Sunday, March 1st, 2009
Start: Grand Army Plaza, Manhattan
On-In: Dublin House
Hares: Fire in the Pie Hole, Tit Totaller, and Crawlaholic
FMIG’s Journal, 3/1/09* The streets near Grand Army Plaza swarm with cockroaches. Every year there are more of them. They come from all over. They come from Brooklyn and Queens. The come from New Jersey. A disturbing number of them come from foreign lands. They come here for the vice that festers in this city like the sores on an old hooker. They come here to sow their basest urges. Some of them come for cheap beer and pizza. I know these people too well. I am these people.
They scour the city, my city, for chalk marks and flour blobs like addicts looking for a clean line to inject precious heroin into. They come back for more every week, sometimes several times a week. Sometimes they don’t show up for a while, but they always come back for more. They can’t resist. It’s so good.
This week they gathered in Grand Army Plaza, the one in Manhattan. Some of them probably went to Brooklyn, but this isn’t about them. Those bugs were lost to us today, and maybe they’ll return, or maybe they’ll show up at a BH3. The hash is a harsh mistress, and sometimes she’ll throw you a false trail just when you need to be on on the most. Sometimes the way to the beer is not as easy as we hope it will be.
Fire In The Pie Hole, a long time deviant, and his mistress Tit-Totaller were setting the trail with Crawlaholic, whose name speaks volumes about what she’ll do to get the rat’s nectar. Apparently, they were celebrating Tit Totaller’s birthday ; children in an amusement park, sending their fellows on a twisted clown fucked theme park of a r*n. All their worst was on display, they fed on us with a trail only madmen could devise, and they drank our beer while we tried our hardest to scratch, claw, and pack mark our way to the on-in.
The trail led us through the wilds of South Central Park and it kept on twisting back on itself taunting you like a sick mad scientist would a rat in a maze. Even though you went further, you never really got far from the start. It left you feeling barren and empty, no doubt exactly how the hares wanted you to feel, reminding you that you were nothing more than a beer sucking cockroach in the vilest, most doomed city on earth.
At one point the trail went past the Central Park Zoo where captured sea lions taunted us. We ran through a drained fish pond. It wasn’t enough to treat us like animals, we were trapped in their habitats; or even more appropriately, the habitat’s powerful men trap animals in.
Eventually, perhaps pushed to our limits, the hares delivered us to a filthy watering hole on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. The place stank of dead men who had drunk their fill in this place for generations. Their rank odor hung in the air still, coating us, and making our already vile stench worse.
Soon, the authorities intervened and brought us the punishment we so desperately needed. The ancient tradition of the circle was called. The hares were extolled for their complete lack of virtue. Visitors and virgins were taken to task inappropriately. The crowd cheered as sinners drank the blood of each other, the rank piss beer. Then we turned on each other and that was even less pretty.
Something that used to be a man named Long Winded Hash Hole lost control of his faculties in the restroom where he was found giggling uncontrollably with his pants around his ankles.
Notorious vegetable lover, Screaming Orgasm was found pummeling a small dog for reasons known only to her.
Bottom left his instruments of torture lying around where anyone could find them, and indeed they were abused by noted asshole, Tripod.
Tit Totaller was rudely serenaded in honor of surviving the tepid horror of another year.
Having lost complete control of his mental faculties, Dave Hardy was made to drink for not knowing what we were doing there that day. It was unclear whether he understood why he was being made to drink.
Your humble scribe was punished for good intentions wrongly applied. It’s a mistake he won’t repeat.
As the afternoon wore into dark evening much beer was drank and scraps of food were consumed when they could be found. Eventually, the rabble scurried off into the dark night. Their base urges satisfied somewhat; it’s not a question of if they will come back for more; it’s barely even a question of when. Their filthy needs will soon be apparent once more.
*If you don’t get the reference, that’s ok. Just read this using a dark, gravely inner voice. If you think it’s a stupid write-up, than you volunteer next time.