A.C.A.B.

So how many scratchies can four strung out punks scratch? Well the box said a hundred and fifty, but no one was fucking counting that’s for sure.

    It’s a scam. Who would've thought eh? Despite the promises of big money and oodles of instant prizes, all they managed to win were twenty-nine chocolate bars. Two hours of scratching for a fucking flake. The punch line to the joke? That they’d managed to steal a fridge full of chocolate in the same burglary. Duh. That’s what happens when junkies go stealing. Beagle Brothers that lot.

Not their fault though eh. Circumstances an' all. I mean petrol station smash an' grabs wasn't their bread and butter - just plan C. So if you bare with me a sec, lets flick back up the alphabet to plan A which I guess isn't really a plan, it's just what they did everyday y'know? A is for any day, any time and anywhere. Yep. Y'see Doug, the guy they usually scored off, just had his arse busted big-time: sneaky little cameras over the road and a phone tap, probably even the odd cute undercover with a couple of crisp new twenties for all we know. Why? Well he brewed good clean homebake and I guess that sort of police shit just comes with the territory; it’s usually just a question of when, although round here the question was  “why goddamnit why?” Unfortunately he also sold nice fat tinnies and that meant everyone inclined to the odd toot was filmed passing through his front door. The old suburban supermarket, always a bit of a give away those thirty-second visits. So now pretty much every one we knew was sweating it out, waiting for that heavy knock at the door.

    It was a good time to spring clean.

    My flatmates were sweating as well, but only cos they were strung out tighter than the clothesline and quickly sliding into full-blown withdrawal. It was late summer, the days gloriously long and hot and the city just one endless party. Everybody was a mate. Spending your dole at the chemist on various codeine based pills earned you double and was an easy days work that put smiles on a lot of faces. Sadly it wasn't long before the paper warned us that 'Codeine Cowboys' were this weeks terror threat to community values and it wasn't long before the traps were set and the party was over. It was stink really. I mean, shit, victimless crime and all that.

    The timing of this shit-storm was impeccable. Not only was our town’s five star 'tick to dole day' dealer in the cells, but the poppy season had been winding down for a while now. Poppies were plan B. Not such a good high, but okay. Total fucking hassle to find and to prepare though. Still, poppies were a great freebie for when you had to pay a bill or something eh. While they were getting scarce out their in cottage garden land, there were a few intentional crops about, but by now it was well past the point of sharing with the more paranoid growers/users  sleeping out amidst the butchered remains to defend those last milky drops from the likes of my flatmates. Nothing for it then: desperate search parties scour random backyards, Tony casually strolling down driveways swinging a dog lead and calling for his runaway pet, eyes peeled for fat juicy bulbs begging to be slit with a razor.

    Bingo; opium that is, not the fucking dog. A black-clad posse is dispatched late to fill rubbish bags and rush back to begin the tortuous bleeding process in the bath; the night shift begins and the chances of anyone getting a shower in the morning are pretty slim.

    And so I found them one day when I got back from school, happily parked up outside on our collapsing couch looking like death warmed up, catching the last of the day’s sun. Head to toe in black, combat boots and heavy lids; I pretended to machine-gun them as I walked past. “Ready for the revolution eh guys?” Smart arse. Tony managed a sly smile that quickly dribbled off his face. One hand held a smoke that appeared to have stalled on the way to his mouth; he completed the journey and sucked greedily, but it was long dead. “Got a light mate? Nah, shit you’re no good; wait I got one somewhere, yeah here.”

    Sweet.

    Tony spends a good chunk of his days smacked out on something, but he scrubs up pretty good if he needs to. Or wants to. It had been a hard road: poxy South Island towns, white power gangs, a lot of violence, a bold , but slightly foolish Molotov attack on a police station that earned him a decent lag in Rolleston. Yeah, just not a lot of the feel-good stuff happening really. Decisions were reactionary, impulsive and often not the best choice in hindsight. Even though he was past thirty, here was a man still unable - maybe incapable - of taking charge and making something of his life. Tony was okay, wouldn't want to fuck with him, but he was nice enough. 

    So ah, welcome to our home. It's a nice enough house, but our presence has lowered the tone just a little. Minimalist style, well kinda bare actually at the moment what with all the furniture now on the front lawn. Some rather brutal Crass posters pass for decoration and a battered stereo sits on an overturned beer crate with half a dozen records leaning inside it; ones deemed fucked enough to risk leaving in the lounge. That's it.

