What is it in life I’m looking for that I can never seem to find?” Speaking to my love interest, I tell her I love her but I must go. “Be careful Trip-Call me when you get to wherever it is you’re going.”

Showering, I let the steaming hot water hit my face for as long as I can stand it in hopes my sinuses will clear. If only I can force myself to breathe again. I am desperate to shove more coke up my nose so I can stay awake and alert and feel alive. While shaving, I look at myself in the mirror and realize how totally trashed out I am. I really should stop but as long as I can ingest more blow, I will. There’s no stopping until my system absolutely shuts down on its own. I am Superman! A super hero who knows not rest nor defeat! I’m a big, strong man who breathes fire and can leap tall buildings with a single bound! I comb my hair, brush my teeth and take one last look at myself in the glass before going about my way. I don’t even say goodbye to Valerie. Instead, I mindlessly trod out into the early morning daylight and get more cocaine from the trunk of my car. I start my engine, snort more dope and drive away not knowing or caring where I’ll go. For the next three days I am oblivious to my surroundings. Finally, I wake up in a motel with a chemical hangover, shower, shave and start all over again.

Funny, but I remember that night like it were yesterday even though it was almost 25 years ago. Every once in a while a certain song or smell will cause déjà vu - a feeling that I’ve “already seen.” And, I’ll be right back in the fast lane drinking and drugging just like I used to be. Sometimes I can even taste the cocaine as I subconsciously smack my lips in remembrance. Then, I look down at the two cocaine demons tattooed on my arm, Ether and Oil; a con­stant reminder of the wicked drug of death that consumed my life for so many years. Even before the days of free-base, I was addicted to cocaine. I’ve probably snorted enough to amount to that found in a child’s sandbox. It’s a wonder I’m still alive. All I can say is, I’m glad those days are over. But I wish I’d quit experiencing these feelings of déjà vu because it’s hard on a guy that’s trying to rehabilitate. If you’ve done cocaine before but have quit, don’t do it ever again. And if you haven’t but get the sudden urge to try … don’t do it. It’s a dead-end street that could very well lead you to federal prison. I’m Tripper. Better Days!

Here’s Pooh, the heroin junky, stumbling down the stairs after a good nod. He falls, busts his cranium and thinks to himself when rising … gotta find a new drug. Something that will give me energy and not make me so damn stupid. I think I’ll hang out with Christopher Robin today. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. After all, he is a professor of organic science and surely he can whip up something in his lab that’ll change my entire outlook on the day. But first, I must somehow recover from this downed out stupor I’m in. Time to take a stroll through the eight-mile ‘hood and get a little fresh air. Stop by Rabbit’s crib and get a bump of speed and a fresh ten-pack of syringes. Maybe he, or my little biker bro’ Piglet, will have something good. A big old 45 unit blast of meth that’ll knock my dick in the dirt. One that’ll give me a rush and rock my fuckin’ world! Yeah, it’s going to be a good day! A good day indeed!

Approaching Rabbit’s condo, Pooh hears his friend banging the hell out of one of the young neighborhood forest bunnies. One of those promiscuous young bunnies that trade their ass for dope. “Rabbit! Come to the door man! I brought some carrots to trade for speed!” announced Pooh. Sticking his head through a hole at the base of the hollow tree, Rabbit quietly whispers, “Shhh! Go away Pooh! Can’t you see I’m trying to get laid?” “But dude!” insisted Pooh. “I’m jonesin’ like a mother fucker and I really need a fix! Hook a road dog up, will ya?” “Fuck you! Kick rocks! Go see your best friend the swine. He’ll get you loaded. I’m busy. It’s not every day that I get one this young and pretty. Now don’t go away mad, just go away!” Sad but suddenly realizing his furry friend was only doing what rabbit’s do, and that’s fuck like one, Pooh decided to cruise on over to Pig’s. Rabbit was cool and all, but he wasn’t the true blue friend Piglet was. Piglet wouldn’t ignore him, kicking him to the curb just because he had a piece of ass on the line. Piglet was a righteous bro’ through and through. Or … so he thought.

Working on his Harley in front of the Pig’s M.C. Clubhouse, Piglet looked up through his mirrored Raybans and said, “What up Bear? You look like you just lost your best friend or something.” “Nah. I’m straight.” replied Pooh. “I just need a good shot to get me going. Got any go-fast dude?” Handing Pooh a lukewarm beer from a nearby workbench, Piglet said, “Ain’t got shit right now bro’. But I hear ol’ Chris is cooking a batch off down at his house. Let me change this last spark plug and we’ll ride on over to see if the shit’s ready. Dig?” “Cool bro’. I just feel like shit today and need some speed.” Finishing his brew, Pooh noticed Pig making a last minute phone call on his cell. Couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying, but for some reason, Pooh felt uneasy. He’d heard rumor Piglet may have turned snitch for the feds. But having known the greasy little slop sucking bastard since he was a kid, Pooh just couldn’t believe it was true. Surely Piglet hadn’t turned rat. Nah, no way. The Pig was a righteous, hardcore stand up dude.

