Slight Misdemeanours (unfinished)

“Fuckin’ ‘ell man, look at the state of him!”
Two young boys, maybe my age, tracksuits, caps, sports trainers. I smile back at them, a real double rower, teeth akimbo. They keep walking, its obvious enough that I’m not what they’d consider entertaining. They’re right though, as much as it pains me to agree with the little bastards, I look dreadful. You see, that’s what happens to you, the morning after the kind of night I’ve just had. I’ve not really slept in the past two days. Maybe a few minutes on a bench somewhere, but not what you’d call substantial sleep. I’ve been up, running riot around my town. Forget painting it red, I’ve been painting it all the colours of the god damn rainbow. I did start this little escapade with a group of acquaintances, though they’re not exactly what you could call friends. Either way, I lost them somewhere along the way. Fuck ‘em, I’ve no time for lightweights.
Before we embark on this joyful tale, let me get one thing straight. I am not a drug addict. Never have been, never will be. Addiction is for people who take fun too seriously, and I’m just here to have a good time. I smoke/bomb/eat and sniff my way through a variety of, shall we say, “controlled substances”, but I don’t need them. I feel sorry for the fuckers that do.
So, its been forty eight hours, and now its starting to look like my fun may be ending. My funds are running low and the pills I dropped last night are wearing off. Welcome to the come down, population; me. It must be some time in the afternoon, judging from people walking around with their takeaway lunches, maybe about 2 o clock. I lost sense of time about 36 hours ago. I’m near the town centre, sitting on the steps outside one of those highstreet retailers that scream at you from their windows, “Buy these clothes!” “Dress like this and everyone will like you!”. I think its safe to say that with me sitting outside, their image is being slightly ruined. No one wants to walk past me. I can see it, people are redirecting their path to go around me, you’d think I was a fucking leper. I guess it just goes to show the mentality of modern man, these people in the highstreet. If it doesn’t look good, it isn’t good. Bullshit. I may not exactly look as suave and sophisticated as the models in the window of the shop behind me, but does that make me a bad person? Should I be avoided because of the mud on my jeans and the rip in my top? Just look at them, walking on by with their prim haircuts, their pastel coloured clothes and condescending looks. Probably on their way home to middle-class surburbia, to clean their MPV, enjoy a nice family meal with the kids and then settle down to watch X factor. Maybe they’re happy, but it’s not for me, I’m looking for more than that. I want something big, not the shallow satisfaction of adequate success. It seems as though this idea has been developed, that the meaning of life is to do as well as you possibly can. Fuck that. This, what I’m doing right here, to know and experience as much of life as possible, that’s the meaning behind it all. Stuff your dvd/tv combo, give me a gram of mdma and a pack of fags and I’ll show you some real enlightenment.
I think its time for me to leave, people are getting uncomfortable of my presence and if I stay much longer, the pigs will no doubt show up. Its happened before, I was doing nothing, just minding my business, trying to recover some sense of this feeble reality, when along hop constable beer belly and his mate, PC fuck off. It took a long time to convince them it was nothing but a hangover, but they eventually left me with instructions to go home and get some sleep. I figured I’d beat them to it this time and head back home before they even got here. Not for sleep, I just need some more money for tonights outing.
Home is a miniscule little council flat just out of town. I have a bed, a sink, a cooker and a bathroom. What else do I need? I’m only 19, so I probably shouldn’t be in this
kind of situation, I should be at home with my loving, supporting family. Unfortunately, lifes not quite like that, and family isn’t exactly what its cracked up to be. Still, that’s the past and this is the present, I’m not one to dwell. On my way up the stairs I see a variety of used needles and empty baggies. Not mine though. I wouldn’t go near any of that intraveinous shit, and besides, I do all my law breaking away from the nest. If you regulate all your drug related activity to one place, you’re much more likely to get caught. If you move around, stay mobile with it, like me, then no one’s going to know where you are. This point got proven a few days ago. My friend, and main dealer, lived in the same block of flats as me. It was a superb arrangement. I could nip to his flat, pick up whatever I fancied and then be on my merry way. He’d even give me a good deal. I went up there two days ago to find the door kicked in and everything gone from inside. I don’t know if it was the police or something more sinister, but he’s gone now, and I doubt I’ll be seeing him anytime soon. Since then I’ve had to go through someone a bit less trustworthy. His name’s Mitchell, a real nasty looking guy. Missing teeth, fucked up scars running all over his shaven head. It might sound stereotypical, the scary drug dealer, but in my experience, most are just normal people, no different to you or me. Mitchell, he was the exception, he’s everything you’d expect a drug dealer to be. If you ask how he got the scars, he says its from a car accident. In that case, this car must have been armed with a fucking machete. I’m not stupid, and knife wounds are obvious enough.