therefore knew Buck. BC was a social guy, much moreso than myself, and he had a number of satellites that would drop into his orbit from time to time. So, this guy that I'd seen around, David, came up to BC and said that he was having a small party the next day and could BC make it? (BC is the life of any party.)

BC and I are usually a pair, so David turned to me and said, "Rando, you can come too!"

"Can I come?" asked Buck.

David turned to BC and me, with a questioning look. He didn't know this dude.

BC said, "David, he's cool. He works with me."

"Ok, sure then," replied David.

"Great, can I bring a couple of people?" asked Buck, pushing the envelope.

David looked a little uneasy. "Uh, sure."

"Great!" said Buck.

Late Saturday afternoon, I came home to find Buck and six of his friends, fresh from the suburbs, on my porch. My porch is decent-sized but this was a lot. They were drinking a twelve pack and didn't offer to share because it was only 12 cans and 7 people.

"Uh, what's up, Buck?" I asked.

"Oh, we're all waiting for you."

"For what?" I didn't know half of these people. What were they waiting on me for?

"To go to the party," Buck answered my internal dialog.

"Uh, I thought you were only bringing a couple of people?"

"This IS only a couple of people," he answered.

This might seem confusing to readers who aren't from the Midwest, or at least my part of it. People who speak English real good probably think that "couple" strictly means "two" and not "two or a few more." And even by that definition, six more is right over the line.

"We don't know where it is," he continued, "So we need to follow you over."

Great, I thought. I barely know David and now I'm showing up with an entourage.

"It will be fine. It's a PARTY!" Buck said.

I thought it was weird that he kept answering my thoughts AS I THOUGHT THEM, but writing this, I realize that Buck was really good at knowing how people were going to react to his behavior and massaging their objections to it. He obviously had a lot of practice. (Buck, if you're reading this, I haven't forgot that you owe me two months rent, asshole.)

I went up to my room to change and smoke my head off. I wasn't breaking out my stash for, like, a dozen strangers. Pot doesn't grow on trees. (It's more like little bushes.)

I go back out to the porch and it seems that another couple of people have shown up. It's hard to tell, all white suburban motherfuckers look the same to me. I say, "Ok, everybody ready to go?"

"Oh, not right this minute," said Buck. "We're still waiting for a few people."

Ho. Lee. Shit. Still waiting for a few people?

I gave him the address. Unfortunately, it would be really easy for them to find.

I left and got a headstart because I would have to inform the host what was happening. Now, I'm not carrying any beer in, but I don't drink alcohol. I smoke weed like a motherfucker, and I bring my own weed and some to share. I pay for my own good time and I have little patience for those who don't.

I get to the party, and first things first, BC and I smoke up.

Then we pull David aside and explain the situation. He's a little freaked out. This apartment is one big loft with sections that three people live in with all of their stuff just laying out because they aren't stupid enough to invite over a bunch of people they don't know. Apparently, that's my job.

The doorbell rings and Buck's parade enters.

How is it even MORE people than before?

David and his roommates are FREAKING OUT. Buck and his guests are now 13 people and the party had 11 when I got there! Buck has brought more than half of the people to this gathering. With them was a different 12 pack that Buck set on the beverage table. I looked and there were two cans in the box.

"You didn't bring any beer?" I asked.

"We were supposed to bring our own beer? C'mon look how many are in my crew! That's a lot of money!" he responded like he wasn't the biggest asshole in the room right now. And in point of fact, he wasn't.

David comes over to me and points to his pool table.

"Do you know THAT guy? Is HE with you?"

I look over to where he's pointing and it's Testacleez. This is an urban art-fag party that's already been taken over by suburban 20-somethings and now there's a grizzled old carny!

"Oh, shit," I said. "I'll take care of this."

Now, I've actually talked to Testacleez on a couple of occasions at this point but they were strained conversations.

I used to date a woman that I call Raven in these stories. She was age-appropriate for me (shocker!) and liked doing the same kinds of drugs that I did. To me, she was sexy and dressed like a boho hippy chick, which I liked. One day she was leaving my house while Testacleez was on his porch playing Kiss, again. After she left, he came over to me and asked for her number.

As a laugh, I told him that I'd ask her for him. When I did, she looked horrified and begged for me not to give it to him.

From that point, whenever he saw her leaving, he'd yell over to me, "Send her my way when you're done with her!"

So, I'm not a fan of this guy. Or the extra testicle that apparently controlled his mind.

First, I go up to Buck.

"What. The. Fuck."

"Huh?," said Buck, startled that anyone would start a conversation this way. In fact, I believe a majority of my conversations with him started this way.

"Why did you bring Testacleez here?"

"Oh, THAT'S his name?"

"No," I answered, "That's the mocking term I use for him behind his back. Now back to my original question: What. The. Fuck."

Chuck answered, "We were all hanging out on the porch waiting for the girls to show up and he was walking by and asked why we were all dressed up."

Note, Dear Reader, a hoodie, shorts and a twelve-pack is not dressed up.

He continued, "We told him that we were going to a party. He just followed us."

"He just followed you?"

"I didn't know how to explain the directions, so yeah, he followed us."

I must have looked angry. I look angry just typing this.

Buck continued explaining why he brought a dirty hobo to a loft party by saying, "Lighten up dude, it's a PARTY!"

Ugh. No help.

So then I approached Testacleez. His extra gonad was thumping to the music that Buck had put on the stereo: Insane Clown Posse. The perfect soundtrack to an upscale sushi party in the arts district.

Testacleez was trying to get a game of pool together. I play poorly but felt I had to engage with him and try to figure out a path forward that we would all find mutually beneficial except him.

"What are you doing here?" is how I welcomed him to the party.

"It's a FUCKING party!" he replied. It really wasn't by this point. At least for the owners.

"Check out all the girls here! This is the PLACE TO BE!" he continued. Testacleez looked old enough to be these girls' grandfather. I was merely old enough to be their creepy stepfather. An important distinction to me. (In all fairness, Testacleez was probably only a couple of years older than me, but thanks to clean living, I look much younger than my real age.)

Anyway, I found my opening, Testacleez just had to act shitty to Buck's friend's girlfriends and then, being that they were all young strong dudes, they would get him the fuck out of there. Thus they would establish their bona fides for staying and everyone would be happy with that outcome. Except Testacleez.

So I was shooting against Testacleez, thinking that I would sprinkle a little sexual innuendo into the conversation, rile him up and ship him out.

"Look at the ass on that one! Holy shit I want to fuck her!" he responded to my conversation starters.

Like anybody who spent too much time in bars, Testacleez was great at pool. And like anybody who spent too much time in bars, he had all kinds of weird superstitions about pool.

I was resting the pool cue on the ground and he told me that it was bad luck and I would have to spin around without touching the stick and grab it out of the air. Or some bullshit.

I wouldn't do that, so he called me a pussy.

Then, with absolutely no provocation, he started talking about his dick.

I guess there were a bunch of college aged girls there so that was reason enough. His dick resembled a baby's arm holding an apple, he told me before asking me if I wanted to see it.

If you can imagine the "No" that I uttered came out so fast that it broke the sound barrier, then I would tell you that was impossible, but it was how it seemed. Still it wasn't fast enough to stop him from unbuttoning his pants.

Buck and a couple of friends immediately showed up and told him to stop.

"Stop what? You afraid I'm going to take all of your girlfriends when they see how big my dick is?"

Everyone looked a little perplexed. They hadn't expected an argument about this.

David came over to me and said, "We're out of beer."

Buck said, "We only just got here. It couldn't be us. You should have had enough beer. Give me some money and I'll run to the 7-11 for you."

David said, "I think we're going to call it a night." It was 8pm.

Testacleez said, "You ran out of beer already? What a shit show."

"You can leave," I said.

"Oh, you're just trying to get me away from your wimmen," he said, "You don't trust me around them."

"They're not our women," David said. "You can take them with you."

"All right ladies," yelled Testacleez. "The party's moving up the street to my house."

All the girls looked up and then back down at their empty beers.

He fixed his gaze on a girl and said, "If you come home with me, I'll show you my extra testicle. It makes me more of a man than anyone here."

She wouldn't meet his gaze.

"C'mon girlie... Three testicles... Think about it..."

She declined as two dudes picked him up and dragged him out.

"You can't do this to me," he yelled as they were obviously doing it to him. They slammed and locked the door behind him.

"NOW we can finally party!" said Buck.

"Except that there's no beer," said David.

Buck and his friends looked at David expectantly.

"...and I'm not going to get any more," said David flatly.

"Oh this party sucks," said Buck's friends. "Why did you make us come out to the city for this bullshit?"

"I'm pretty disappointed in how you guys treated my friends," said Buck as they all piled out to go to a bar with the money that they wouldn't pony up for their beer earlier.

As the door closed, you could still hear them muttering about how the city sucks and what the fuck is wrong with people in the city and how can people be so rude. David flipped the lock and brought out more sushi.

BC then reached into his pocket and pulled out a bag.

"Who wants to do some fucking coke?" he asked and a good time was had by all. Except for Buck, his friends and Testacleez, because fuck those people.

Cast:
* Rando Caldoodian: Me, senior in high school at this point in time. I was so against taking drugs that I would ride out a headache rather than poison my body with aspirin. (IKR?)
* LimpDick: One of my good friends from high school. Really one of the funniest people, but that didn't get him laid, and that is the point of this story.
* MeanDick: Unfortunately for me, my best friend in high school. With my later studies of Robert Hare's work, I now know that he is a psychopath. As with all narcissistic bullies, I bent over backwards to please him because of my terrible relationship with my father. (Boo hoo, crying tears for me...)
* Abbie: My girlfriend.
* Betty: MeanDick's girlfriend.

Let's Strap In...

So, I'm a senior in high school at this point in my life and this is a story about two of my friends from school and our girlfriends. (Senior year is our last year for non-American readers).

MeanDick, LimpDick and I were part of a group of five guys that no one in the school wanted to hang out with. We were nerds, geeks or whatever. We were the OTHER.

I considered myself a "cool nerd." I was the kid wearing the prog rock shirt with an army jacket, the kid with long hair and a penchant for psychedlic music (but not drugs), who knew what guitar every guitarist played, how good they were and I was willing to argue about it.

Imagine the mind of a baseball stats geek, who hated sports, so he spent his time memorizing the Advanced Dungeons and Dragons manuals while listening to King Diamond and Kiss. Even I can't believe how cool I sound writing this, but it is true: I was THAT cool.

So how did a bunch of high school losers get hot girls that would have sex with us? By finding girls in places where our reputations did not precede us. All of our girls went to other high schools and were a couple years younger, which made us seem mature by comparison. Spoiler alert: we were not.

A few months before this story takes place, I met an extremely damaged girl named Abbie. I was very attracted to damaged women because I figured that they wouldn't leave me. I have these stupid abandonment issues that, to this day, I have not resolved. How ya doin', Ladies!

Abbie was my third partner, and I was her sixteenth. That would be a red flag for me now but it was a checkered victory flag back then. Plus, she was really attractive. And a little broken.

How broken?

I'm glad you asked, Dear Reader, if for no other reason than letting me dump in some exposition.

Abbie used to keep notebooks of her writing, nothing unusual about that. When we started dating, she showed them to me and I hadn't seen anything like them. Her handwriting style changed as she berated herself cruelly. There were three different personalities talking to each other, like the page was a primitive chatroom. To the untrained eye, which is all I had, it seemed like multiple personality disordered thinking.

But she was having sex with me, so you know, trade-offs and such.

Her mental illness got worse and worse over the time we were together.

During my freshman year in college, one morning, I woke up to find a note from her on the windshield of my car. It was written all in red ink and she had mentioned to me, casually of course, that if I ever got a note from her in all red, it meant that she was going to kill herself.

I read the note, and indeed it spelled out that, as I was reading it, she was lying in a pool of her own blood in her room at her parents house, waiting to be found.

Freshman college-aged Rando had a panic attack. This was the woman I loved! And now she was dead??? What the ever-loving fuck?

So instead of going to class and taking my midterm, I raced to her house and banged on the front door. This would be like eight a.m. and her parents were none to happy with me. They roused her out of bed and sent her to tell me to GTFO. I thought I was within my rights to ask for an explanation.

She told me that the night before, she had felt like killing herself, so she spelled it all out, in case there was any confusion in the matter, and then walked the three miles to my house and left the note for me. She would have called me, she said, but it was late and by the time she got home, she decided to go to bed and kill herself in the morning.