    Dumping my gear in my room I backtrack to face a kitchen that makes me queasy on a good day. Tinfoil, burnt spoons, needles and a couple days worth of dishes; to say it’s a health hazard is a fucking understatement.  I know it sounds like I'm the up-tight kitchen bitch or something, but no, it was just that I had to get on with prepping some tea – I mean, no one else was going to eh - plus all the light bulbs had been thrown out onto the road during the last party and it would soon be dark.

    It was a relief that they’d scored cos the general bitchiness was getting unbearable and flat relations were getting seriously strained. They were pussycats when wasted, on the nod and out of harms way for a good four or five hours a hit. By the look of then now they should all be sweet till the morning and I would be gone. Obviously no one could be arsed getting up to grapple with the stereo and the stillness in the house was nice; hell you could almost say I was alone.

    I put New Order on knowing they all hated it, cranked it up loud.

    Dishes, wiping benches and the stove, filling rubbish bags. Energy to burn after a day in the classroom despite my early rise to catch the bus. Tomorrow I’d be getting up as they were going down; down in as many ways as you can think of. Funny thing being high yet so low. No need to move, nor talk or even think; you just float in a haze, life flat lined. It goes something like this:

Beep                     Beep                        Beep                               Bee

    Luckily the cops usually provided passive entertainment for them on most nights. They were our TV substitute: Y'know, insultingly stupid. Our flat was tucked around a bend on the main road and there was plenty of room for cars to pull over so they always set up their checkpoint right down in front of us. Good-humoured insults would inevitably sink with the sun and surliness rise once more. Poor bastards.

    Zip. That was time when wasted on this sort of shit. This wasn’t a dance till dawn; yabba away till your jaw aches and then head for the fridge type of drug. Cooked over a hot element till it danced on the spoon, sucked through a cigarette filter, banged into a willing vein and zip, the day was gone. Dole day came a lot faster when four or five days of the week went like this. Living the lives they had, I’d imagine it made it all quite bearable; when things were going to plan that is.

    It was Thursday night the following week when things started to seriously crack. Funny to start with, but then not funny at all.

    Bruce was our semi-permanent couch dweller and had gone out to earn his keep by re-visiting a garden for some leftover poppies, but he'd gotten the whole bag load caught in the spokes of his bike and instantly shredded the precious bulbs all over the road. He was crushed, said "sorry guys" more times than I could count. Fuck it was funny; I mean dumb shit just trailed after Bruce: he'd get the sack from some crappy job for something really fucking stupid like turning up pissed, then lose his pay cheque at the pub, miss his WINZ appointment, 'borrow' the flats bill money, forget where he parked your bike and then smash the front door in cos he'd lost the key. "Oh shit I'm really sorry guys eh."

    It paid not to get too close to Bruce.

    It was time for plan C.

Cheap bourbon passes quickly around the lounge floor and like Chinese whispers it all comes together: rob the service station on the highway south and invest the winnings on a drug buy-up. The Valiant would hopefully make it to Christchurch and from there it shouldn’t really be a problem with the all the dodgy fuckers these guys know.

    Well there was no trip to Christchurch. We ate a lot of chocolate instead.

    I suspect that Plan D wasn’t really a plan at all; desperate stupidity was probably more like it – but that accounts for the other plans, so I'm not sure really. The first I knew of it was when Tony crashed in through the door one night pissing blood everywhere.

    Fucking hell, fucking hell. “Just deal with it,” snaps Tony; bursts into giggles. He’s cold, pale and shaking like crazy and I’m wondering if he’s going into shock or something.

    Nah; just straight, just excited.

    He’d booted in the backdoor of a chemist and grabbed a courier package.  This is at like nine thirty or something and smack in the middle of town. Some guy wandering past starts yelling like crazy at him and it’s then that he gashes his arm open on some glass as he pulls away to run. They’d put the dogs out after him of course, but by leaping backyard fences for several blocks and then wading up a stream he managed to lose them. Jesus Christ. Then it was across the soccer fields until he got to the track that climbs up over the ridge and pops out only two houses up from home.

His sneakers went into a bucket of soapy water to soak under some stinking towels. Everything else was chucked into the washing machine while we gingerly extracted tiny shards of glass from his forearm. No worries; Tony was euphoric with his success, the knowledge that soon he would be high and feeling something resembling normal again surpassed our clumsy attempts at strapping the wound shut.