On the way to C.R.’s, Piglet hit a pothole on his Dyna Wide Glide splashing mud and water all over a nearby Eeyore sending him into gloomy despair. “Hey you fuckin’ Pig!” yelled the panhandling jackass. “Why don’t you watch where the fuck you’re going!” Flipping Eeyore the bird, Piglet twisted the throttle, Pooh on back hanging on for dear life, making his way to the lab. Even though it was Eeyore’s birthday and all he was trying to do was scrounge up a few bucks for a beer, Pig could have gave a shit less. A huge storm was coming and he wanted to make it over to Chris Robin’s before he and Pooh got caught in the rain. Eeyore was the last fucker he needed to worry about knowing if he didn’t get a bust for the feds, he was going to be sent to the big house for at least a hot twenty piece. You see, Piglet had recently got busted in a sting operation over at Owl’s house the week before. And he’d cut a deal to set Christopher Robin up on a meth buy in ex­change for a suspended sentence. Piglet was wearing a wire and the DEA, ATF and 7th Judicial Drug Task Force were set up in a vacant house across from C.R.’s waiting for the deal to go down.

The unsuspecting bear, Pooh had no idea what was about to go down. All he knew was Piglet sure was acting awfully skitzy and his gut feeling told him some­thing may be wrong. Passing Kanga and Roo standing on the corner selling crack, Pooh gave them both a friendly wave. Looking in Piglet’s mirror as they passed, Pooh noticed Roo run toward the middle of the street waving his paws mouthing the words, “No! He’s a rat! No!” Now thoroughly paranoid and in no way wanting his old pal Christopher to get busted, Pooh casually reached behind his back releasing the safety switch on his Army issue .45 cal. “This fuckin’ pig ain’t setting my friend up,” he mumbled to himself quietly. “I’ll fix his hot ass!” Arriving at the lab, Piglet parked his scooter next to C.R.’s Pantera, dismounted, and walked up to the door. Scanning the area before knocking on the door, Pooh attempted to spot any narcs or unusual activity that might tip him off to what might be going on. Entering the living room Piglet announced loud and clear, “What up Chris? Got that speed powdered up yet? I need a pound to take back to the sty with me.”

Totally spun out after having been awake for days, pure crystal meth leaking from his pores, Christopher Robin turned to face Piglet holding two .40 caliber Glocks—one in each hand. “I got a call Pig. They say you’re no good. That you’re a rat for the feds. Now get out of that leather so I can check you for a wire!” “Yeah, you filthy fuckin’ pig,” added Pooh. “I knew you weren’t right the minute I saw you using your cell phone earlier in the day. You’d better not be snitchin’. Because if you are, you got a bad day coming mother fucker. Now get out of ‘em!” he too pointing his pistolo at Piglet’s gonads. Reluctantly yet not having a choice, Piglet shucked his clothes and sure enough, he was wired for sound. “Why you dirty little pig bastard! I oughta …” About that time, the S.W.A.T. team wearing ninja suits and full riot gear knocked the front door down with a batter­ing ram. “Police! Hold it right there! You’re under arrest!” Gunshots went off and a firefight ensued. Flasks full of crystal meth oil burst everywhere. Pooh fired off a few rounds, then dove out a nearby window. C.R., now shot twice in his left shoulder, also managed to escape but not before putting two slugs in Piglet’s brain.

When all was said and done, Chris was caught a few blocks away at the 7-11 shot full of holes. Pooh was captured two weeks later trying to cross the Mexican border at Reynosa and Piglet was sent to the graveyard. Christopher Robin and Pooh were indicted. Chris for first degree murder of a government informant and manu­facturing meth, Pooh for conspiracy to manufacture and obstruction of justice for refusing to testify in open court against his old friend Chris. Later, Kanga and Roo both showed up at the pen for selling rock. And Rabbit too for raping under­age bunnies and making child porn videos. The only Hundred Aker Wood residents to remain free were Eeyore and Owl whose duty it was to send money orders and care packages to Chris and Winnie in the pen. Thus another day in American subculture of make believe animals. Hope this blog hasn’t destroyed any of your fond, child­hood memories of Winnie-the-Pooh. It was simply meant to amuse and entertain. By the way, any of you tweekers out there seen any heffalumps or woozels lately? I’m Tripper! Better Days!