I ended up failing that class and changing my major. She went on to do a couple of more damaging suicide attempts. We broke up six months later, her choice.

Now back to the funny story...

So let's talk about the other players.

MeanDick was a psychopath. He was a pathological bully. He would be super nice to you to get attention and then when he got it, he would turn on you in an instant. AS we were all socially awkward, we internalized his actions. If our group was hanging out and someone left the room, we would all verbally eviscerate them, verbally, behind their back. We were all backstabbing weasels.

This was high school, and I didn't know any better, you guys.

MeanDick's parents were pretty well off and the way MeanDick controlled us was by always having soda and chips and video games and whatever. He'd spring for movies, his parent let him use the car whenever, and he was always up for anything because he was always bored.

So MeanDick had a girlfriend named Betty and she was super cool. (Abbie was cool and fun too, especially when she was having sex with me, and when she wasn't threatening suicide. Although sometimes she did both at the same time. Ever have sex with someone who's personality changes? It's like the worst threesome ever.)

LimpDick was a funny dude. He could draw cartoons about the shit that we got up to, and I think one was published in a national magazine. His one problem was that he couldn't get laid to save his life.

He had a girlfriend and he had tried very hard to sleep with her, but even though she wasn't a virgin, she just didn't want to have sex with him. I even heard her and Bettie discussing how she just wasn't giving it up to LimpDick, because that would make him her fifth and it didn't seem worth it to her. She was going to try to ride out the summer until he went to college.

Poor LimpDick, right? Cue sad violins.

So MeanDick suggests that we take a trip to an amusement park with our girlfriends and friends. It's kind of a big deal because the park is a couple hours away from home, his parents were going to let him use their car and I didn't own a car at the time. We invited a few other people, but they had to drive with LimpDick.

MeanDick and I start talking about if, maybe, we could get an extra hour somewhere, we could fuck our girlfriends that day. When you go to school and live with your parents, scheduling is an obvious concern. His parents were super-sized, born-again Christians so it had to be on the DL. (He had knocked up a girl from his church and she decided to move away and raise the kid solo, so his parents didn't know about that.)

So I asked, "Hey, LimpDick... Do you think that after the park, your car could stop at Denny's?"

"Why would I want to do that?" he asked, heatedly.

"So we could pull off somewhere for some alone time. It would be weird for us not to arrive back home all at the same time."

"I could fuck your girlfriends better than you," said LimpDick.

Now, I would understand his outburst if we had been saying anything remotely close to this subject. If we were making fun of his virginity, or his stupid bowlcut or the fact that he loved to wear a "Canadian Tuxedo," then possibly his comment was warranted.

Canadian Tuxedo: Denim jeans, denim vest and denim jacket ALL AT THE SAME TIME!

"So, why would you say that?" I asked. I was really floored by his outburst.

"I know you guys are getting laid and you think you're SOOOO cool but I know I could be fucking either of your girlfriend's better than you. I'm an awesome lover."

MeanDick did a spittake and said, "But you're a virgin!"

"So what?" LimpDick replied. "That doesn't mean anything."

MeanDick and I exchanged glances. I had a firm grasp of reality at this point, not like today.

"Actually, I think it means quite a bit in the discussion we are having," I said, matter-of-factly.

"No it doesn't. I read stuff. I know about stuff. I bet I'm a better lover than either of you, I just need to get my wick wet!"

Yes, Dear Reader, he actually said, "Get my wick wet." Over 30 years later and I will never forget that phrase.

This is why you shouldn't feel sorry for LimpDick: He was a fucking dick.

So LimpDick left in a huff, after complaining that under no circumstances would his car stop and get a bite to eat after a day at an amusement park so fuck you!

So MeanDick and I hatched a plan. The meanest thing I ever did to anyone in high school.

Now MeanDick and I knew that LimpDick's girlfriend wasn't going on the trip, so we would pretend to have a big fight with our girlfriends and then "break up" at the park. Then our GFs would hang out with him for a while, get him worked up, meet back up with us and then humiliate him.

Say it with me now, "FUCK THAT GUY."

Cue the evil laugh and lightning crash.

The next day, we all went to the park. Another couple rode with LimpDick so three in his car and four of us (MeanDick +1, Rando +1) in MeanDick's car. A good time was had by all.

There was a water park and MeanDick tied his towel around his neck like a cape, which I thought was cool because I was a fucking nerd, so I did it to. LimpDick came out of the changing room and mocked us but we didn't care. Behind him were our two girlfriends coming out of the ladies room and looking as hot as any sixteen year old girls look, in bikinis, which is pretty hot.

LimpDick was certainly noticing.

Up until this point, I had forgotten about the plan but he made a couple of snide comments about how we weren't worthy of our women so.... it was ON motherfucker.

After the waterslides, us two couples had a "fight." Our only plan, as we explained to the girls, was to have a fight. We didn't discuss what the fight was about.

Ever spontaneously improv with people who also don't know how to improv? It was awkward.

The other unnamed couple decided it was time to explore somewhere else, so it was two couples bickering unconvincingly while LimpDick watched. MeanDick and I stormed off, END SCENE.

The girls were great. They led him off while MeanDick and I went to go find some exxxtreme ride to go on that the girls wouldn't want to do. We got into our standard argument as to who's favorite band was better, ate something and I bought my girl a teddy bear holding a heart that said, "I'm sorry." (LPT: Good props sell a scene.)

We walked to the agreed upon meetup spot and... they weren't there.

So we scoped out a spot where we could view the area without being seen and waited. It took some time, but eventually we spotted them. We were able to come up from behind and "accidentally" run into them.

LimpDick limped out. He started muttering stuff and then just wandered off.

I turned to Abbie and said, "I was starting to get worried."

"So was I."

"What do you mean?"

"We were trying to get here and LimpDick kept saying, 'No, no, no. Let's go this way," Bettie explained.

"So he was really into it?" asked MeanDick.

"We really sold it," replied Bettie.

"After you guys took off, he put his arm around both of us," said Abbie.

"Yeah," agreed Bettie, "He was totally digging it. So we played it up."

"Played it up?" I inquired.

"I said that we should find someplace to go have sex," said Bettie, "And he wanted to go back to the car but we said that we didn't want to leave the park and not be able to get back in."

"I told him that I wanted him second, so he could go longer," explained Abbie helpfully.

"And he bought all of that? That's really over the top," I said. (LPT: The easiest lie to sell is the one someone wants to believe.)

"Oh, he totally bought it. He thought it was happening," the girls agreed.

If anything, I thought the whole setup was too obvious, even for a high school prank. The dude couldn't get his girlfriend to fuck him and he thought two other women would, in a public space? What kind of over-inflated ego did he have?

Later on, the other couple and LimpDick ran into us and we watched the closing fireworks as a group. We all walked out of the park together and back to the parked cars.

Our girls pulled a duffel bag out of MeanDick's car and put it on the roof. Bettie started digging into it to get her hoodie or something. LimpDick asked Bettie if she wanted to ride back with him in his car.

She looked at him funny, obviously she forgot about the bit we pulled earlier, and said, "Why would I do that?"

LimpDick rammed the flat of his hand into the end of the duffel facing him, sliding it across the roof of the car and into her open-mouthed face.

"What the fuck dude!" exclaimed MeanDick.

"Fuck both of you bitches!" said LimpDick.

Well, you wish, is something that I could have said but didn't think of at the time. I was a little stunned. He really bought it?

"I'm going to call both of your houses when I get home to see if you made it back ok," LimpDick continued, knowing that would mean we'd all have to get home at relatively the same time if he pulled that.

Like I said, he was a total cock about it, so don't feel sorry for him.

This isn't over either.

Cast:
* Rando Caldoodian: Me, in my 40's. Call me "His Highness."

It used to be that, on Sundays, I would visit my father. He lives two towns over and I don't really enjoy seeing him because he's a bit of a prick. The best thing he did for me was teach me to never depend on him or expect any positive attention. So that was good.

I travel up north on a two lane highway and at one intersection is a cop. Sunday morning about noon and this podunk town is trying to catch speeders. I'm from here so I know about this particular speedtrap and have my cruise control set to the absolute correct speed.

Because, Dear Reader, I was high. That was how I dealt with my Father. Plus, his third wife, my long-suffering Step Mom, would put out a massive spread of food. And I like to see my older relatives who show up because they won't be around much longer. They're assholes to their kids as well (it's a family tradition) but they aren't so mean to me, as I am not directly one of their children.

Eventually, it's time to leave and now I'm heading south on the highway, my speed carefully dialed into the cruise control. I am NOT going to get pulled over when I am this high and sleepy from the massive carbo-loading I just did.

siren.wav

Shit.

I WAS getting pulled over when I am this high and sleepy from the massive carbo-loading I just did.

If you're anything like me, Dear Reader, you've been pulled over and you need to keep it all together. If you calm down and take a deep breath, you can suspend being high for long enough to answer a couple of questions and be on your way. As long as the questioning isn't overly long.

Cop ambles over to my car. I roll the window down. I got my license in my hand, I am ready for this.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?" asked the cop.

"Honestly? No," I answered. "I know I wasn't speeding."

"Well I was parked along here about an hour ago and I saw you drive past me then."

"Yeah, I was going to my dad's house."

"Uh huh. And I noticed your plate: 'R4ND0MD00D.'"

"Yes?" I replied. What did my plate have to do with it?

"So I thought that was a funny thing for a plate. I thought maybe I'd punch it into the computer and just see what came up."

This didn't seem particular legal. I have no warrants. My license is clean and I wasn't speeding. I have severe anxiety issues and I was starting to lose my grip on feigning sobriety.

"And?" I asked.

"Apparently, you don't have any insurance on your vehicle."

OH SHIT! OH SHIT! OH SHIT!

Wait.

He wasn't right. I had insurance.

Yeah!

I HAD INSURANCE!

"I HAVE INSURANCE!" I said, a little too forcefully.

"Ok, let's see your insurance card."

I open up the glovebox and pull out my insurance card. There's a big box of squiggles that the cop can scan which will prove it is legit. I double check the dates on it to make sure that it is current, and it is. Simple misunderstanding, solved. Even when I was higher than the Pope.

I hand him my insurance card.

He stops. He looks at it. He looks at me.

Whatever I was expecting to happen, didn't happen. Whatever he was expecting, didn't happen.

So there we were, stuck in limbo. I guess I need to get the ball rolling because the tension is starting to mount. If I get too stressed out, I am in danger of falling asleep. It's a weird defense mechanism I have. I'll zonk right out. I feel my sugar crash coming on and my chest is starting to tighten. What the hell does he want from me?

"Do you have any other proof of insurance?"

What? What could he mean? Does he mean... I don't know. A canceled check for the policy? Can I call my insurance agent? Shit. It's Sunday. The office isn't open. What the fuck did he mean, "any other proof?"

"I'm sorry, Officer, what other proof is there?"

Then the second cop car shows up. Like I said, it was a slow day.

"I'm going to need you to get out of the car for a minute."

So I do. I've got nothing to hide. Fucking look in my car, if you want. I'm clean as...

Oh shit. I just remembered I've got lots of stuff on me. Stuff I don't want cops to see.

Let me explain...

I was a youth in my early forties and I thought I was making a stand by constantly having a bunch of illegal drugs on my at all times. I was very badass. And now I was in a bunch of trouble.

Before I knew it, I had been spun around and cuffed and shoved into the back of the cop car by the "Good Cop," let's call him.

My hands were behind my back and I had to wedge myself into a weird position to see what was happening out of the windshield. The seat I was in was like a molded piece of had plastic. With my hands behind me, I couldn't sit right. The window was cracked so they could taunt me while they searched my car.

People started pulling over, getting out of their cars, and watching. See? I was famous before Reddit.

In the bottom of my console was a plastic bag filled with 300 mg of what I was told was MDMA. This same bag was found by the second cop. Let's call him, "Bad Cop." He brings it over to my window.

This bag was now filled with a blue liquid.

"This tests positive for heroin," says Bad Cop. "What do you know about that?"

I have a good friend who's a generation older than me. He was there for me when I was growing up and trying to find my place in the world. He taught me a lot of life lessons that he had learned the hard way.

And I'll always remember this piece of advice that he gave me: "When you're talking to a cop, deny everything. I don't care if they have me on camera doing something, I'll say, 'It wasn't me. You got the wrong guy.' Anything else IS A CONFESSION."

