Long one, in which murder is on the cards.
No polite way to put this – I used to enjoy cocaine. That’s not quite right. As an alarming amount of people will say, I used to fucking LOVE cocaine.

Due to my insatiable desire for this fucking glorious, devilish shit, me and a remarkably friendly dealer (read: fella that really enjoyed getting me hooked on his product so that I spunked all my money on it) became quite pally, and I’d often go round his gaff and spend a rather jolly 24 hours completely fucking myself up at the cost of just a few hundred pounds. Bargain.

After such a session, I retired back to my own place in the morning sun bracing myself for a pleasant day of mild ales, light comedy DVDs and the occasional pathetic failure of a wank (main reason I stopped the stuff), when I got a text from a chap I knew. I hesitate to call him a friend. He was a bloke who largely I spent my time subtly avoiding, because he was an unpredictable fucking psychopath of the highest, knife-wielding order, but I’d sometimes drop in for a pint with him then make my excuses quick sharp. Think Begby, but with a long beard and a penchant for uninvited buggery when he felt slighted. Unfortunately, that’s true.

“Alright m8, how the fuks it going?”

Civilised enough, and pretty much par for the course for him. “Not bad,” I sent back, “Only just got to bed!”.

“Well dont get 2 comfy, I’m poppin round in a min”

Oh for fucks sake. This got me on edge. You know in Sexy Beast when they find out Ben Kingsley’s coming round ‘just to have a chat’ … yeah, like that. I really didn’t want this, especially in my ravaged, paranoid state. I figured a charm offensive would be the best bet – just make my excuses, and pray he understands.

“Aw man, bad timing. I’m only getting half an hour’s kip then I’ve got to drive my sister to the airport.”

I thought that combined everything – family obligations, unavoidable deadlines, incredible self-sacrifice and effort on my part. But the text I got back was:

“Fuk u ya fuking cunt Im on my fukin way uve been fuking me off 2 much lately an Im gnna fuckin show you what fuckin happens to cunts like u”

Eep.

I took this seriously. You just did not fuck about with this guy – the kind of bloke you either killed, or run away from as fast as your out-of-your-depth legs can carry you. I’m not really into the whole ‘murder and prison’ thing, so I had to choose the latter. I jumped in my car, still wired to hell, and just drove like fuck pouring with sweat and shitting myself, straight to the only hard guy I knew that might be able to help – the aforementioned dealer.

Burst through his door and almost collapsed in his arms, whimpering “Man, fuck man, fuck, fucking [absolute raging lunatic I’m still too scared to name] is after me and I don’t know why, you’ve got to fucking help me.”

My mate was none too pleased. I believe his response was along the lines of “You dozy cunt, what the fuck have you come round here for? If he finds you …”

Then, rather inevitably in retrospect, he was cut off by the sound of a car screeching to a halt outside his house.

Psycho got out and kicked the front door in in one go.

Me and matey tried to leg it up the stairs. Psycho grabbed my legs, threw me into the hallway, then weirdly, I thought, completely ignored me and carried on running. He got to my mate, rabbit punched him like a fucking bulldozer, then sat on his chest and began smashing his face over and over again, shouting “You ain’t going to the fucking airport now you cunt!”

Need I carry on?

When I’d left that morning, I’d picked up my mate’s (identical) phone. And had consequently told a very dangerous man we both knew, much higher up the ‘selling pyramid’, that I wasn’t available to pay him a considerable amount of money cos I was “going to the airport.” Apparently that doesn’t sit well with maniacs that want cash.

Thank fuck I figured this out before my mate got beaten to death. Simple shout of “Psycho, he’s got your money, I texted you from his phone by mistake” worked a lot better than I could ever have hoped. Especially cos I had no idea whether he had his money or not. Turns out he did, and we all lived happily every after.*

*Old dealer is in prison, psycho is very much no longer of this earth.

Length? Shrivelled as you like.
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Tue 4 Aug 2009, 20:13, 3 replies)

Fucking hell
Not really sure 'I like this' is the best sentiment but have a click anyway
(Psymon_Spark Jesus Saves! The rest of you take 4d6 damage, Tue 4 Aug 2009, 21:27, closed)

Top tale that
Clickety click
(bad_advice QOTW survivor from the first trollocost!, Wed 5 Aug 2009, 2:47, closed)

It's often said that
it ain't the gear that kills you, it's the human element that goes with it.
Used to know a dealer. In the biblical sense. Escaped serious harm but only just.
Well done you for kicking the habit.
(womanwhocanonlylivewithdogs, Wed 5 Aug 2009, 8:17, closed)