Monthly Archives: June 2015

Sinister Prayers

Eden has spent most of the last two weeks engaging in what Rob has dubbed, “The Summertime Smackfest” –

“I don’t know what it is with him and sunshine, but as soon as the fucking sun comes out, he vanishes completely, and two weeks later we find him curled up in the trunk of the Cadillac in a nest of syringes, Rizlas and little yellow Citric Acid packets, and then Samuel flips out completely. Every fucking summer!”

This time, Eden at least gave us the courtesy of not disappearing completely – he would always return to our bed by dawn, but for most of the day he would be blearily draped across the roof, or hiding under one of the cars, or spending the day passed out in Noodle’s stable with horse-shit in his hair. When Samuel attempted a ban on drug abuse in the house, Eden bought himself a bright orange rucksack and a pair of trainers, and announced that he was “off on a hiking holiday”, which, coming from the most exercise-shy vampire in the world, wasn’t particularly convincing. Nonetheless, I agreed to join him, and we erected a large purple tent across the valley, to engage in our own personal festival of debauchery. On the third day though, our tent was unzipped by an irritable Samuel, and we were sent home in disgrace.

Eden’s next, and far more cunning move, was to lock himself inside the dreaded Cage of Sobriety, equipped with enough heroin to wipe out a small village – the one place where Samuel couldn’t get him. He seemed quite smug about the entire affair, until Samuel summoned the nearly-two-thousand year old Frederick from his current abode in Tuscany, and between them bent the bars and extricated a furious and disbelieving Eden. Rob had watched the entire proceedings unfold from the opposite corner of the cellar, drinking blood and eating popcorn, and ever since, he has begun a regime of tormenting Eden via the medium of Narcotics Anonymous mantras. We’ve found prayers for Eden’s “wart-infested junkie soul” sellotaped to our socks, the bath, underneath our pillows, scribbled in eyeliner across the mirror – absolutely everywhere. And once Eden had enacted his vengeance, via stabbing Rob with a syringeful of ketamine, waiting until he slipped into a surreal k-hole, and then blasting the theme tune to Postman Pat in his ears, we began to ponder those Prayers of Abstinence, and how bizarre they were…

“It really is quite threatening,” Eden said, smoking a joint and dubiously regarding the website of a local NA meeting. “I mean, listen to this! This is the first fucking step, the very first thing they say to you when you walk through the door! “Help me this day to understand the true meaning of powerlessness” – I’ve never heard such a sinister threat! It sounds as though they’re about to tie me down in a gloomy cellar and cut off my bollocks, and then bugger me until I bleed! “DO YOU FEEL POWERLESS YET?!” It’s fucking sinister…” He took a large drag on the joint, and passed it to me, stating firmly, “I am going to Write Them A Letter!”

He shoved the laptop onto the mahogany chest, and began furiously pounding the keys, his long white fingers becoming a blur. Rob was still lying sprawled across the carpet, the strains of Postman Pat emanating from his headphones. By the time he dragged them out of his ears, and sat up, looking thoroughly disturbed, Eden had finished his letter. It read:

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“Dear Narcotics Anonymous,

Your name sounds like something delightful, like a glorious institution of underground decadence – a place where anybody can turn up, and be greeted with a fistful of drugs and a paddling pool full of chocolate pudding and Labradoodles. Like some sort of illicit Fight Club – a thing so delicious that no one dares speak its name! A place of anonymity and mischief, where one can wash away the excrement of a horrible working day with a gleaming, emerald-encrusted syringe filled with Grade-A-purity diacetylmorphine. In short, your name suggests the sort of paradise, the sort of heaven, that I would create, were I God. And yet, in spite of the suggestiveness of your glorious nomenclature, you appear to be a den of boorish, piss-brained heathens! I suspect this is deliberate – your name intended to lure in innocent scholars of earthly pleasure, strolling into the inner sanctum of your fiendish institution in the grips of some gruesome hangover, seeking nothing more than a bottle of whiskey or a bag of smack, and instead being ASSAULTED in this weakened state by the inanity of your grisly methods. Abstinence…sobriety. Never were more foul words spoken on this Earth! You people are nothing more than the enemies of pleasure, the nemesis of enjoyment!