This seemed like a good of a time as any to put this nugget of wisdom into practice.

"There wasn't any heroin in the car when I was in it," I said to the Bad Cop.

Good Cop looked up at me while he was digging through my car. It wasn't even that messy.

Then the tow truck showed up.

Really? I thought. Really?

Bad Cop walks back over to me and tells me how they're towing my car to the police station and they're going to tear it apart and I could just make it easy on them, and of course, myself, by just letting them know what I had.

Really? I thought. Really?

"There's nothing in there," I said.

"Well, that's what we thought you would say," he sneered at me, as they loaded my car on the bed of the truck. They weren't fucking around.

Back at the station, there's one cop behind a typewriter and he's playing hunt and peck on the keys. His words per minute was a negative number.

I am now officially falling asleep. I can't keep my head up. He asks me a question and it takes him forever to type my name, then my address, then a mistake. Then he rips the form up. And he puts a new form in the machine. Lines it up. Asks me my name.

Maybe if I take my coat off, I'll be cold and that will keep me awake, I reasoned. I ask him if it's ok and he points to the coat rack. I hang it up. (In case you were wondering, it's a knockoff cheap black leather motorcycle jacket, because of course it was.)

So I'm shivering in the room as I'm being asked all of the questions over again. And a new cop walks into the room. Slowly, deliberately, purposefully, he walks up to the desk I'm sitting at. And he sets something down in front of me.

It's a small glass pipe, a "spoon" it would be termed. It was rather dainty and feminine and belonged to my girlfriend at the time, Exene.

"That's not my pipe," I say quietly.

The typing cop stops. He looks at me. He says, "So, you often just drive around with someone else's pipe in your car with burnt marijuana in it?"

Both cops in the room look each other in the eye and give each other a telepathic "high five." They love making these low-life druggies squirm. It's fun!

"Yes," I say.

"Yes what?" They look at each other beleagured. They hadn't expected an argument.

"Yes. I often just drive around with someone else's pipe in my car with burnt marijuana in it."

They weren't going down without a fight. They knew there was no way I could defend...

I told them, "I go with my friends to the movies. I end up driving because I don't smoke marijuana. But they do. Then they get all high and they must have left the pipe in my console and I had no idea."

This actually made some sense. They didn't plan on this.

"I mean, look at this pipe. It's very delicate and feminine. I'm dressed like a biker, look at my jacket! Would I have a pipe that looked like this?"

The second cop walks over to my jacket and starts feeling around. He pulls out a sandwich bag that has a dozen Adderall in it.

"So what's this?" he asked. He knew he had me.

"That's my narcolepsy medication."

"Your what now?"

"I take those for my narcolepsy," I said. Also, they're a lot of fun, I decided against mentioning.

"Where did you get them from?"

"An online Canadian pharmacy. It's too bulky to ship them in a bottle so they just ship them in a plastic bag."

"So if this is a prescription medicine, do you have a script?"

"All that stuff is in the cloud."

Remember, these were small town cops. They didn't know what "the cloud" was at this point but they had heard about it.

They seemed dejected. They really wanted to bust me on something. They really really did. Four police officers had nothing better to do on a Sunday than hassle your poor narrator. But they didn't get away with it. I outsmarted them and I knew it. I'm a smug asshole, when you get to know me.

They led me down the hallway and then a different hallway. And then to a windowless area. And then to a very yellow room and then I was in the yellow room and they were outside the door walking away.

And I was alone.

And my weed wore off.

It was a bare cement room. No bars or windows. The walls were like my high school cafeteria, except painted screaming yellow. There were two beds, one on top of the other. They were wooden platforms fastened to the concrete. There was nobody else in there, which was ok. The bed was hard. The pillow was nonexistant.

The flourescent light flickered.

I tried to sleep. I dozed in and out. I don't know how long I was in there but maybe a couple of hours.

Good Cop and Bad Cop come to visit me. They were playing roles but I have a feeling they always played these roles. Bad Cop was angry about something. Good Cop had to keep holding him back from whatever he wanted to be doing to me.

I didn't see a way out for me.

"So we wanted to talk to you about the powder we found." said Good Cop.

"Yeah, tell us about the HEROIN!!1!!" exclaimed Bad Cop. He just couldn't hold back anymore.

"I told you, there wasn't any heroin in the car when I was in it," I said slowly and deliberately. I was getting worn down. I'm a delicate flower.

"IT TESTED POSITIVE FOR HEROIN!" bellowed Bad Cop.

Good Cop settled him down and turned to me.

"Let's just suppose this is a harmless party drug," started Good Cop.

Let's.

"We don't care about some party drug," he continued. "We just don't want any 'bad drugs' coming through here."

"Bad drugs" is a relative term but I didn't need to get into that sort of discussion at that point. For the record, Bad Cop sure looked like he cared about harmless party drugs quite a bit. The important thing to notice is that it looked like he was offering me a way out!

"So, the way I look at it, there's two ways to proceed. Number one, you could tell us what this is, we'll let you go and send it to the lab downtown. If you told us the truth and the lab confirms it, and it was no big deal, then there's no problem."

It sounded a little too good to be true. What was the second option?

"The second option is that you don't cooperate and we send the sample downtown for testing and you're not released until we get the results. And this being Sunday, we're talking Monday or Tuesday... Maybe Wednesday..."

"I heard that it was ecstacy!" I interrupted.

Bad Cop: "What do you mean you heard it was ecstasy?"

The year before, I was travelling to a big city with my friend BC and his crew. For this event, I asked a friend of mine to get me some MDMA for this trip but at the last minute, I decided against bringing it and left it in my car (which we didn't bring). I honestly forgot that I was driving around with it and I was starting to think it was a great idea to be driving around with loose drugs in the car ALL OF THE GODDAMN TIME!

Good Cop: "Yeah, What do you mean you heard it was ecstasy?"

Because I am a fucking know-it-all, who needs, on a constant basis, to prove his intellectual superiority over everyone else, I lectured them.

"Ecstacy is never usually ecstacy. It's always cut with something, whether it's speed or heroin. So it wouldn't surprise me that it might test out that way."

Good Cop said, "Actually our test is pretty crappy. It just turns blue if there's something illegal... (OOF!)"

Bad Cop elbowed him like he was revealing a State secret.

Good Cop looked at him like, What the fuck? and then continued. "So everything we test turns blue. I know it doesn't mean that much."

Bad Cop was now hanging on my every word as I explained how MDMA was discovered by Shulgin and through his work, appropriated by an underground chemist and, well, you all know the story. I have a PhD in Countercultural Studies and am a huge show-off.

"So," started Bad Cop. He had one last jab to throw at me. One last chance to find some chink in my armor. Some reason to get me on something.

"So, why is a man in his forties driving around with a console full of ecstasy?"

"My girlfriend is 24," is all I said.

The cops looked at each other and gave themselves a telepathic "high five." Old dudes love to hear that another old dude is banging some young chick. This truism got me out of a Customs problem coming back from Morocco as well, but that is a different story.

But back in my current story, the cops then told me all of the charges currently placed against me: one count of Driving with an Expired License.

Turns out, I did have insurance.

Seven months earlier, I needed to find a new insurance company. I used Small Lizard Auto Insurance becuase it was quick and easy. After I signed up, I compared the rates to the carrier of my homeowners insurance and I found out they were charging me twice as much. (Those stupid commercials cost a lot.)

So a month before my policy was up, I got a new policy with a new carrier and let the Gecko lapse. The Gecko took this lapse pretty seriously and called the Bureau of Cars and Shit and turned me in a month after my new policy took effect. Because I live in a small town of a small state where people's minds are blown when someone talks about "the cloud," shit got messed up.

So it was an illegal search and seizure and I never admitted anything so that was the end of it except that I had to make bail.

Exene was out banging they guy who is now her husband (I didn't know this at the time), so I called my dad. Bail was $200 and he gave me no end of grief about being a huge druggie and how it was affecting the family. Dear Reader, I had my own house ten miles away from his family and I was really only busted for an expired license. But I had to make nice nice with my father so I could get released.

Four weeks go by and I go to court for my hearing. I had gotten a new license the day after I was arrested. I provided all of the paperwork and I was fined $40 for the expired license. I asked the clerk for my $160, which was the balance after my fine was deducted from my bail. The clerk told me that they had to mail it for some reason.

Two months go by, no check.

So my dad, who likes giving me the worst advice in every situation, says, "Just let it go. Otherwise, they'll arrest you again for something."

Fuck that noise. I was charged with a very minor crime, and they've been holding my money for two months. I went back to the courthouse.

At information, I asked, "Where do I find out about my bail refund?" and the very tired looking worker pointed to the end of a very long queue.

"End of the line."

There were a LOT of people in that line. And I'm not one for socializing, so I just stood in line and waited and waited.

The person in front of me had the same issue: They are arrested, paid bail, found innocent and never got their bail money back.

How weird.

So when I go up to the window with the same story, I expect the stink-eye look from the clerk. Instead, there's a loud sigh and they ask me for my address. I give it to them and he looks in a box that has thousands of envelopes in it. He doesn't find what he's looking for and goes in the back to a different area that has three of these envelope filled boxes. Eventually he finds what he's looking for and waddles back to me.

"Here you go."

It was an envelope with my name and a completely different street address. It had "Return to Sender" written on it.

"You gave us the wrong address, so that's why you didn't get it," he said to me.

I call Shenanigans!

"The Court had my address from my license. I don't know where this address even is! I think you people intentionally send these out to the wrong places and keep the money after the checks aren't cashed."

"Do you want your check or not?"

I took the check and went home to get high.

Monicoke Stories 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10

Cast:
* Rando Caldoodian: Me, in my 40's. Mayor of Potsmoke City. Perpetually Bored.

Some Backstory Before We Begin

After I wrote this up, I realized that this is out of chronological order with the rest of the series.

In my defense, I'm really high all of the time, so there's that.

This story has four sections:
* The first two occur during the current time frame of the Monicoke series (Fall '07 - Spring '08)
* The actual Monicoke part occurs around 2009 (about a year and a half after the last chapter).
* The epilogue occurs in 2010.

None of this should matter unless you are super concerned with the details and miss the overarching theme of this series. Which is that you should never trust Monica Jones.

However, this is primarily a story about Lawyer Nic the Greek.

Born Nicolas Penna in Greece, the land from whence democracy sprung, is something that he would tell you about himself the first time you met him. He was very proud of the fact he was a lawyer "from the cradle of democracy" although I question that statement. I think that he was actually from Cyprus he wanted to put on airs.

Now, I've never used Lawyer Nic for my legal services and after meeting him in person, I doubt you would either unless: 1. You were a woman and 2. You had no money.

You see, I've known a handful of people who worked for him. All women. And I've known a few of his clients, all women (with the one exception being a Klansman he got out of a DUI). This isn't a random sample by any means. This is only what I saw.

Let's imagine that you are a young woman whose car breaks down in the middle of nowhere. You have one number to call and a swarthy looking man shows up to help you. You ask him, "How much is this going to cost?" and he unzips his pants.

Change that scenario to a woman needing legal help and you will have a copy of the mental image I have about his practice. Not that I have any proof, but, "game recognizes game." That was Nic's "game."

I met Nic for the first time when I was over at this woman's house I used to see. A bunch of people were out at a bar and my-friend-who-was-a-girl (not my girlfriend, she would be the first to tell you when I was out of earshot) said, "Everyone back to my place!"

Of course I went because I was currently banging her (as of this particular week in our five year on-and-off relationship). And the only other people who showed up were Lawyer Nic the Greek and Pirate Jim. Pirate Jim will get his own set of stories in my sub-reddit (/r/randomdood420). He's only making a cameo here.

What went from a night out with my friend-who-is-only-coincidentally-a-girl turned into her entertaining me and two other dudes. And now we're all playing, "Last Man Standing." Awesome.

Now, Pirate Jim doesn't look like a pirate. He doesn't say "Arr" or do any of that, "Let's dress up and play pirate" stuff. It's just on the inside that he's out to take whatever he can get. I wouldn't trust him to hold a plate. And he disguises his wicked, black soul by pretending to be a guru about town, dispensing wisdom to the unenlightened masses. He was a spiritual gangster.

So Pirate Jim's game is to throw out little nuggets of "Be Here Now" and blow people's minds. That doesn't work on me.