    Santa had called; but what did he bring? No one new what the boxes of drugs were and attempting to turn the mass of letters into a pronounceable word would’ve made us scrabble heroes. Shoulders were shrugged; fuck knows.

    Eyes gleamed; muscles and bones screamed; there were no instructions included, no advice for recreational users - what were they thinking eh?

    “Lets just do our averages.” suggests Tony.

    “Yeah yeah, no point taking any risks eh?” That was Stephen, visiting junkie from the country who had just been refused a repeat on his script by his trusty Doc. He was game for anything - risks my fucking arse. Stephen and his missus were desperate, thieving, scamming junkies famous for passing out on a mate's lounge floor naked after screwing while on the nod. What a morning treat that must have been. Drugs drugs drugs: boring people, totally fucking useless and not to be trusted: perfect dinner guests.

    So tonight on the couch we have four veins just begging for it, but only three well used fits get to preform their ritual dance: BANG BANG BANG. I used to love watching their eyes at that moment the drug hit. The explosion, the orgasm, the “ahhhhhhhhhh....” first Tony, then Bruce and Stephen.

    Ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip. Yep that’s how it usually goes. Not this time though.

    Bruce feels like shit and hits the hay almost immediately, manages to pretty much slept right through his dose and the shitstorm that swirled about him. Later he told me about the horrible muscle cramps and strange dreams. He was the lucky one.

    At the other end of the rainbow was Shane, our mystery fourth man. He was a nice guy, not your typical junkie; you know, straight haircut, nice clothes, asked before he helped himself to your stuff. We had many good conversations. He was intelligent, gentle and very insightful. Why was he here? I don't know. He was a pretty normal guy and not really in our scene at all. Quiet, reserved; maybe a little too much? Well he left with his share (with a cheerful farewell smile and wave) and died in the early hours of the next morning at his girlfriends place; we didn’t find that out for a couple of days though. He’d only been out of the Hanmer rehab for a fortnight or so and according to Tony his tolerance levels would have been way lower than what he was used to. Math, damn. Fatal mistake eh?

    And that leaves two. Audience participation tonight is provided by me and Sarah, on - off girlfriend of Tony who had just moved back in – again. It was mad, no it was fucking surreal, like we were on our own bum trip, hovering about in the gloom feeling useless, waiting anxiously for them to keel over or something, watching them change before our eyes.

    I guess it must've taken a good half-hour for the side-effects to come on cos Bruce was now well asleep on the lounge floor and snoring like an old trooper, his crusty blanket wrapped tightly around him, boots still laced to his feet.

    It was like some slick body builder moves the way their muscles rippled and contorted. Starting at the injection site in their arms it crept upwards towards the shoulder where it had the effect of pulling the whole arm and twisting it back.

    God it must hurt.

    Well no, not yet anyway. They seemed to be sufficiently obliterated enough to still be in the ‘wow freaky shit look at my arm’ zone. Not for long though.

    Tony was the first to panic with a pleading “I can feel it getting into my throat.”  He was lying on the floor, shoulders hunching and crawling with muscle like the Incredible Hulk. His face had changed shape and he no longer looked like the Tony we knew. His eyes were wide with fear.

    Mine too.

    Stephen was crying; fear or pain had brought him back to earth, his head now twisted down to rest on a contorting shoulder. “Call a fucking ambulance; now, fucking now,” he pleaded.

    We had no phone so that meant a dash next door where our long-suffering neighbour frowned long and hard at me. “This is not a joke right? Okay. Do you need me to come over?”

    Ummmm; no.

    When I got back Sarah was already dumping the remaining pills down the toilet, foil packets, cardboard an' all. She sloshed buckets of water to hasten them on their way “The leftover shit!” she yelled out to me. “Clean the fucking kitchen now; don’t worry about those two fools.” I hurriedly collected pill packets, needles and spoons into a pot and ran to dump it into the overgrown yard behind our house where they threw all the poppy scraps

    A heavy pounding at the front door called me back inside. Sarah had shut the bathroom door and I could still here the sound of flushing. This was going to be tight.

    It was the cops. Wicked.

    I spoke tentatively through the frosted glass to the blue uniform: “Who is it?”

    “Police!”

    “Who do you want to see?”

    “Open the bloody door!”

    “Um, do you have a warrant?”

