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!

Does anyone believe in karma? I’m talking about the consequences of a person’s actions that determine their specific destiny. Sometimes, I think about karma and wonder if it had anything to do with why I’m here. Why I’m serving this assload of time in federal prison and why all this is happening to me. Then, I think about what I might have done. Surely I didn’t do anything too awfully bad. Surely I haven’t hurt or harmed anyone so bad that I deserve this much mental and physical torture. Have I? Yet if someone believes in the laws of karma, I did something somewhere along the line that caused this to happen to me. And let me tell you folks, whatever it was, I sure wish I hadn’t done it. It had to be something to do with me selling drugs. That’s all I can think of. That’s all I can figure out. Because that’s all I’ve ever done. Sold dope to friends and acquaintances.

I didn’t sell marijuana, cocaine or speed to little kids. I sold it to my buddies. Grown adults who were capable of making their own decisions. Individuals just like me who simply wanted to alter reality a little and have a good time. Despite what society and law enforcement want you to believe, I wasn’t the guy in the dark trench coat hanging around schoolyards forcing drugs on small children. Yet that’s the way the legal system paints guys like me to be. The decision to use and purchase drugs is a conscious one. And to me, buying and selling dope is a consensual crime. Looking back, I wish I hadn’t used or sold. I wish I would have went to college and become a lawyer or doctor. Wait, not a lawyer. Changed my mind on that. They’re just as crooked as any criminal there is, doing time right, here sitting next to me in federal prison.

Anyway, back to karma. Some dealers have sold dope to individuals who overdosed and died. Not me. I’ve never done that. No one ever kicked the bucket as a result of doing any of my party material. In drug rehab at the prison my 2nd or 3rd go round it was offered in prison, I’ve watched films showing the most strung out, fucked up, totally wasted out of their minds junkies in the world! But truthfully everyone. I’ve never even met anyone like that! All the people I sold to and partied with were average folks. So, why is karma kicking my ass? Can anyone explain that to me? Or, is it karma at all? They say hindsight is 20/20. Wish I knew why this is happening to me. Maybe one day, after I finally leave this world, and my entire life is played back for me on a big movie screen, I’ll know. I’ll have found out what it was I done that was so fucking bad. Think that’ll happen? I doubt it. But you know what I mean.

My friend Robert T. was an asshole of a drunk. He hung around all the meanest bars in Fort Smith mouthing off and running his head to those he shouldn’t have. He fought all the time and probably hurt some people too. I know he at least stabbed one or two. Yet they didn’t die. Sure, they went to the emergency room with a couple of puncture wounds but they didn’t bite the big one. But one day something happened to old Robert. Was it karma that fucked Robert off? Drunk as a dog, he said something stupid to the wrong guy. Finally went and done it. He got stabbed and killed at Abe’s Oasis on Midland Boulevard. Was it Robert’s specific destiny to die at the hand of another wielding a knife? Or, was it simply coincidence? I don’t know. Even as ignorant as Robert acted sometimes, I don’t think he deserved to go out like that. If it was karma, then karma is a mother fucker. A stone cold mother fucker that I detest and abhor.

In closing, was it the laws of nature that put me here? And, will my good or evil ways have a bearing on me being reincarnated into someone decent or something bad? Or, is there really such a thing as karma and reincarnation at all? I honestly don’t think I’ve done anything that horrific in life. And if there is a heaven, I’ll go there because I’m not a bad person. My nature, disposition and character are that of a happy individual who never once meant to hurt or harm another living soul or creature. Yes, I broke society’s laws. I sold speed and weed to people and I’m doing time for it. But did I really deserve all this? I know some of you self righteous do-gooders out there will say I did. And others who have been in my shoes will say just the opposite. If anyone has any mind boggling insight on karma they’d like to share with me, I’d like to hear about it. Because right now I’m sitting here in prison kicking myself in the ass constantly wondering if it was karma that fucked me off, took 17 years of my life, and put a black label on me stating I am a no good rotten asshole. I’m Tripper. Better Days to all of you readers! Thank you for hanging out, it’s been rough here lately.

This is a repost. It was orginally posted “Friends Only”, but by now everyone that reads Tripper knows he’s going through a process. Part of the process of accepting life living on the straight and narrow means getting some of this stuff off his chest. Going through feelings of hopelessness and the God aweful Jones. Chasing his deamons if you will. Enjoy, and please remember, comments and kudos are welcomed and needed!!  This is a deep topic, but if you feel you can share here, please, leave your story as well, give it to Tripper straight and how it really IS to live life clean and sober. Better Days, The REP

My oak table top is pristine clean. Sitting atop are the following items: a bag of cotton balls, a fresh box of Arm & Hammer baking soda, a pair of hemostats, a Bic disposable lighter, the death card from a Tarot deck, a 6″ section of metal coat hanger, a double edge razor blade, a pint of 190 proof pure grain alcohol, a shot glass, a pocket knife, a wet washcloth, a new chore-boy pots and pan scrubber, a glass test tube, a fresh glass of cold ice water, a glass smoking pipe, and one large bag of pure powder cocaine hydrochloride. I’m ready. I tear off a small piece of chore-boy and roll it between the palms of my hands forming it into a ball. I clip the hemostats on the formed ball of compressed copper. I light my Bic and burn the shiny material. Black smoke rises. I make sure and burn the ball until all the copper color is gone - the chore-boy is sooty black. I allow it to cool. Then I roll it between my palms once again until all the sooty black residue is gone and my smoking screen is complete. I stuff the screen tightly into the glass bowl, packing it there from both sides. Placing the glass stem to my lips I test my smoking device to see if it works. Time to cook.