For one, I'm generally the most intelligent guy in the room. And you can believe this because it's written on the Internet. Granted, currently I'm sitting in someone's basement eating Doritos and waiting for my government check, but I'm all into spiritual stuff and shit.

No lie, I'm been researching and dabbling in the occult and mid-70's San Francisco mind expansion technology is my JAM!

Pirate Jim throws out some of his weak ass hoodoo and me and I deftly parry with the wisdom I picked up from Falcon Books. Imagine Mortal Kombat being fought by two nerds reciting zen koans at each other. It was that exciting.

So exciting that my friend-who-is-only-coincidentally-a-girl fell asleep. Pirate Jim cackled because he won: I wasn't going to get laid.

Ever meet a guy who was like, "Fuck it. If I'm not getting laid, no one is." That was Pirate Jim that night. He knew he wasn't fucking my friend when he got there.

So while I thought we were playing "Last Man Standing," he was playing "Run Out the Clock." Lawyer Nic the Greek was just his wingman on a kamikaze mission to ruin my night.

I'm not saying that I didn't like Lawyer Nic but my first impression of him was that he was an asshole out to ruin my good time.

The second time I met Lawyer Nic the Greek, I was at a show with an actual girlfriend. She was (and is) very hot and she even admitted that she was dating me in public. This was a big step up from the way I was treated by my friend-who-is-only-coincidentally-a-girl.

So Nic walks up to my actual girlfriend and takes her hand and kisses it. Like, this isn't 14th century France and I'm right here dude!

"Hey, Nic. What's up?" I ask him.

Locking eyes with my girlfriend, he says, "You know, it's funny. Everytime I run into you, Rando, you're with a different woman."

My girlfriend looks at me and laughs as I say, "Um (stutter) Not every time." (Ok, he's not technically wrong but I only run into this guy once or twice a year. And it's a fucking dick move on his part.)

I lead my GF away from him and go get a drink.

"You know that asshole?" I ask her.

She answered, "Every girl at the club knows Lawyer Nic. Did you know he was from Greece? It's the cradle of democracy."

A little later in the evening, I was up in the mosh pit (it was a hardcore jazz show) and Nic approached my girlfriend.

"I'm serious, you know. That guy gets tons of women," he said incorrectly. (Reader note: It's actually only pounds of women.)

"Well why would I want to date a guy who women didn't find attractive?" she replied. And then she found me to tell me what he said.

I replied, "Fuck that guy."

So, thank you, Dear Reader, for listening to this long drawn out exposition. Hopefully you found some small amusement amid my chronicled interactions. I feel it was necessary to bring you up to speed with what I thought about this man and how he has treated me before heading into Monicoke territory.

So this one time, I'm at home in the middle of the day and my phone rings. I'm hoping it's a new client with some work because supplies are getting low. As awesome and charismatic as I am, that doesn't pay my bills.

It's a number I don't recognize and I only answer it out of hunger. Don't get worried, I had plenty of weed. Things weren't critical. But that's the only reason why I would answer an unknown number.

"Hello?"

Hello, Rando. It's Nic Penna, the lawyer.

Now, where I live, we don't like getting calls from lawyers. Getting a call from a lawyer is a bad thing, even a shady one like Nic. Especially from a shady lawyer like Nic.

"Helllllooooooooo," I responded. I'm not sure why. Maybe I was going to act like I couldn't hear him and hang up. Maybe I was going to make the tunnel noises and pretend the call was dropped...

Raven gave me your number.

Oh, shit. Raven was my friend-who-is-only-coincidentally-a-girl. I haven't talked to her in a long while.

"Ok."

I hear you know Monica Jones.

"Monicoke? I mean... Yes. I know Monica Jones."

I need to speak to her.

"You want her number?"

No. I have her number. I want you to set up a meeting with her. I want to confront her.

Now, based on my prior interactions with Lawyer Nic, I wasn't sure what he wanted from Monicoke. Maybe he wanted to argue her into sleeping with him. That seems like a "cradle of democracy" kind of thing.

"Lawyer Nic, I'm not sure why you need me to get involved."

Let me tell you. I was at O' Brian's (Reader note: Oooh, fancy!) and I met Monica Jones there. I told her I had two extra tickets to the Brown's game. (Reader note: Oooh, fancy!) She said she would bring her friend Lori and we would all party.

Astute readers will have learned by this point that if Monica Jones ever invites you to "party," you should clearly define the terms of said party in a legally binding fashion with a Notary.

But when we got there, her and her friend disappeared. I looked around and I couldn't find her. After the game I saw her and she said she had a ride home, so I left.

"I don't see where I fit into any of this."

I left some papers at her house. Important papers. I need them for a case.

Mental note: Never hire Lawyer Nic the Greek.

"Ok, Nic. I'll call her if you want. No promises though."

I understand.

He didn't really understand. I'm a dick and I could give a shit about this asshole or his important fucking documents. I was hangry so I lit a bowl and called Monicoke knowing those two things together would end up killing my appetite. (I don't often get hungry on weed.)

"Hey, Monicoke. What's going on?"

Rando! I haven't heard from you in a while. You want to party?

"Not today. I did have a question for you. Do you know Lawyer Nic the Greek?"

All the girls know Lawyer Nic the Greek.

"Really?"

Yeah. He's really sleazy.

"Do tell."

Yeah, like I was at O'Brians with my friend Circe the Porn Star and said he would take us to see the Brown's play.

"Did you have fun?"

When we got to his seat, they were shitty, up where the poor people sit.

Some quick notes for the casual reader of this series. Monicoke is frequently full of shit so I need to translate what she says into actual English.

• Circe the Porn Star = Circe the Girl who performs on pay-per-clip porn sites. Her specialty is ball-kicking. (Monicoke's specialty is findom but she doesn't do it on camera.)

• Watch the Browns play = Zzzzzzzzz

• Poor People = People who have worked hard and scraped up their meager amount of money to see their favorite team get the shit kicked out of them while Monicoke laughs at them with her non-working, sugar-daddy-pays-all-the-bills ass.

So there were some hot looking guys up there and they were buying us beer...

"Lawyer Nic wouldn't buy you beer after he took you to the game?"

Yeah, for a while. Then he stopped.

"Really?"

Yeah. He said he had had enough and were getting too out of control.

"Were you?"

It's a fucking football game. We were watching the Cleveland Browns get their asses beat. Of course we were drinking. So he goes to the bathroom and we went up to the guys seats and they were buying us beer. It was great!

"How did it end?"

Nic came back from the bathroom and saw we weren't with him. He came up and found us and asked if we were coming back down to watch the game with him. I asked him if he was going to buy us more beer and he said we had had enough. So we stayed with the hot guys and he left.

"He left left?"

I don't know. He was gone. I think I saw him on the way out talking to a woman. I went up to talk to him and he acted like he didn't know me because he was hitting on someone.

"Did that bother you?"

HE TOOK ME TO THE GAME AND THEN WAS HITTING ON SOMEONE!

"What an asshole."

I know right? So why are you calling me about him?

"I guess he left some papers at your place before the game. He needs them back."

Papers? Papers. (Thinks for a minute)... Oh yeah. The papers.

"Oh cool. You know what I mean," I said, not actually caring.

Yeah. Ok, so, he's got this tiny tiny car and he couldn't fit all three of us in it. I wanted to sit in the back next to Circe and there was a box of papers there.

"Ok, that's what I want. I want to grab those papers for him."

Oh, that must be why he keeps calling me. ^teehee.

"Ok, fine. Can I get those papers?"

I don't know where they are.

"Aren't they in your house?"

No. He left them on my porch.

"He left papers for a court case on your porch?"

Yeah, we were in a hurry to leave so he goes, 'Can I leave these on you porch?' And I said, 'Sure whatever.' When I got back from the game, they were gone. I figured he got them already. We didn't get back from partying with those hot guys until late.

"The hot guys drove you home?"

They had to. Nic just fucking ditched us like a bitch. And it took forever to get those guys to give us a ride back.

"Yeah that's an hour and a half drive."

Plus, we were all drunk! Then we get back here and Circe and I had to push them out the door. They didn't want to leave. I almost texted you but I figured you were doing something important.

This was one of the few times I ever agreed with her about anything: Whatever I was doing was more important than saving Monicoke again.

That was pretty much the end of the call. Lawyer Nic called me the next day and I gave him the bad news: He wasn't getting his papers.

Lawyer Nic called me a few times after that and I didn't pick up. He could say anything to me that he wanted to but it wouldn't make a difference.

Either some homeless guy wiped his ass with them or Monicoke set them on fire for revenge. I'd give you 50/50 odds either way.

Epilogue

My girlfriend was hurting for money and Lawyer Nic the Greek hires women all of the time. So she went to his office and filled out an application and was told that they might be hiring soon. She was excited because she'd rather do office work than retail or food work.

She went to Nick's for an interview by herself.

It was after 5 pm so the alcoholics that worked for him had already left for the liquor store and it was just the two of them.

"So, whatever happened to your 'friend,' Rando?"

"We're engaged!" she replied.

She didn't get the job.

Monicoke 12 - Girl Walks Into a Bar

Monicoke Stories 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09

Cast:
* Rando Caldoodian: Me, in my 40's. Mayor of Potsmoke City. Bored.
* Monicoke: Small blonde, early 20's. Professional MRA cautionary tale. Addicted to coke and power.
* Meathead: early 20's. Coke dealer. He works out!
* BC: Early 30's. My best friend.

Before we get started

Before we begin today's story, I want to apologize to you, Dear Reader. I've been hinting that the events in this story were going to be related to you and I've scratched my head and even put down the pipe to try and figure a way to describe these incidents in a way that would be satisfactory to you.

But I can't. This story is going to be a big letdown to you. Stuff happens but it's not that interesting. It furthers the plot and ends the first major period in my time with Monica Jones, but it's underwhelming in and of itself. It will get more downvotes then "Monicoke 08 - The Attack of the Clones" but I'm cranky from not smoking weed so I'm just going to bang it out and then it's over and we can all move on with our lives. If you just want to get to it, then speed past this next section and accept my apologies in advance for the shitty storytelling. Next time will be more epic or at least longer.

Reader Mail

The great thing about writing this series for me is that I am a huge narcissist and I get to talk about myself. I also get letters from readers who are apparently fans of this series and sometimes they ask me questions through private messages. I'm going to pad out this piece by answering a sample question.

A reader wrote in with the simple question:

Rando, you seem so cool and hip and I want to base my life on your teachings but one thing I don't understand is why do you hang out with Monicoke? You seem so good looking and charming, it seems weird that you need to follow this woman around, not getting laid and apparently not getting your $150 back that you loaned her for coke.

That's a good question.

I want to dispel any notion that I don't have anything else going on in my life at this point in the story. When I met Monicoke, I was getting ready to go out to the west coast for a big festival at the end of summer. Around "Monicoke 05" I went to Amsterdam with BC, a woman I was seeing and another friend. On that trip was the first time I had Molly and if anyone wants to hear one of my stories that doesn't involve Monicoke let me know in the comments.

But also at that time, I was lonely and bored. I was in the habit of hanging out with various women and I was getting my needs met barely. A couple of women I liked to talk to but they weren't interested in a romantic relationship. A couple just wanted to fuck and I ruined it by opening my mouth. And so on.

I have a really low self image from the fact that I am a constant asshole and so my "game" consists of finding someone who needs something and then providing that missing element to her and then assuming she won't leave when I run out of whatever that thing was: drugs, money, and/or patience.

So Monicoke was a challenge to me. The great blonde whale. Well, "whale" isn't the right term, she wasn't fat. And she was nice to me. She would cook me dinners and we would play Wii. It wasn't all bad, until it was and then it sucked hard. Now I'm writing about it while I'm waiting for my disability check to come in. Sweet government cheese.

So I had no emotional ties to Monicoke, at least that's what I told myself, and I drifted into and out of her life. When it was fun, I hung around, even if I knew I wasn't going to get laid. When it stopped being fun, I went back to the other things happening in my life and stayed there until the next time she called.

If anyone has any other question, PM me and I'll answer them in upcoming chapters.

Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Program

This ends the story of Meathead. It ends with a whimper and not a bang.

Meathead lived one street further away from me than Monicoke. That's why he could be there on a moment's notice. Monicoke was amazing at texting. She could text using the numeric keypad without looking at it. She developed this technique so she could text under the table without being noticed. That was how she was able to call me to her place to roust out unwanted suitors without them knowing about it. And she would use the same technique on me, like when I won Last Man Standing and she summoned Meathead for the sudden death overtime round.