When I was a drug dealer out there, one of the worst things you could ever do to me was try to rip me off or shine me on when it was time to pay for your dope. After all, the way I always looked at it was … friends were friends, business was business. Supply and demand were the name of the game. If I supplied you with drugs, then I demanded to be paid. If you told me you were going to do something, then I thoroughly expected you to do keep your word. All you had to do was stick to the original agreement and all would be okay. But if you didn’t, you were subject to run into someone you really didn’t want to meet. And that someone was known as “Captain Madness!” To this day, many have yet to forget his name.

Captain Madness was one of my alter-egos. Not to say I particular liked him per say. Yet sometimes he was a necessary evil in that line of work. In the dope game you can’t let anyone run over you. You can’t let people burn you and you damn sure can’t show any signs of weakness, because if you do’ and word gets around you’re easy, assholes will literally come out of the woodwork to try and fuck you over. Fueled by greed, sheer ignorance and sometimes cocaine, Captain Madness had a look in his eye that let even the bravest, most arrogant rip-off know it was time to pay the Devil his due. If you owed money and you were just trying to be slick and not pay? Uh-uh. That didn’t work. If you played you paid. Give up what you owe or be on the business end of Captain Madness’ fists or pistol. Pretty easy to understand really. Do the right thing and there wouldn’t be any problem.

One fine day in America’s subculture, Captain Madness was all coked up and for some reason or another, he kept brooding on one certain individual who thought he could act stupid. Owing thirty-five hundred for three ounces of speed, the Wild Wild West knew he had to pay. At first, he said he would. Then, for reasons unknown to the rational thinking person, West decided he was not going to pay no matter what. Apparently he’d grown nuts and said to himself, “Fuck Captain Mad­ness! What was he going to do?” “Got my money West?” came the Cap’ straight and to the point. “No! And you ain’t mad!” replied West, who thought because he had a little pocketknife in his hand he could do so. That’s when Captain Madness calmly but quickly reached out grabbing West’s throat with his right hand and his nuts with his left, squeezing both just hard enough to let him know.

West paid the money. Escorted to the bank with a .380 Beretta jammed into his balls, he gladly withdrew cashola from his savings account. Years later, when running into West in the county jail, he admitted to seeing the Devil that day. Said there was something in the Captain’s eyes that let him know he would have been a eunuch if he didn’t come off the money he owed. And, he’d had a pretty mean grip. “No hard feelings,” he made sure to say. “I don’t want no trouble. I liked my gonads then and I still like ‘em now. No need for violence.” “It’s all good West. Come see me when we both get out of jail. I’ll be glad to front you a couple more ounces of speed,” chuckled Captain Madness kicking back on his steel bunk reading a Louis Lamour but carefully watching West out of the corner of one eye.

Then there was the unfortunate case of Brett and Cindy.(See previous blog titled the same). They got a taste of Captain Madness’ medicine one night. That was one time when the Captain didn’t get his money, but both husband and wife got what they deserved via brass knuckles and a baseball bat. An incident involving treachery and deception. Cindy thought she could get away with lifting a man’s wallet containing quite a bit of cash. But in the end, suffered the consequences and now has four little knotched-out scars on her once pretty little face. All due to blatant disrespect and thievery. She probably wouldn’t have got punched. But she lashed out FIRST on top of stealing the money and betraying once so-called friends who’d been good to her and her old man. Yeah, that night, Brett and Cindy both found out that old Captain Madness just don’t play.

You know, there were others that didn’t purposely mean to rip Captain Madness off. Like a friend who’d been fronted cocaine who thoroughly intended to sell his part and pay the piper what he owed. But, being a smoker, he wound up free-basing too much and in the end couldn’t pay his due. Those kind of people can sometimes be excused. They didn’t purposely mean to do Captain Madness wrong. And too, Captain Madness, being a notorious coke smoker himself, seemed to under­stand. But then there were others. The worst of the worst, those who maliciously premeditatedly planned to burn him from jump. Take dope on the front and never for a single moment intended to pay. A guy or girl who’d lie through their teeth telling Captain Madness anything he wanted to hear just so long as the end result meant leaving with the drugs. Hauling ass to party, never in a million years meaning to pay.

12 pounds of pot, a digi, and cold, hard American Cash

Willy Bones was one of those kind of people. Slick Willy, as they called him, took fifteen pounds of weed from the Captain promising he would be back in one hour to pay. All he had to do was meet the buyer at a motel room across town, all prearranged, and he’d be right back with the cash. Didn’t happen. Willy shot out for Tulsa and wasn’t seen again for a solid year. Thought he’d gotten away with it. Until by accident he got cornered at the Red Carpet Lounge by the Captain and two of his friends. It was a bad, bad weekend for Willy Bones there­after. Before it was all said and done, everything in Willy’s house was hauled off in a Ryder rental, he had two black eyes and a broken nose, and was dropped off butt naked at Riverside Park’s Oktoberfest where he was arrested for indecent exposure. Oh well, shit happens. I’m Tripper, aka “Captain Madness!” Better Days!