Originally Posted by Sluff Vertigo
There we were, sitting at a table in some schwanky Newport Beach restaurant on the water, long haired and fukked up, amidst the upper crust of SoCal society. We were animals out for the feast. The ludes were kickin in. We'd just awakened from the previous night in time to get to dinner. The last thing I remembered was nailing Linda on the living room floor and seeing flashes of light. When I woke up, every piece of furniture in the house was in splinters. We flipped a wad of cash on the counter to compensate our friend whose house we'd destroyed, and went back to our pad on the peninsula to sleep off the ludeover we all had. We woke up again hungry, starving for some of that lobster down the backbay.
Linda had an unreal tolerance level, so we had her drive. She could devour every drug put in front of her and maintain a composure of complete sobriety. Steve had scripts for ludes from seven different doctors. He had some kidney and liver issues due to his endless indulgence in the area code tabs. He had no problem vegging anywhere at any time. It was his identity. We named him 'Primo' after he had somehow acquired a VW van shipped in from Afghanistan that had been packed to the gills with opiated black Afghani primo. The lobster was good. That's all I remember. They told me later that I had buckled full-face into my plate and they had to carry me out of the restaurant. I seem to recall these old broads dissing me through their diamond-encrusted horn-rimmed glasses. I don't know, I was a bit...relaxed.
Linda had a sweet little Kharmann Ghia convertible. Passed out in the passenger seat, I came to long enough in Seal Beach to see Linda go into a bar looking for some musician friends from Hawaii playing there that night. Steve was long gone in the small space that was not quite a back seat. I was still slumped, and Linda was cruisin along as if it was just another night. I saw her walk into the bar, then I floated away....
The next thing I know, Linda and I are going at it on a bed. And I can hear Steve screaming in the distance, "Where are my people? Sluff! They're calling the cops on me! Where are my people? Sluff Vertigo! They won't tell me where you are!" It's hard to quit having sex while on ludes for the purpose of answering the voices in your head. I shook it off. But they came back. "Sluff... Help!" It was Steve. He needed help. I knew the welfare of my buddy had to come before I did. Or Linda. Like a kick to the nuts, I came back to reality and charged to the door, swinging it open. Ass naked. I had no idea where the hell I was, but there, one foot away, stood the lady who managed the hotel Linda had checked us into. She displayed some shock, but held her ground. Steve is yelling from three stories down in the parking lot. "You left me in the car. I woke up and asked her to tell what room you were in. She said, 'We don't want your kind' and called the cops."
"That's my brother," I said as Linda handed me a towel, "He's with us." She glanced me over and left. Turns out we were on PCH on the far end of Malibu. Linda had ferried us from the south end of LA, to it's northernmost border. Man, that chick could drive..........
15 years later Steve showed me the pictures he'd taken the night the friends apartment got totalled.