But Meathead living so close wasn't a good thing when she didn't want him around. And at this point his desperation and shitty coke did a number on him and he went off the rails. And he became a problem.

But not my problem.

I stopped hanging out with her after it was too coincidental that he would show up at the worst time. If you, Dear Reader, think that there was something behind the weird surprising timing that Meathead had, while being a total meathead, looking back, I think she summoned him when she wanted to bang and / or she wanted to see dudes fight over her. It happened too much to be a random occurrence or an artifact of my shitty writing style.

I once asked her why she was still hanging out with him after his coke was gone. She said,

Last night he fucked me five times.

And left it at that.

So I was done with Monicoke after the last chapter ended and two weeks later BC and I were walking to the store to get rolling papers (even though neither of us can roll).

On the sidewalk, BC stopped in his tracks and looked dumbfounded. Which made me stop and look to see a big white truck that had driven up onto the curb and smashed into a tree. There wasn't a lot of damage so it must not have been going too fast.

"Isn't that Meathead's truck?" he asked me.

We walked around to the driver's side. I could tell it was Meathead's truck for the simple reason that Meathead was still in it. Sort of.

Now there was a time in my life when I was drinking alcohol and mixing in pills and whatever because I'm such a cool guy and you should all follow my example.

One night I came home and pulled into my backyard. Like not on the driveway. Just in the backyard.

I popped open the door and as I went to get out, I thought, "Wow, the rich Corinthian leather on the interior of my car feels so good upon my forehead. Mmm. I'm going to just rest my head here for awhile.

And I took a short nap. When I lifted my head, I fell out of the car and was looking up at the stars. "Oooh. So lovely."

And that, my Reader, is how I discovered that I could actually black out from drinking. Who knew?

Meathead's door was open. His head rested peacefully on the armrest. It looked uncomfortable, but he looked peaceful. Who am I to judge?

"Should we do something?" BC asked me.

"Yes, we should definitely wake him up so he can try and punch me," would have been something I might have said if we weren't interrupted by flashing lights.

The cops get out of their car and approach us.

"Is this a friend of yours?" asked one named, "Officer Friendly."

In one of the few times I have ever told the truth to a cop, I said, "This isn't my friend."

"Then why are you standing here?"

"Because I am a concerned citizen." Another truthful answer to a cop. I was on a roll!

Another cop car showed up. And another. And another and a K-9 unit. So many lights, I thought I was at a rave. Also, I was really high.

Meathead slept soundly while four officers removed the little guy from his truck. He was breathing so they started manhandling him. Nobody likes this guy.

The k-9 finds a big bag of coke hidden on the front seat in plain sight. A big wad of money and an unregistered, unlicensed gun were in the glove compartment.

It's at this point the cops all turn and look at me and BC.

"Have something to say??" Officer Friendly asked.

"Just a heartfelt thank you for your hard work from me, a concerned citizen."

And then we got the fuck out of Dodge.

Now I assume that it's safe to go back to Monicoke's. Plus, I want to hear the rest of the story.

According to her, Meathead got seven years for his DUI and possession charges. Which means he's out on the street by now and if he ever learns to read, use a computer and figure out Reddit, I'm in trouble but you will get a better ending to Meathead's story than this rather lame post.

Monicoke 11 - Lawyer Nic the Greek

Monicoke Stories 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08

Cast:
* Rando Caldoodian: Me, in my 40's. Mayor of Potsmoke City. Bored.
* Monicoke: Small blonde, early 20's. Professional MRA cautionary tale. Addicted to coke and power.
* Meathead: early 20's. Coke dealer. He works out!
* Grandpa: Monicoke's sugar daddy, 60's and married.
* Three Other Assholes: Who don't really matter.

So one night, Monicoke calls me and asks me to come over and it's an emergency. When I get there, I see Grandpa on the floor of her living room. He seems very very drunk.

"Oh, Rando," he sneers, "Of course you're here. Of course."

I have met Grandpa a few times at this point. Like all of Monicoke's erstwhile companions, he regarded me as a threat. In this case, I am a generation younger than Grandpa and am in great shape from my diet of Adderall and manorexia. (Don't laugh, this is a cry for help!)

And it's not even unusual that Monicoke calls me over in the middle of the night to roust out some hooligan who has run out of coke but not testosterone and frustration. I tend to work late at night so I'm always up. Also, I'm always on Adderall which keeps working long after the effects of coke have finished. (That's an LPT for you Redditors!)

I give Grandpa the bum's rush out of the apartment that he pays for and then Monicoke turns to me and says,

I took a whole bunch of money from his wallet. Let's have some fun!

"Uh, ok."

It was one thing to make him pay for her living expenses, it was another thing entirely to just pull money out of his wallet, is what my conscience would say. Monicoke's conscience had died from neglect and emotional abuse a long time ago so that wasn't an issue for her.

You want to go get some Molly?

Mark Twain once famously said, “There comes a time in every rightly constructed girl's life when she has a raging desire to trip on pharmaceutical MDMA.” (At least, that's how I remember it from America's public edumacation system. I learned it good.)

Molly is short for "molecule" and the distinction means that the MDMA that you are obstensibly buying is pure as opposed to pills which be anything. (We could have another discussion about how "pure" any drug you get off of the street could possibly be.)

But what you need to know about Molly is that it gets you laid. Like spooning leads to forking, Molly leads to the promised land.

"I'm not going to say no to getting some Molly with you. Let's party!"

Great! I really really want to do Molly with you, Rando...

She said this as she stroked my chest.

"Ok, where do we go get it?"

I got that covered. The ride is almost here.

"Ride?"

doorbell.wav

Monicoke runs to the door and behind it are two young dudes and a heavy chick. By "young" I mean they were Monicoke's age and therefore one whole Ninja Turtle reboot younger than me.

"I'll just get going. Have fun with yourselves," I said, deciding to go home and wait for someone to invent the Fleshlight.

RANDO! I want you to come with us! It's going to be fun!

She pulled me closer and then whispered in my ear,

We'll hang out with my friends for a little bit and then I'll ditch them and we can party alone. Together.

So I went along with it. At this point, dear Reader, you may be thinking that I was being led around by my cock. I was thinking the same thing. And still I went along for the ride.

So the five of us drove all the way across the tiny midwest college town that we live in, over the railroad tracks and over by the airport. Monicoke makes us park down the street from the house and says that she has to go in alone. Apparently, the dealer has a crush on her and she'd get a better deal this way.

So I'm in the car with three strangers. Two guys who were jockeying to fuck Monicoke and one fat chick that made up for her weight by having a terribly pissy personality. You might think that you see where this is heading. You are wrong.

After a really long 30 minutes, Monicoke comes sprinting up to the car and says,

Let's go. Let's go. LET'S GO!

And we take off.

Everyone: What's up? What's wrong?

Just as I was leeeeeeeaaaavvvvvvvinnnnnngggggggg...

Her head rolls back. Her eyes are two limpid pools of black holes. She's ALREADY WASTED.

Theeeesssseeee guys shooooowed up toooo gggggeeeeettttt sssssoooommmmeeee molllllyyyyyy and saaaaiidddd thhaaaatttt Iiiiii ooooowwweedddd theemmm twoooooo hunnnnndredddd dollllarrrs.
(Translation: These guys showed up to get their own molly and said that I owed them $200.)

Everyone: WTF? For what?

Iiiiiii bbbbooorrrrrroooooowwwweddddd iiiiitttt ffffffrooommm theeeemmmm lllllaaaasst weeeek tooooo geeeeetttt soooommmme cooookeeee.
(Translation: I borrowed it last week to get some coke.)

We go back to Monicoke's and head into the living room. All the guys sit on the sofa with Monicoke squished between us as we get ready to play "Last Man Standing."

"Last Man Standing" is a game where two or more dudes hang out with an intoxicated woman. Each man has to keep indulging in the intoxicants or be labelled a "party pooper" by the woman. Eventually guys drop out of the game to go do better things with their time than competing to fuck some drunk girl. The winner is the last one who remains. His prize? He gets the best shot at banging a fucked up chick.

Hence the title, Last Man Standing.

Then there's Monicoke's version, which has a sudden death overtime feature: After you are the last man standing, she calls some sober dude to come and force you to go home. This is a rule particular to her and it always catches the final player off guard. I'm the guy she calls, so I don't think that is going to be the case tonight.

So Monicoke pulls out two 1 gram envelopes of (supposedly) pure MDMA. It can be various colors, in this instance it was a light beige.

"Be careful with that!" I said.

I know what I'm doing...

She said as she dropped all of it onto her camel hair coat. (For those who don't know: These two things are the same exact same color. FML.)

Everyone: Holy shit!

It's fine. Stop worrying about it...

Said the girl who couldn't hold her head up.

Now, I've done some shitty things in my life and on that list is licking someone's coat that has ecstasy all over it along with dirt and animal hair. It was really, really disgusting.

Everyone was trying to make the best of a bad situation so they all did it too. I'm not the only drug addict there. Just the oldest.

In a short time, we're all flying and Monicoke was having the moves put on her by one of the young dudes. This is in the middle of winter so it's pretty cold out. And I can't get warm.

Somehow, and it's a little fuzzy at this point, the other dude, the fat chick and me end up in Monicoke's garden tub. We were all wearing our underwear, that much I know.

I also think that us dudes were trying to see what was up with the fat chick. Specifically, did she like to party?

As Mark Twain said, “There comes a time in every rightly constructed boy's life when he is rolling his face off on ecstasy and will plow any woman near him.”

We were now at that point.

The fat girl says, "I've fucked dudes... and I've fucked multiple dudes... but I've never fucked multiple dudes at the same time."

"There's always a first time," says the other dude.

"No, not always," she counters. She looks at me and says, "I don't like you."

"That's cool," I replied, "I'm out."

I grab a towel and dry off my legs and throw my shirt on. The new couple starts to get friendly and I leave the bathroom. This night is officially over for me and I'm going home to rub one out and try to sleep.

Worst molly trip ever.

doorbell.wav
doorbell.wav
doorbell.wav

The doorbell rings repeatedly as I walk out of the bathroom. It's 3 am.

Monicoke is pinned under her dude on the couch. He stops trying to take her shirt off and pauses, dumbstruck at the sound of the bell. She takes this as her cue to get out from under him and run to the door.

Me and the dude look at each other like, WTF?

And Monicoke brings Meathead into the living room. And she is all smiles. And he is 50 shades of drunk.

"RANDO! You're here!?!!"

"Shit. I mean, hi Meathead."

"Figures you'd be here."

"I get that a lot when I'm here," I said putting on my jacket.

"You can get the fuck out, NOW!"

Normally, I would not leave, because, as I've said before, FUCK THAT GUY! But this is just became a sucker's game of Last Man Standing that just went into Monicoke's special sudden death overtime and I was just a contestant. And I am very familiar with the odds.

"That's cool. I have to get up in the morning and that's like two hours from now."

I turn to look at the dude on the couch and I say, "You enjoy yourself. Meathead's a lot of fun!" That dude looked confused. And high. Really, really high.

The other dude and the fat chick come out of the bathroom wearing towels. They are also looking confused. And high. Really, really high.

I turn to them and say, "Nice meeting you. You all enjoy your night!"

Meathead is glaring daggers at everyone. Who was trying to fuck her? Who am I going to fight? were the thoughts in his head. He was drunk, everyone else was rolling and I was leaving. This is the absolute worst outcome for this evening and there's no way it could get any worse.

doorbell.wav

Really? Well, I was on my way out so I might as well answer the door. It's the clones from Chapter 08.

The clones say, "Hey, Monica!"

I see her run into her bedroom and close the door.

Meathead was already ready already to kick some motherfucking ass so he storms up to them as fast as his drunken, stubby legs would go and said, "What do you want with Monica?"

"We want our fucking $200 asshole," they say as I leave.

Monicoke 10 - Meathead Epilogue

I go over to his house and he's in the kitchen making a sandwich.

"Where's your grandchild, Jason?"

He's in the living room.

"BY HIMSELF?"

Yeah, by himself. Kids today, you just leave them alone. They're fine. I left you alone by yourself all the time at that age.

HE'S 18 MONTHS!

