A Jibtech's Journey

When you're on top of the fence, the grass doesn't look too green on either side.

With our heads held high with hopes for Fernweh's safety, Squanch and I sauntered back to the park where we'd left Scrib and Hades. Kensington park was always an bustling, odd place - plump moms walked their babies past jabbering jib-techs, creating a stark contrast between the addicted and the inspiring. Kengsinton - despite the high concentration of drug fiends - was a kind of haven. It'd be unlikely to find conflict here unless you went looking for it.

Apart from druggies swooning MILFs, there was also a pile of hobos conglomerating on a massive yellow foam mattress by the side of the park. This is where we found Scrib, Hades, and a host of other weirdos that Hades seemed to know. Tyler was there, a narcisisstic oogle

oogle: (n.) street kids with no street knowledge; or individuals who resorts to the street lifestyle as a method to inflate the ego; panhandling to be "cool," fantasizing about hopping trains to feel "worthy." Often oogles have homes available to them with food, electricity and shelter. Essentially, wanna-be veteran hobo.

whose ego would later be the source of our evening's amusement; Sara, a smiley and thoroughly promiscuous girl who would later become very close to (part of our) crew, and some bald dude who was too deep into crystal meth for anyone his age (or any age, for that matter) to be. The rest of the group, filling the remaining spots on the mattress, failed to fill a spot in my memory.

This would be quite an interesting crew to explore psychedelics with. It'd be up to us to maintain any mental productivity - the collective IQ of this group seemed to gravitate towards the double digits.  Nay, this would not be a night to evolve, this was to be a night o fdebauchery, cheap laughs and feeling "cool."

Haces was quick to dish out tabs of LSD, but before we dropped, Ogre appeared. Ah, Ogre... if ever a dealer was prophetic, it was him - a poet and wordsmith, synchronous with the city's desires - Ogre would always appear when you needed drugs (or, in this case, when you didn't need them.) Regardless, he offered us a deal on speed that we couldn't refuse. Had he shown up twenty minutes later, the acid would have been in full blast and we would've declined, but I took up his offer. Sometimes I feel like Ogre bent the will of causality to make sure he was in the best places to make sales at the best times.

Scrib, still offset by the injuries he'd caused Fernweh, declined my offer to smoke the jib and remained silent, seated on the ground next to the mattress. Even though he'd broken my other husband, it was painful to see him dealing with such guilt. My heart went out to the both of them, my distaste went out to the idiocy of their arguments.

On my journey to find a smoke spot, I encountered the overwhelming stench of heroin wafting from a building  next to me. It seemed like an Asian activity centre; signs baring Chinese letters hung atop the roof and a herd of chairs sat unoccupied in an ampitheatre-esque room.  I stepped inside. The building was vacant except for two very lethargic Asians, slumped in rickety chairs at the front of the hall. The lingering stench of heroin told me that I'd just stepped into an opium den.

I racistly assumed that the two Asian folk wouldn't understand me if I asked them for heroin (or a bathroom to smoke drugs) so I left. The next place I stepped into was a restaurant owned by a fat Italian cunt who was ignorant to my needs to "relieve myself of this explosive diarrhea." He told me to find somewhere else, I told him "fuck you, I'll just shit in your back alley." I don't know why I didn't just drop my pants and deuce right there, but something held me back. Instead, I got antsy and decided to blast my speed in the next available spot - indoor or outdoor.

Unfortunately, that spot happened to be on the other side of an arched, wrought iron gate. Somehow, I hoisted myself up and over it, but I managed to flip myself upside down and tangle myself in the arched section of the fence. In a flailed attempt to disarm myself from the fence's grip, my dick got caught on one of the arches the instant I unlatched myself. As I tumbled downwards, my poor schlong stretched beyond reasonable dick-stretching limits and snapped back like a broken guitar string. I was rewarded with a new phallic scar, and a surprise: two of the kids we'd dropped acid with were already in the alleyway, and they were toking speed too!