Note –  I wrote this on May 28th, 2010 and felt like I needed to post something tonight.  

Been a long last few days, so much stuff happening; good people getting sick and the evil people(aka ME!!) are doing alright! What’s up with that?

Not sure. 

I believe God is back to being bored, nothing good on TV.  I mean, when I get bored, I listen to some Marilyn Manson but guessing God decides to play with his children very roughly!

Damn you Father who art in Heaven, knock it off!

HEROIN CLUB: A WORK OF FICTION

Here is where the world would die.

And where it all began, a tight little place, dark, mood lit for those who wished such thing, not to be seen much less be heard, somewhere on the edge, a place of madness on acid, dancing in a dreary rain that fell against their sweaty faces sometimes in the late hours, cleaning the streets and the walls of the blood and sweat that sat there for weeks, staining it a crimson red and puke yellow on a really bad day.

I remember the first time, seeing it, that place. A club that had no name though the locals, pro and against, called it The Club Heroin.

Too hot to sleep, I went out searching for some life and discovering it, settled against the black heart of the city, where weirdness mingled with corporate coke heads who were seeking out prostitutes. The chicks with dicks dancing with heterosexual deviants who didn’t know better but didn’t really care. High class society danced with the low lives in the darkest recesses of the club.

Evil wannabe doctors were on the side, selling us cocktails of DDT and ecstasy with just a right mixture of death to make us feel like we were alive. It could have been Drano, for all we knew, we just knew the high was grand when it hit our bodies, drove us to the scene and kept us there for awhile, until we crashed on the asphalt just outside.

There was a stage, right in front, high lighting some young punk band, playing to the crowd, too wound up from the drugs, booze and enough adrenaline to kill the sacrificial bull on the altar to notice that there was a police raid going on.

Francis was the man who started the whole scene back in 1970something, before it was cool to do such things.

Nobody knew his last name; he just went by Francis, Duke if you were part of the ‘in’ crowd, which was a motley crew of dope fiends, drag queens, some teenage prom queens who were thirty eight this last spring and a few folks who had issues that couldn’t be diagnosed by the real doctors at the hospital across the river.

When asked why he started the club by the many reporters who fished around for a story, Francis would smile that devilish smile he was known for and would shrug, stating something like, “I just wanted a place for my kind to hang out in, have some fun, you know…this place…”

No, I wasn’t part of that ‘in’ crowd, I was there with a friend who knew a friend who may have been part of the whole ‘cool’ crowd but we didn’t know just which one it was who gathered around Francis, talking about some midnight party last year where Cyndi Starlight, the last true drag queen on the planet Earth, by her own definition,  almost died of an overdose.

She was saved, revived by some macho jock wannabe, John Dean.

“Didn’t they elope?” Francis joked and everyone who was anybody laughed.

There I was, on the outside, looking in, nursing my Jack and coke, and sitting at the table, with my friend Marvin, his girlfriend Mabel and a member of the playing band who had decided to sit down with us.

“The freaks are sure out tonight!” he said, settling down in the chair, “Mind if I sit here?”

We didn’t mind.

Well Marvin and I didn’t.

Mabel huffed a bit of air out of her nose, looked at us like we had committed the ultimate sin and stormed out of the place.

“What’s up with her?” he said.

We shrugged.

We didn’t have an answer.

He told us his name was Scorn or something around there.

His real name was Sid. He had wanted to use that as his band name but everyone else disagreed as he wasn’t vicious enough to have a name as Sid.

He was too ‘Christian’.

So Scorn became Scorn.

He was what would become known as Straight Edge in the new modern world.

No booze, no drugs, a belief in Jesus or some shit as his true savior.

Maybe some pussy if he promised to marry her.

He played the scene to pass his beliefs into the system, hoping it would circulate into the stream and save the unclean souls of the world.

It didn’t.

Sid was shot dead two months after we met him by some skinhead who didn’t trust no “Jesus Freak” who looked like one of them “goddamn Jews!” and who thought Sid was trying to hit him up for some “Homosexual” action.

Skinheads were a strange group. They wanted everyone to believe they were hard core heterosexual but it was okay to get a blow job from a man, but not vice versa, that made you a “fag”.

And in their world, fags had to die.  And if they thought you were also a Jew, well, that just made the matter more definite, written down in something, maybe the Skinhead Bible.

There I was sitting too close to the scene that night, music was too loud to hear much going around, sweat dripped off the bodies of the few dancers pounding their feet into the concrete floor of the club, some pounding their chests with their fists.

Tribal beings, something flowing through their veins, knowing sooner rather than later, they’d be dead, in some alleyway somewhere.

Sid wasn’t on the stage that night, just there to hear some sounds and to pass around his brochures from the Church of the Almighty or something.

Sid approached the skinhead who pushed him away and said something like, “Fuck you fag!”

A split second later, the skinhead turned, gun in his hand, pulled the trigger and just as fast, Sid was dead, dying for somebody’s sin, maybe mine.

The Club lasted a few years after that but in some attempt to be a “bunch of preachy fuckers!” as Francis was quoted in the numerous news paper articles about him and his den of sin, a group or ten of ‘outraged’ parents and ex-crack head prom queens got together outside and protested the place as a public nuisance that should be shut and/or burned down, just to make sure.

The scene had been dying for awhile before these groups got into the picture.

Francis wasn’t feeling the vibe anymore.

His entourage had grown up and moved on themselves, not to be replaced, so the group dwindled down to a few hanger ons and they even finally quit and moved on to other places with better vibes.

The club, the building, whatever, was tore down to be replaced by a super mart of some sort.

To add to the story, Francis was found a few weeks later, dead of an overdose, in some Las Vegas hotel room.

His last true friend, heroin, had even turned on him.

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Comments
  1. This is pretty brutal.. drugs are bad..:(

  2. silent kim says:

    Some bad Ase writing. You paint some good visuals. In the middle is sound like the limelight in NYC but that scene was in the 80’s.

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