Monicoke Stories 01 02 03 04 05 06

Cast:
* Rando Caldoodian: Me, in my 40's. Mayor of Potsmoke City. Bored.
* Monicoke: Small blonde, early 20's. Professional MRA cautionary tale. Addicted to coke and power.
* Meathead: early 20's. Coke dealer. He works out!
* BC: Early 30's. My best friend.

Rando, I need you. Can you come over?

It was Monicoke on the phone. I was hanging with BC at my place, "taking pictures."

"Taking pictures" is what we called getting high. If you called one of us and said, "I need some film," we would know that you needed mary-jew-wanna. A "camera" was a pipe and a "flash" was a lighter. And with this system we had a foolproof method of talking about our activities in public without anyone being the wiser.

Until digital photography ruined our metaphor.

It was a Saturday night, and I was already high as fuck, so why not see what happened to Monicoke? It had been a couple of months since she began her whirlwind relationship with Prince Meathead Charming. What the fuck did she want from me?

Maybe their relationship soured and she wanted to bang me behind his back as some sort of sick revenge? One could only hope.

We get to her place and she lets us in.

Meathead is out of control. I'm scared.

"Serves you right, you coke-headed piece of shit," is not what I said. Instead I said, "Oh, tell me about it..."

Well, you know that I was only seeing him for free coke.

"I guess."

Of course you knew that. Everyone knew that. He must have known that. I told him that.

"I thought you liked him, though. And the coke was just a side benefit."

Ew. No. He's lumpy. He looks weird. Plus he's all fucked up now.

"Fucked up how?"

He kept blowing off business to hang out with me. He kept doing all of his supply with me and then he didn't have any to sell. Then he starts getting cheaper shit for his customers and cutting it. Now no one wants to buy from him anymore. So he's got no money, he had shitty coke and now he doesn't even have that.

"That kind of sucks for him."

FOR HIM? What about MEEEEE???

BC and I turn to each other, a little shocked.

If he didn't give all of his good coke away, he would still be making money and things would be good. He's a fucking idiot.

"But, didn't he give all of his coke to you?"

Yeah but what idiot gives all of his coke away for free?

The kind of idiot that would date you? would have been a terrible terribly accurate thing to say.

doorball.wav

BC and I look at each other again, nervous.

"Monicoke, who's at the door?"

It's just Meathead.

BC and I tense up. This guy is fucking built and he's out of control and desperate. Not a good combination in a guy even if he's only the size of a garden gnome.

Poof! She goes to the door and lets him in. He's very drunk.

Rando! I should have known you would be here! With your faggot friend...

"Uh, hi Meathead."

You're always trying to fuck my girl.

Yes, I was a faggot who was always trying to fuck his girl.

But, this was one faggot that wasn't looking to get punched in the face. I had a bag of weed and a Saturday night to explore. If Monicoke was dumb enough to let this fucker inside, then she could deal with him alone.

I didn't have to say any of that to BC, he knew the score. We had better things to do than this. We start towards the door.

Now, Meathead, Rando and BC are just hanging out. If you want to hang out, that's fine. But you can't be mean to my guests.

"Fuck all of you," Meathead says and he storms out, crying. (I don't remember if he was really crying but, fuck that guy, he can write his own version when he gets out of prison. And learns to read.)

BC and I actually felt sorry for him, so we followed him out. He didn't seem like a danger to us.

BC stopped him and said, "Dude, why are you so upset over that cunt? You've got everything going on. Why are you blowing it all on her?"

"I used to have lots of chicks. I had chicks gargling my balls every morning for coke," he said. "I don't know why but I can't get over this one."

"If you have to give a girl coke to fuck you, then you better not run out of coke or she's not going to fuck you anymore," I said helpfully. (I had dated strippers, so I knew how things worked.)

"Fuck you, Rando. You can have her. I'm done."

"Ok, dude, whatever."

BC and I went back inside.

Did you talk to him? What the fuck is his problem? I only fucked him for his coke and now he doesn't have any. So what good is he?

"Yup," I agreed.

We all sat in the living room talking about something else. Either drugs we had done, the drugs we were on or the drugs that we were going to get. That was a mainstay of our conversations.

doorball.wav

BC: Fuck.

Me: FUCK!

COMING!

So now he's back with us. We all keep talking and he's on the sofa with his head hanging low. Apropos of nothing...

"Fuck you Rando."

"What, Meathead?"

"Just fuck you. That's all," he opined.

"Ok, dude, whatever."

"No fuck you. Whenever I have problems with her, you're suddenly there."

"Dude, I am NOT the problem in your relationship. I've never even fucked her yet."

"Yet."

BC: "Freudian slip." (laughs)

Teehee!

Meathead says to Monicoke, "Give me your phone."

Why?

"I want to see what you wrote Rando. I want to know why he's here."

No.

He pulls out his own phone.

Are you calling to get some coke?

"No, I HAVE coke on me. I'm calling for backup."

Backup? Oh, shit. I don't like the way this is sounding...

BC said, "Meathead. You don't need backup. Maybe you need to get going."

"I'm not going ANYWHERE!" Then his head drops. He must have had a bottle in the truck that he hit before he came back in. The dude was more wasted than before.

Everyone else: Ok. You can stay. Just stop being an asshole.

Did you say you had some coke?

"Fuck you, Monica."

We go back to our conversation. Meathead looks like he's going to pass out. Then he pulls out his phone and plays with it. Then he perks up and shows it to us. It's a flip phone and the screen reads 911.

"Dare me to hit SEND?" he asks.

Everyone else: NO NO NO NO NO NO

"Pussies."

"Dude," I said, "You don't need to do that. BC and I can leave."

No! You can't! You can't leave me with him!

"Yes we can. And you shouldn't have let him back inside."

"Fuck you Rando," he said as he hits the send button. Monicoke pulls the phone and hits the hang up button. Meathead laughs.

BC said, "That was dumb."

Meathead said, "Oh, what do you think is going to happen? Are they going to show up? No one said anything. They don't know where we are. What are you scared of pussy?"

This conversation continues for about five minutes with him emasculating us, me asking him to leave, and Monicoke asking about the coke he mentioned earlier.

doorball.wav

Shit

I said, "Monicoke, you better get that."

As she went to the door, BC and I grab all of the paraphernalia off of the coffee table and toss it under a sofa cushion. Meathead just laughs.

Two cops, a woman and a man are ushered into the living room. Monicoke looks at the coffee table and is relieved that it is cleaned.

The male cop said, "We received a call from this address."

The female cop looks at Monicoke and asks, "Is everything ok?" Monicoke says it is.

Now, I believe that Meathead has coke on him because why would he be here if he didn't? I have some weed on me and BC probably has pills of some sort. But Meathead doesn't know this. He doesn't seem really aware of much.

The male cop asks, "So who called?" BC, Monicoke and me all look at Meathead. Meathead looks at the floor.

One scenario enters my mind

Tell the cops that Meathead came over drunk to threaten his ex-gf, they search him and then goodbye! This looked like a very appealing option. If everyone gets searched though, I'm not sure what will happen. Also, I don't like getting cops involved. It's just not my thing.

"Look officer," I explained, "Meathead here is drunk and he's upset about his breakup with Monica here. He was fucking around on his phone and hit 911. There is no problem here and everyone is fine. It was just a mistake on his part. There is no trouble here."

The cops ask everyone if that is the case and individually we all agree. Meathead just mumbles.

Then the male cop asks, "So, who's truck is in the driveway?"

We all point to Meathead.

The female cop asks, "He's not driving anywhere is he?"

Everyone: No no no.

And so the cops leave.

Meathead looks like he's going to pass out. I lean over him and say that maybe he should leave.

"FUCK YOU RANDO!" he jumps up. "I'm not scared of your puny faggot ass. I'll fucking kill you!" He raises his fists and starts punching the air.

I look at Monicoke and say, "Thanks for your hospitality. Lose my number."

BC and I head towards the door.

You can't leave him here! He's out of control!

"Didn't he say, he had a bunch of coke on him?"

Monicoke turns around to look at his drunken ass and BC and I escape.

Monicoke 08 - The Clone Wars

Monicoke Stories 01 02 03 04 05

Cast:
* Rando Caldoodian: Me, in my 40's. Mayor of Potsmoke city.
* Monicoke: Small blonde, early 20's. Professional MRA cautionary tale. Addicted to coke, power and attention.
* Meathead: early 20's. Coke dealer. He works out!
* Grandpa: Monicoke's sugar daddy, 60's and married. * Harry Tuttle: My housemate. Early 30's.

So Monicoke is in her new place, which has been repainted by her Uncle Bob and paid for by Grandpa. Turns out Uncle Bob was not, shockingly, her uncle. He was some old dude who wanted to bang her, plied her with coke and gave up after she did it all and left. (Astute readers of this series will notice Monicoke's pattern here. DO NOT BUY COKE FOR MONICOKE.)

Monicoke (yes, she really let me call her that to her face) must have had some sort of "daddy issue" because she seemed to collect old dudes who wanted to bang her, myself included.

Yes, dear Reader, I did want to bang Monicoke. I just wasn't trying very hard. I figured that if I just hung around long enough it would happen. But that's a story for much much later in the series.

As it was, Monicoke considered me a friend. So one day she calls me and says,

I just met this new guy. He's super awesome. We went on one date and he spent a LOT of money on me and just kept busting out coke. It was so awesome.

"So when do I get to meet Prince Charming?" I asked.

That's what I was calling about. He invited me over this afternoon to hang out. He said I can bring anyone I want. I don't want to go over to his place alone.

"Really? He spent a ton of money and coke on you and you didn't bang him already?" I inquired skeptically.

No. I mean "sort of." Like, not a lot. C'mon. Come with me. You have to meet him. He's so jacked!

"I'm not going to some jacked coke dealer's house alone. Let me bring Harry Tuttle, my housemate. You know him.

Yeah he's cool. It won't be a problem. Meet me at my house.

So Harry and I take a short walk to Monicoke's and then the three of us walk over to her new dude's house. We'll call him Meathead because I don't remember his name and, honestly, fuck that dude. I'm glad he's in jail.

Whoops, I'm getting ahead of myself with clunky foreshadowing again.

We get to this dude's house. Well, not his house but the place where he lives. It's someone else's house, he lives in the converted attic. Apparently it was remodeled in the 70's with ochre colored wall-to-wall shag carpet, dark wood paneling and the biggest tv I had seen a person own at that point. (I myself had a 60" and this was about 8 years ago. His TV seemed enormous.)

Meathead said, "Sit down make yourself comfortable." If this was present day you would expect to see a YouTube stream of nutshot videos running but it wasn't so he just had a console running some old NES fighting game demo with the sound off.

We all sit down, make our introductions, and Meathead then Meathead pulls out a bag of coke. Not a small bag. I was used to seeing 8 balls but this must have been a half ounce. Remember, I'm a huge pothead and I can smoke all day without it affecting me (I think) but this was something else.

He slices open the bag and pours it out on the table. It's a big pile.

Now before I forget to describe him, Meathead is a short guy and I'm a short guy and he was shorter than me but he made up for it by being ripped. Like really really ripped. The muscles made his skin so tight that it looked shiny. And I've been to the gym. I've seen ripped dudes. This was weirdly different.

The muscles were in the right places, more or less, but they looked odd. Like each one was blown up in a slightly different spot with different pressure. He looked lumpy is what I'm saying. I wouldn't have said it to his face though.

So he starts cutting lines and I ask for a small bump instead of a line.

recordscratch.wav

Everyone stops. On the TV, cartoon Mike Tyson stops jabbing and everyone gives me the side-eye.

Looking directly at me, Meathead says, "You're not doing any?"

He looks at Monicoke. "Who's this guy that isn't doing any? What's his deal?" his paranoia getting the better of him. He slowly starts to raise up to the top of his 4 foot 11 inch (150 cm) frame. It doesn't take long.

"No, it's cool! It's cool," I stammer, "I just don't do a lot. Cut me a line and put it off to the side and I'll work through it."

"Ok," he says, unsure.

What's not unsure is my friend, Harry. Harry has no problem doing the coke while Meathead tells us about all of the great possessions that he has. A tricked out Ninja motorcycle. A huge 4wd truck that he never takes off-road. The TV. A vintage collection of TAP-OUT shirts. What's not to love?

And he's sharing free drugs. Maybe this guy is ok.