And I do not say these things lightly! Neither am I an imbecile – some dim-witted sewer-slithering maggot-riddled crack baby with the IQ of a soggy sausage – I have been walking this reeking planet since long before your great-grandparents came wriggling out of the womb! I have been abusing every substance known to man since before the coronation of Queen Elizabeth the First, so let me tell you something about abstinence! Abstinence, my squirrelly friends, is a FUCKING ATROCITY! It is miserable and boring and pointless and awful, and for somebody who may well be on this beastly Earth for millennia to come, it is utterly intolerable! Whenever I am forced into the foulsome claws of sobriety, I find myself staring down the barrel of those endless, dusty centuries, and it seems a desert of glass shards and nuclear sunlight, as enjoyable as being water-boarded to the nauseating strains of The Best of ABBA! Could anybody endure such a harrowing fate?! I THINK NOT!

And so, with fiendish logic and demon cunning, I have engineered a reality in which I may not only linger, but FLOURISH! Heroin is its name, and in the warm bath of just this thing, my eternity becomes a shimmering ballroom of prancing whores and velvet drapes and blood cocktails served up in flutes of diamond, an eternity of my favourite books and the love of my demonic girlfriend – a luminous ocean of glittering nights in which I may terrorise and devour the human population, every act committed within the glowing embrace of my perfect drug. Eternity becomes possible, and appealing, and warm, and I do not want to die at all. That is the difference, you nefarious twerps, between my world and yours!

However, certain members of my unholy family like to mock my informed lifestyle choices, and as such I have been presented with a dispiriting avalanche of your material in recent weeks. Namely, your prayers. I don’t even know where to begin with this ungodly bilge!!

“Heavenly father, I know that only you can restore me to sanity…I don’t want to be crazy anymore.”

Let it be said for once and for all, Fun-killers Anonymous, and all those other doubting bastards out there – I am NOT FUCKING CRAZY!! My views may vastly differ from yours, but that does not make me, nor any Substance Enthusiast, a dribbling shit-smeared lunatic! And even if I was demented to the point of cooking up and injecting my own turds, I rather doubt that god could do anything about it! Aren’t we all supposed to be perfect in the eyes of god? If I am insane, then presumably he made me so! In fact, if we are all made in god’s own image, then god must also be a raving lunatic, leaping about the gates of heaven with a pair of satin knickers upon his head, which explains a great many things about life! ONWARDS!

By the Fourth Step in our process towards a life of endless misery, we are praying,

“Dear God, it is I who have made my life a mess. I have done it, but I cannot undo it.”

Well, how infernally depressing is this! I suppose most people, at this point, are regretting all sorts of minor, piffling errors, like missing their cousin’s wedding because they were vomiting up absinthe, or being a complete bastard to their loved ones because of certain differences of opinion, but people like me are the ones who really know about regret! WHOLE CENTURIES OF IT! I have done things so gruesome, so terrible, so regrettable and sinful that they have no name, and let me tell you that forcing me to dwell upon these putrescent shit-stains in my personal history will do nothing more than send me diving directly into an astronomical bag of smack! And who are you to tell me that I can’t undo my own messes?! I believe I’ve done very nicely indeed, thank you very much, given I am sitting here at this very moment next to somebody who actually loves me, even though I am a morally corrupt, undead and godless drug-fiend! And even when I told her the macabre tales of the Things I Once Did, she did not despise me or judge me or call me a LUNATIC! Yet you would have me loathe myself for all eternity, slithering on my moribund belly across the floors of the Vatican in paroxysms of despair, weeping at the feet of the very god who made me just what I am! Oh, how I detest you!

By the seventh step on our road to an intolerable dystopian toilet universe, we are praying,

“I pray that you now remove from me every single defect of character which stands in the way of my usefulness to you and my fellows…”

USEFUL?! I don’t want to be fucking useful, like a spanner or a teabag or a pooper scooper! I was not built to be USEFUL, I was built to be interesting and beautiful and chaotic, and here you are praying to god to remove all of my fascinating qualities and turn me into some sort of ghastly vampiric lavatory seat! I DETEST YOU!!! I come from a time when a person of my standing had an entire houseful of servants to bow to his every whim – I didn’t even learn how to make toast until I was 57, and I am none the worse for it! Usefulness is a blight on the lives of the interesting. While all the shuddersome working peasants of the world were out being useful, I was reading books and drinking myself sick on laudanum, and sending boxes of dogshit to my enemies accompanied by withering retorts, and having wild drunken sex with syphilitic whores and vomiting on babies, and all these things have made me far more interesting than any ‘useful’ person may ever be!

In short, Narcotics Anonymous, I despise you and everything you stand for! If Rob torments me with any more of your pustulous mantras, you will be finding something thoroughly unpleasant in your letterbox!!

Yours, with much disdain and the looming threat of faecal weaponry,

Eden the Righteous!!

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