meth mouth is no laughing matter.

i was just discussing with timemachine how i can't wait until the meth epidemic hits the northeastern u.s. partly out of spite (payback for the devastation of the black psyche brought by the crack explosion of the 80s and 90s) and partly because i want in.

so how fitting it is that i should stumble upon a nameless gentleman at the bus depot on my way back in from new york last weekend (yes, that same weekend spent raging out with timemachine, ruminating over the impending wave of pestilence) who indeed lived the quintessential street thunder lifetime.

now a trucker, our hero grew up in green bay, lived in a commune in oregon getting high and fucking loose hippie twat as a teen, only to move to hawaii at the behest of his drug addict girlfriend. living there, tending bar, trying to keep his lady under control, his typical morning consisted of surfing at dawn and putting a dent in the $10 grocery bag of weed given to him by the north shore locals. real kamaaina shit. respekt.

after an incident involving his girlfriend dosing him with acid while at work (and the nightmarish trip that ensued), the relationship started to unravel, and following her death a short time later, he moved back to the mainland.

back to the midwest. the heartbeat of amurrica.

michigan specifically. now this would be the part of the story that gets my underthings all wet, what with the perpetuation of the street thunder fantasy and all.

so our nameless trucker moved back to michigan and got in with a tough crowd. the pagans to be precise. and everyone knows that nothing, i mean absolutely nothing, can stop a motorcycle gang. the cops? in the words of an unknown klansmen: "but who will protect the cops?"

imagine, if you will, my doe-eyed wunderment at the sounds of these stories of prospecting and motorcycle-bound drive-bys and methamphetamine manufacture and prostituting runaways. fucken wax ecstatic!

but alas, the lure of stability over chaos and the fear of getting murked led him away from the street scene and back into the arms of the american dream. a tax-paying, child-raising, wedding band-wearing benefit II society.

but from what i'm reading timemachine (and anyone else who's in for a bit of the old hyperviolence), these pagans could be our gateway into fulfilling the prophecy.

"The Pagans make and distribute most of the methamphetamine and PCP in the northeastern U.S. - about $15 million-worth a year. They have their own chemists and laboratories, which supply dealers in Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Virginia, Maryland, and Ohio. They also deal in cocaine, marijuana and killerweed (Parsley sprinkled with PCP)."

hey wait a minute?! new jersey, new york, maryland, motorcycles, narcotics, parsley? that's us, innit?

what the fuck are we waitin for?!