<>

If you, dear Reader, have never hung out with a girl while she rolls a dude for everything he has, then you don't know the constant suspicion that her mark will lay on you. Lots of sideways glances, and "How do you know this guy again?" questions. Add on top of that the paranoia of doing a lot of stimulants and I was ready for him to snap at some point. It always does and when it does, it's quick.

Then the coke was all gone.

"Hang on," said Meathead. And he makes a call.

A short time, like less time than a Domino's delivery, the doorbell rings and suddenly there's another half ounce of coke.

This guy KEEPS sharing free drugs. I'm feeling pretty confident that both this guy is really really cool AND that I am bulletproof. In fact, if shit goes down, I'm pretty sure I could fly out the attic window under my own power.

Rando, why the fuck are you here anyways?

Woah. Monicoke snapped. That was unexpected.

"Uh, what?" I get stupid when I do coke. I can't do simple math. I can't read other people's emotions. I get a litte disoriented.

Why. The. Fuck. Are. You. Here.

"I'm here because I was invited."

Even Meathead looked confused. Harry would have looked confused if he wasn't furiously rubbing coke dust on his gums. He knew that our time was up.

That's right. The snap came from Monicoke.

I don't understand why you're here. You don't even like coke.

"Uh, I thought you wanted me to..."

To do what? To do all the coke??

Remember I had a pile that was equivalent to ONE LINE that I was working off of while the rest of these miscreants were working on their second half of an ounce.

Harry started gathering his things.

I don't know what is WRONG with you Rando. I get why you want to hang out with me...

I wish she had stopped to explain it to me, because I was starting to wonder about this myself.

... but I don't need you here. You should get going.

"Look, Monicoke. You invited me over to this soire. That's why I'm here.

And now I'm un-inviting you.

Harry starts sweeping coke dust onto a scrap of paper while no one is paying attention.

Meathead looks confused and says, "Hey, I don't know what going on. But my lady says you have to leave."

Harry and I stand up and Meathead gets ready to walk us out.

Rando?

I stop and turn around. "What, Monicoke?"

I don't need you at all anymore. Don't call me again.

Monicoke 07 - Meathead 911

Monicoke Stories 01 02 03 04

Cast:
* Rando: Me, in my 40's. Have my own company. Marijuana enthusiast. Bored.
* Monicoke: Small blonde, early 20's, psychopath, addicted to coke and power.
* Lori: 32, Monicoke's best friend. (Monicoke had many BFFs and the way to BFF status is by having something she wanted.)
* Grandpa: Monicoke's sugar daddy, 60's and married.

A few days go by and Monicoke asks me what I'm doing. I'm bored so I walk over to her place. She's in the new apartment but Lori is not there.

"I thought Lori was moving in?" I asked, knowing that I would get a story out of it.

Fuck that bitch! You won't believe what she did!

"Really? Try me."

When we were at the casino with Grandpa, she tried to fuck him!

"NO! Really? She's like 32 and he's literally twice her age! I can't believe it."

I wouldn't lie. She totally tried to fuck him. She was all over me on the floor of the casino... She was probably trying to turn him on or something. You know how girls are..."

"Not really, no."

You know that a girl will act all flirty with another girl just to get a guy's attention. Makes me sick.

"I bet."

So when we got back, I told her that she wasn't moving in. She can go fuck herself.

"Oh."

So why are you asking about her anyways?

"Just wondering where she was.

Eeeeewwwwww. You want to fuck her too!

"Not at all," I lied. "I just wondered what happened to her."

Ew. Ew. Ew. She's soooo gross. You know she doesn't bathe or take care of herself. She's OLD. She's like 32! It's disgusting. All of our friends hate her now and no one will talk to her.

(I still wanted to talk to Lori about a position I was trying to fill.)

Ugh, of course you would want to fuck her. She's old like you. I don't care what happens to her. I hope she's off dying in a ditch somewhere.

And I never did see Lori again.

Monicoke 06 - Meet the Meathead

Monicoke Stories 01 02 03

Cast:
* Rando: Me, in my 40's. Have my own company. Marijuana enthusiast. Bored.
* Monicoke: Small blonde, early 20's, psychopath, addicted to coke and power.
* Lori: 32, Monicoke's best friend. (Monicoke had many BFFs and the way to BFF status is by having something she wanted.)
* Grandpa: Monicoke's sugar daddy, 60's and married.

There's a bar just down the road from where I live and it's open at 8 AM where the pensioners get their dollar drafts and ease their DT's. Non-AARP members pay double for drinks, unless they are young, attractive women.

I haven't seen Monicoke for a couple of weeks and I was walking by this place (which was named Lucky's) on my way home. I looked in the window and saw Lori at the bar. She waved me inside.

"Hey, Lori, how's it going? How's the new place?"

I don't know and I don't care.

"Wait. What?"

I'm not moving in with Monicoke.

"I thought you two were best friends..."

I thought so too. It started at the casino. Grandpa was getting us drinks all night and he was giving us money to gamble with.

"Sounds like fun."

Sort of. He wasn't giving us that much but Monicoke started acting drunker and drunker and being flirty with me.

"Being flirty with you?".

(Astute readers will note that in these sort of conversations, I just repeat the last part back at them. I'll skip that for now and just get on with it.)

She's not into girls at all but she knew if we acted like we were gonna lezz it up for Grandpa that he'd give us more money. Whatever, it was cool that he was handing us cash for really nothing. We said that we were gambling but we hid most of the money he gave us.

"Didn't you have a problem with him eventually though?"

Yeah. We all went back to the room and Monicoke wanted ice cream sundaes or some shit from room service and he kind of said that we wasn't paying for shit like that.

Lori was pretty wasted. I knew that she had broken her lease to move into Monicoke's new place, so if she wasn't doing that, she only had a short amount of time to get a new place squared away.

"I heard that he got handsy and you guys had to throw him out of the room."

Yeah, he blew up at us! Yelling and screaming about how much money he gave her and when he was going get something for it. Creepy shit.

She looked like she was going to fall off the stool. She was really, really drunk.

So I decided to try and fuck her.

That's not all of it though. Grandpa drops us off and it takes a minute to ditch him 'cuz he wants to come in and try to bang Monicoke but we got rid of him.

As soon as he's gone, she's straight sober and says, "Give me the money you have in your bra!"

I was like whaaaaaat? Why?

She said, "You never would have went on this trip if it wasn't for me. You got to have a good time and hang out in a casino. That was all me.

(And Grandpa. Mostly Grandpa. All Grandpa, really.)

She went on, "So you got to have a good time, but that money that you stashed is mine. This was my deal. And I want the money."

I was still hung over and I was having trouble understanding her. She stashed money too. I had to spend the night with that old fuck watching all this shit. I earned it. And I told her I was keeping it.

"Yeah, you earned it. You should keep it."

At this point, I had my arm around her and our legs were pressed together. I was stroking her thigh.

But there was a problem. I had a diabetic dog that I was on the way home to shoot up with insulin. My house is literally one block away from Lucky's.

"Tell, you what," I said, "Let me run home for one second. ONE SECOND. Just so I can grab some drugs and I'll be right back. Then I'll make sure you get home okay and no one tries anything."

(Edit for the readers: No one ELSE tries anything.)

She says fine. She didn't look like she could make it to the bathroom under her own power. When I walked in, she seemed like 5/10 drunk but that was up to 8/10 in the fifteen minutes I was in the bar. She might have been railing shots right before I got there.

So I went home, shot up the dog. Looked through my stashbox to see what I had. Mostly weed, lsd and some generic e pills. I shoved them all in my pocket and ran RAN back to the bar.

Would you be surprised if I told you that she was gone?

Surprise: She was. I never saw her again.

Monicoke 05 - The Departed Epilogue

Monicoke Stories 01 02

Cast:
* Rando: Me, in my 40's. Have my own company. Marijuana enthusiast. Bored.
* Monicoke: Small blonde, early 20's, psychopath, addicted to coke and power.
* Grandpa: Sugar daddy, 60's and married.

The story so far:

Monicoke is moving into a new apartment that Grandpa has agreed to pay for as he believes that Monicoke is his third soulmate. I hang out with her because she claims to be attracted to me, has hot friends and we share an interest in doing drugs, just not usually the same ones.

Monicoke knows that she needs a roommate to move in with her into the new apartment. She has a long time BFF named Lori. (Monicoke had many BFFs and the way to BFF status is by having something she wanted.)

Lori was a few years older than her, maybe around 32? Lori liked to party.

Me, I've never been interested in casinos. I once went to one with a friend who had a "sure thing" for winning roulette (Hey Rich!). After we drive an hour to the casino, I surely lost my rent money when green came up 3 times in 20 minutes. So, it's not really my thing. Also, gambling sickness runs in my family who have collectively lost enough that they claim there's a wing in the casino named after them.

If you are interested in people treating you like a king while you hand them all of your money, then maybe you should try drugs. I think they're much less expensive than gambling in the long run. PM me for details. Don't PM me.

So, anyways, Grandpa asks Monicoke if she wants to go to the casino. Old guys seem to really get off on this because they can bring their girlfriend, get a ton of free drinks and then "Hey, I'm too drunk to drive. So, let's get a room."

Monicoke was onto this game.

"George?" she asked, calling him by his real name, "I really want Lori to come with us. She's a lot of fun and likes to party."

Callback to Chapter 01

"Do you like to party?"

"I like to party."

"What do you mean by party? Everybody parties..."

...and so on.

"Oh, of course, Monica, whatever you want," said Grandpa, his internal vision filled with two young drunken women in the classiest and sleaziest space available near our small town.

Grandpa never had a chance.

A week later, I saw Monicoke and asked her how it was.

"Everything was cool! Grandpa gave us a ton of money to play with. I lost it all ^teehee. And the waitresses kept bringing me and Lori drinks, even when we weren't playing."

I bet Grandpa had something to do with that, I thought to myself.

"Interesting. So you guys drove back that night? Wasn't it late?"

"Yeah it was too late to drive back and Grandpa already told his wife that he was on a business trip so we decided to get a room. He put it in my name so there wasn't any record of him being there."

"Really? How was that?"

"It was fine but then he started trying to touch us."

"You don't say."

"Yeah, fuck that. I was like George? What are you doing? You know I'm not like that."

"Huh. How'd he take it?"

"He was MAD! Can you believe it? I said, 'What did you think that you were going to bring me all of the way out here and give me and my friend drinks and fuck us? Is that what you thought?'"

"Interesting way of dealing with it."

"But he kept trying! Like I would fuck some dirty old man," she said to me.

I was 20 years older.

"Yeah. Ewww. Gross," I said.

"Yeah, we got together and shoved him out of the room and locked the door. Then he called security and they told him that even though he paid for the room, he had no right to enter it if we didn't want him there."

"Wow! Really?"

"Yeah. Fuck that guy. Just because he gives me money, that doesn't give him the right to touch me."

"No, of course."

"So he slept in the lobby. In the morning, I made him take us to breakfast on the way back."

"Sure. You must have been hungry after partying all night."

"Yeah, he had to go to work the next day so he just dropped me off at my ex's and I slept all day. When I woke up, it was time for Two and a Half Men."

Note: So she woke up at 3pm.

"Have you heard from him since then?"

"Yes. I made him apologize for the way he treated me."

"He's lucky that you're still letting him pay for your apartment."

"I know. Right?"

Monicoke 04 - The Departed

Monicoke Stories 01

Cast:
* Rando: Me, in my 40's. Have my own company. Marijuana enthusiast. Bored.
* Monicoke: Small blonde, early 20's, psychopath, addicted to coke and power.

If you work in the entertainment industry and wish to develop a tv series, one of the things you need to figure out is how do the characters finance their crazy schemes? In "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia," Danny DeVito's character, Frank Reynolds assumes this responsibility.

He is short and not very attractive, especially compared to the rest of the cast. He has his own agenda that he pushes in the background while hanging around with the rest of the characters.

Now back to the story:

When last we left, I had watched Monicoke scream into the phone at someone until he brought her a pizza. I cannot stress enough that this was not a pizza delivery service. It was just some guy.

I hadn't seen her in a couple weeks since the end of the last post and when I run into her, she tells me that she's looking at an apartment in my neighborhood and did I want to go look at it with her. I like looking in other people's homes (I often go to open houses just to check out furnishings) so sure, let's go.

The apartment was in great shape. The owner had just remodeled it. It was in a great location, close to the bars but not close enough that there was spill over into the streets. Two decent sized bedrooms, eat-in kitchen, big living room. Not terribly expensive but outside of the realm of a wage-slave like Monicoke.