    “OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR NOW GODDAMNIT!”

    I did. The warrant was a swift punch to the head. I muttered my name in reply to his demand, fist raised in readiness.

    “Ah, Mr Mathews; always nice to put a cunt-ugly face to a name; and I’ve heard yours a lot lately.” He pushed me down the hall towards the lounge. “Shit its dark in here; you guys trying to save power or something?”

    More shadows slipped in through the door after him. Then a dog straining at a lead.

    Wicked.

    “Is it the ambulance?” croaked Tony; his voice was noticeably weaker, each word punctured with a gasp.

    “No, no it’s not. It’s the cops; they’ve a dog too.”

    They spread quickly through the dimly lit lounge, surveying the wreckage, the two on the floor. One of them was trying to wake Bruce who was having no bar of it.

    “What the hell is going on here guys?” The lead cop demanded. I could see his eyes flitting about the room, trying to make sense in a place where there was none.

     I bit my tongue; this wasn’t my hole and it was too dodgy to risk accidentally digging it any deeper. Tony groaned softly before kicking into the survival mode he was well known for.

    “Hey! Where’s the fucking ambulance, been poisoned or something. A party on one of the factory ships; fucking Russians.” His breath rattled like it was his last after that and he rolled over to stare into Stephen’s pleading eyes. Stephen wisely stayed silent, his body shaking as muscles continued to seizure.

    Radios crackled; voices muttered in the shadows. "It’s right outside now sergeant.”

    “Food poisoning eh? Right get them in pronto; and try and wake that guy up too.”

    They couldn’t wake Bruce at all that night. He just kept muttering and rolling over, flailing hands trying to swat away the interference. After the medics checked his pulse and breathing they decided to just leave him for the mean time. He wasn’t going anywhere for a while.

    It was surprisingly warm outside that night as we waited, Sarah, myself and a hulking cop who just stood staring impassively at nothing. Hours; two, maybe three, fuck knows, I nearly fell asleep several times sitting out there on the couch despite nightmarish visions of a police cell with my name on the door.

    They searched high (excuse the pun) and low; lost pipes, mouldy roaches, old fits, dusty pills, spotting knives, scraps of blackened tinfoil, and through several leaking rubbish bags of stinking food scraps that also held dozens of chocolate bar wrappers. Just shit, but you could imagine it in the paper eh? 'Drugs and drug taking paraphernalia were found throughout the house…'

    Ah, and now it's my turn:

    “I go to school. No I don’t know about any drug taking. No I don’t know about any burglaries. I don’t know where the chocolate came from. No I didn’t really care enough to be suspicious. I don’t do drugs; I have to get up early each day and go to school remember? No I didn't see them taking any drugs; they told me they’d been at a party on a fishing boat, eaten some food and felt real sick so came back home.”

    No no no no no.

    “I just went to call the ambulance and then you guys turned up. That’s it.”

    Yeah that’s it as far as I’m concerned. I mean Christ they’re adults; there was no coercion, no nasty drug culture stand-over bullshit going down. This isn't a fucking movie. Sure it probably looks like a bum trip from where your sitting, but it's just their way of dealing with a fucked world they had no desire to be a part of. Just trying to cope is all; an alternative to shopping or porn you could say. Zip, zip, zip. Cool, it’s the weekend again; a week gone and a week closer to something else.

    Surely you can relate to that?

    Things had chugged along just fine till the pigs pulled the plug. Just fine. And believe me things were changing, improving. They just needed a chance. Now there was a court appearance, bullshit justice. Now there was Shane on a slab at the hospital. But best to keep those sort of thoughts to yourself though eh? No need to be stupid. A cop did say after my interview that he appreciated my being straight up with him. Funny fuck. I replied that I really appreciated not getting a hiding.

    He had the cheek to look shocked.

     So anyway they were both kicked out of the hospital within twelve hours after being shot up with some intramuscular goo to counter their completely spontaneous spasms. Blank looks all round; fucking Russians. Tony had to show the nurse where to find his last good vein.

The bill for the ambulance came in the mail three days later and went straight into the bin.

    They buried Shane about a week and a half later, but I didn’t know about it until I saw his girlfriend crying at a pub and clicked. Shit. Always the good guys eh. Can still hear him today telling me to keep the fuck away from needles.  

    F’sure mate. Thanks for caring.

    I didn’t talk to her; I didn’t know what to say.