I put the large blade of my Kabar pocket knife in the bag of powder. I dole out two or three blades of cocaine, probably about a gram all total, and place it on the table. With the glass test tube in my left hand and the death card in my right, I scoop up the powder cocaine and carefully pour it in the dry test tube making sure not to spill any. My heart pounds and my mouth waters. I sprinkle a small amount of Arm & Hammer onto the wood. With my razor blade I take a bit of baking soda and place it in the tube with the coke. Taking my pinky finger, I dip it in the glass of cold ice water. Then I drip water from my finger inside the test tube until the cocaine/baking soda mix is saturated. I watch it bubble and become moist.

I take a small piece of cotton and expertly twist it around the tip of the piece of coat hanger. My makeshift torch is complete. I pour a shot of PGA in the shot glass. I dip the cotton tipped torch in the alcohol, pull it out, then light it with my trusty lighter. I then slowly, slowly wave the torch beneath the test tube carefully heating the glass. A small amount of soot from the torch gathers on the underside of test tube and I wipe it away with the washcloth. The powder mixture begins to heat, rise and climb the walls of the tube. Slowly I wave the the torch under the test tube a few more times. I hold the tube close to my left ear and listen to the Contents sizzle. Then I hold the tube up to my nose so I can savor the sweet smell of the cooking cocaine knowing my finished product is well on its way. Anticipation.

I begin spinning the substance in quick circles to the left. With my pinky I drop a few more drops of ice cold water into the mix. I sniff. I spin. I examine my masterpiece. Then I cook some more. The cocaine sizzles, climbs the walls of the test tube, then suddenly makes a final fizzing type noise turning from a solid into a liquid finally descending to the bottom of the glass. My heart pounds. My hands shake. With my left hand I carefully place three quarters of the bottom half of the tube directly inside the glass of cold water and I spin. I spin the tube to the left. The centrifugal force now causing the liquid concentrate inside the tube to start forming into a rock. I add a little more water, remove the tube from the glass and spin, spin, spin. I hear the hard rock hitting the sides of the test tube. I lightly heat it one last time to make sure all the cocaine has formed together in one single rock. I spin, spin, spin … and listen to the beautiful sound of the hard rock gram of coke hitting the sides of the tempered glass. I check to see if the water surrounding the rock is clear. Then I take the washcloth and wipe the last of the black soot from the bottom of the tube away. Placing my middle finger on the closed end of the test tube and my thumb at the open end, I quickly turn the tube upside down allowing the contents to suck up to my thumb. Slowly I tip the tube sideways where the water falls to the bottom but the rock stays near the top. With my piece of metal coat hanger I drag the rock from the tube dropping it onto a piece of folded tissue. The rock dries. My heart beats in anticipation.

Placing the now fully cooked rock of crack cocaine on the table, I take my blade and cut it into several small chunks, or individual hits if you will. I pour more pure grain alcohol into my shot glass and dip my torch into the liquid. I place one of the rocks on my pre-prepared chore-boy screen inside the crack pipe bowl. I light the torch. I put the pipe to my lips and I apply flame to the rock ever so carefully. I barely allow the flame to touch the rock and I draw slowly through the stem melting the rock into the screen. I watch as the thick vale of evil white smoke fills the pipe’s chamber as I steadily pull with my lungs. After the pipe is completely full of thick white death, I remove my finger from the carberator hole and quickly inhale all the smoke clearing the glass smoking apparatus completely. Shaking I sit the pipe down on the table and close my eyes.

The taste is superb. The feeling starts to hit. I hold the smoke in my lungs for as long as I can then slowly, very slowly begin to exhale. Not much smoke comes out. I’ve ingested the bulk of it. My ears start to ring and my heart beats wildly. I start to experience an extreme sense of euphoric bliss. I start to rush, I hear a train moving down the tracks, the desired effect is complete. My blood pressure rises. I rush. My dick gets hard. Then slowly but surely my heart rate starts to return to normal. Oh what a feeling. There’s nothing like it in the world. I look in a mirror on the wall. I see death. My eyes are wild, my facial expression blank, my cheeks are pale. Then I grab the pipe and repeat the process. The second hit is even better. It’s the strong one. It’s the one that rocks my socks. It’s exactly what I’m looking for.

I smoke for what seems like forever. I have sex with my girlfriend. My house is a disaster. I eat and drink nothing. I draw all the curtains and close all the shades. I unplug the telephone and crank up the air conditioner. I smoke, I rush, I get my dick sucked. I only leave the table to take an occasional pee. Three days pass and I finally make the conscious decision to quit smoking. I swallow six blue Valium and knock down a shot of whiskey. I hit my last rock of crack cocaine and cum in my girlfriend’s mouth one last time. Then I look for sleep. I crash. I’m out of it. Thirty-six hours later I awake with a chemical hangover and a four day beard. I shower, shave, brush my teeth. I eat a half a sandwich and start all over again. I am sick. I am twisted. I am a coke junky. I am a coke freak. I take a huge hit off the glass dick to start off the day. I start to black out. I have chest pains. I lie back and start going down that long, dark tunnel toward purgatory. I know I’m dying. And I begin to pray.

“God, I know you’re going to take me. And that’s okay. But please, just one thing before you do. Let me finish hitting the last of this rock. Let me use the last of my cocaine, then you can have me. It’s all I ask.” The prayer of the coke smoker. What a sick and twisted life I live. What a worthless existence. I recover from the hit and I do not die. I continue to smoke until finally all the evil white rock is gone. What a sickness. Oh how bad I feel, how worthless, how utterly stupid and how sick. Cocaine is evil. But I love it. I am a junky. No drug on the face of this earth has ever had its hooks in my like sweet lady cocaine. Someone save me. Someone help. I am Tripper and I have lost all hope. If you haven’t ever smoked crack or free-base cocaine, take my advice … don’t do it. Better days.