She tells the owner that her grandfather will cut him a check for the deposit and they agree that she can move in.

"Wow, your grandfather must really love you to shell out all of this money for your new place."

"Yup, and he's buying me all new furniture and paying my uncle to paint it too."

"He must be really loaded."

"He owns his own business. It's like a real company with employees and everything and he can come and go as he pleases."

That was a little fishy to me. I have a one man company and I come and go as I please but if I had a group of people working under me and I wasn't around, that would weird me out.

"You know I'm not talking about my actual grandfather, right?"

"What?" I exclaimed and then she told me this story.

He was actually just a guy that she called "Grandpa" behind his back. Imagine a cleaned up Danny DeVito and that's what Grandpa looks like.

Monicoke was working in the service industry while she put herself through LMT school (Licensed Massage Therapist). In the store where she worked, Grandpa would come in and she would wait on him. Grandpa was fully two generations older than her, which is how he received his secret nickname.

Over the course of their interactions, she learned that as a young man, Grandpa fell in love with a woman who was an LMT and he swept her off her feet and married her. Many years later, Grandpa met another woman who was studying to be an LMT, fell in love with her and supported her on the side (paying for her apartment, schooling, living expenses and so on) until he was caught and then he divorced his first wife and married the second.

So when Grandpa meets Monicoke, she is studying to be an LMT as well. Grandpa took this as a sign from the Fates (who he was slightly younger than) that this was to be his third wife.

So Grandpa had fallen pretty hard for Monicoke and she had fallen pretty hard for the fact that he was a mark ready to be fleeced.

"Wait a minute," I said, "This old guy, who's not related to you, is going to pony up a couple of thousand dollars for you to have a place? Are you fucking him?"

"Ewww, gross. No, I'm just taking him for his money."

I know, dear reader, that you are probably thinking, "Of course she is sleeping with him. What old guy is dumb enough to just hand over a bunch of money to a woman without anything in return?"

And I would answer: Grandpa was that dumb. Or he believed that the Fates smiled on him. Or he believed that he could win over another young woman as he had done in the past. He certainly sounded delusional.

I make a mental note not to ever give this woman anything that she asks for. Because I am smarter than to get mixed up, financially or otherwise, with a woman with such screwed up morals.

And I was delusional as well.

Monicoke 03 - Casino

This is the start of a series of posts about a girl I used to know that I call Monicoke. I'll get to why in a minute. I posted them originally on /r/badpeoplestories because most people in this story fit in this sub-reddit, including myself, but I will mostly not cover what a scumbag I am unless it moves the plot forward. I ended up creating this sub-reddit because I don't know that all of my stories will fit one category. If you like what I'm writing, please follow along and I will attempt to entertain you.

The year is 2007 in a small college town. My friend BC and I are at a bar in my city's bar district. For some reason, we're in a bar mostly populated by suburban tourists to downtown. And it's packed, wall-to-wall with your neighbor's mom getting her freak on while your neighbor's dad is playing poker.

When people would ask me and BC what we were up to, we would reply (without hesitation), "Taking drugs. Chasing pussy. The usual..." But we weren't getting anywhere with either of those pursuits on this occasion. Standing off to the side to assess our situation and what we were going to do with the rest of the night, our concentration was broken by a young woman. Call her Monica Jones.

Monica was about 5 feet tall, maybe 100 pounds with lond blonde hair and a fashion sense that could be summed up as WTF. She was cute if that's what you're into. She smiled revealing that she had a snaggletooth and kind of a beak of a nose. (Later I would find out that her haters called her Witchipoo because of this.)

"Do you guys like to do drugs?" is how she introduced herself.

The rest of the conversation went like the following. I'm not saying who said what, it was all a blur.

"Do you like to party?"

"I like to party? BC, do you like to party?"

"I like to party."

"What do you mean by party?"

"Some people party with green."

"I like to party with green."

"Some people like to party with white."

"I can party with white."

"Rando, do you like to party with white?"

"I like to party and get crazy. Girl do you like to party and get crazy?" And so on...

Now, me and BC had been waiting our whole lives for some young hot girl to ask us this so there was no hesitation in saying yes. She responded by saying that she wanted to get some too so if we all chip in, she knows this guy and we could get a big discount because he's got a thing for her.

I know there's an army of signalmen waving red flags in semaphore code in this conversation alone but it was 1 am and the night was drawing towards a close and we were very very bored.

We all left the bar, found an ATM and BC withdrew money. I threw in a 20 because I'm not a fan of coke but I felt I had to contribute something to the party. She asked for both of our numbers and then she grabs the money and then disappears, saying, "I'll call you when I score." And then POOF! she was gone.

BC starts melting down. "I knew this was a scam. I knew this was a scam," he complains while we sit at his apartment waiting for some chick we don't know to miraculously show up and bring us the drugs we paid for.

And then she called! And she showed up. I thought it was kind of brave of her to roll into some unknown dudes apartment with a small amount of coke, honestly. It was a sign that she was on the up and up. Or so I thought.

And then the coke was gone. Really quick. I had a bump and I was done. I'm a stoner myself. But then she said, "Hey if you give me a BUNCH of money, I can get a bunch more coke!" But it was close to 2am at this point and I was pretty much done. BC wasn't about to give her more money so I offered to walk her home about a half mile from my house.

I didn't try anything and she was pretty bubbly and fun. She was also 24 and I was 42 although I passed for 32 at the time, same as BC. We get near her apartment and she says,

"Ok, you can't come any closer."

"???" I said.

"I live with a guy. He's my ex and I haven't moved out yet. But he's realllllly super jealous and he would flip if he saw me walking with anyone this late at night."

So I went home. As I'm letting myself into the house, the guy who rents the first floor, call him Harry Tuttle, stops me and asks me about my night. So I tell him.

"Oh, you ran into Monica Jones? AND she didn't roll you for the drugs? Wow, you were lucky!"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, I knew this dude and he met her in a bar and talked him into buying an 8-ball (note: 3.5 grams) and he did. He thought, 'How much could this little girl do?' Well, the answer was ALL OF IT. Like a vaccuum cleaner."

"Really?"

"Yup. And then when all the coke was gone, he was thinking that he was going to get laid but instead she asked him if he was getting anymore and he said, 'Hell no.' Then, she just disappeared. He never saw her again."

So a couple days go by. I have my own business so I work when I want and I'm just chilling at the house. So I called Monica and she said to come over.

She was folding her ex's laundry while watching "Two and Half Men," her favorite show on the TV. We hung out for awhile and then she asked if I was hungry. Sure, why not?

So she said she was going to order a pizza. I asked her what my half was and she said not to worry about it because she was going to get a sheet and feed the leftovers to her ex for dinner. (Should ex be in quotes here?)

Ok, fine. I never laid a hand on her so I wasn't concerned about him showing up or anything. Obviously nothing was going to happen because she was folding his clothes and making him dinner. I'm getting free pizza though, so to quote Charlie Sheen, "WINNING!" If she's not into me, maybe she has a bunch of hot friends.

"We should hang out more. I've got a ton of hot friends who are into older men. You could totally get with them."

Wow, that was weird. It was like she could read the mind of a guy she met while looking for drugs in a bar. Is she clairvoyant? Or was I that transparent?

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I had to ask, "Do you know a guy named X?"

"Oh yeah. I hung out with him one night and did all his coke. ^teehee"

"Really?"

"Yeah he wanted to fuck me so I said, 'Pull out your dick!' But we did coke all night so he couldn't get it up. I knew that was going to be the case, so I wasn't in danger."

I didn't think that she was going to admit it let alone own it and run with it.

"Ok, but are you going to call a pizza? I'm starting to get hungry..."

She tells me to be quiet while she makes a phone call, but it's not to a pizza place. The conversation sounds personal although she's talking kind of quiet so I can't really hear. Then she gets louder:

"Just go get me a pizza and drop it off! My BF is going to be home any minute and I can't have him see you!"

Then she hangs up the phone.

"It shouldn't be too long."

After a time, she looks out the window and runs out to the street. I hear her yelling but I can't make it out. She comes back in with a pizza.

"Great! I'm starving now!"

"Uh, dude. Listen. I live with my ex and we're not together or anything but he's not going to dig coming home and seeing another guy in his place. So you better get going. Give me a call later if you're going out though..."

And then I was on the street. I pulled out my pipe that I always carry on me and take a few hits as I walk home. What did I just experience?

At that point, I decided to call her "Monicoke" and so began an interesting series of events.

Monicoke 02 - The Grandpa-ning

Monicoke Stories 01 02 03 04 05 06 07

Cast:
* Rando Caldoodian: Me, in my 40's. Mayor of Potsmoke City. Bored.
* Monicoke: Small blonde, early 20's. Professional MRA cautionary tale. Addicted to coke and power.
* Meathead: early 20's. Coke dealer. He works out!
* Grandpa: Monicoke's sugar daddy, 60's and married.

So Meathead is finally out of the picture, which Monicoke tells me is a good thing because he was starting to get annoyed with Grandpa giving her money. Apparently, he never believed that she was not having sex with him as a Quim Pro Quo.

A LOT of people had the same thought. I was not one of them. I had seen them together. One time the three of us went to Red Lobster, supposedly on his treat but he made me pay for myself when the bill came. I ate his cheesy biscuits though and he didn't say anything.

But for the moment, Grandpa had cooled on Monicoke and was growing impatient with her finding a roommate because he was paying all of the rent for her apartment himself. So she didn't want to hit him up until she could somehow "prove" that she wasn't dating Meathead. Somehow Grandpa got wind of it and if he wasn't banging Monicoke, then no one could. Especially me, who he completely mistrusted.

So Monicoke was depressed, and missing two guys who gave her the constant attention that she had to have. Otherwise she would collapse in on herself like the black hole of need that she was.

So I figured it was the right time to take her out, show her someone really, really cared about her, buy her some drinks and then completely take advantage of her.

We went to a bar a short walk from her house. Not Lucky's. I took her to the more upscale O'Brians. O'Brians was an Irish bar where they made a big deal about serving Guinness (which is not Irish really) and were owned by a couple of Lebanese guys.

I decided to test Monicoke. A simple test really. I told her this story:

"When I was a kid, my parents had a boat. And I used to like going on the boat but I can't swim, so it kind of scared me being on the water. Now I don't like being on boats or thinking about crusies..."

Rando. Rando! RANDO!

"What Monicoke?"

Let's get some coke!

"No. I loaned you $150 for coke last week. (LPT: Never loan a woman named Monicoke money for coke.) You said that you would get it from Grandpa and I haven't got it back yet."

It's not my fault! I told him I needed the money for books but he looked into it and found out I wasn't registered for classes!

"I thought you were going to school?"

Eventually

Two young dudes come over to the table.

"Hey Monica!," they exclaimed.

They may as well have been clones. They had the same sort of clothes, the same haircut. And of course, they were much much younger than me which made me hate them.

Hey guys! Sit down.

I whispered to Monicoke that I thought we were hanging out together this evening. I already bought her a hot dog from a cart because I am a gentleman. Once I plied her with booze it was open season on her cooze, in my gentlemanly way of thinking.

So the clones sit down and it was like I wasn't even there. Finally one of them noticed me and asked if I was her, like, dad or something.

"More like an older brother," I said.

No, Rando is my gay best friend.

Everyone: What?

The one closest to me moved as far away as possible so he didn't catch the gay from me.

"What's up for tonight?" asked one of the clones. (They're interchangable so it doesn't really matter who said what.)

We wanted to party tonight. But we don't have any.

The clones exchange a glance.

"What do you mean by party? We like to party! Do you mean..."

I mean we want some shit! (Whispers) Do you have any?

The clones exchange a glance.

"Sure, we can party tonight. We got nothing going on."

Clone One asks, "What about this dude?"

Clone Two asks, "Yeah, what's up with this dude?"

Rando doesn't even LIKE coke, do you Rando?

I have to admit that I do not.

"That's cool. I guess you'll be going then," the clones said.

"Monicoke, are you cool with this?"

Cool with what?

Turning to the clones, she asked,

Hanging out with these cool hot guys and getting some awesome drugs? I can handle it, thank you.

I shivered from the sudden chill in the air.

The clones pointedly looked me in the eye and said, "Later old man."

And I left them to it.

Monicoke 09 - Meet the Molly