There is only a certain pathetic level of comfort one can obtain when one is cuffed at the wrists and shifting restlessly in the back of a squad car. What doesn’t add to this comfort is having a looming charge of possession with intent to traffic circling your sweaty head like a vulture, while at the same time having a concealed felony amount of cocaine in a plastic baggy hidden snugly in the confines of your ass cheeks. No, not up my ass. Between the cheeks yet still outside the cornhole. I look over at Krooked. He is sweaty, panicked, and shifting repeatedly not out of discomfort, but out of sheer anxiety. The officer drives on silently, taking us progressively further away from one of Canadas largest cultural events of the year, of which we had attended for 30 minutes. Krooked starts in with the cop. “look man you don’t have to do this, please you have to understand, I’m not a bad kid, I got a good job, I don’t do drugs, I don’t sell drugs, I don’t touch the shit. I made a bad mistake. Please don’t go through with this.” The officer actually had sympathy in his voice when he said “Listen, its already done, the paperworks been filled out, the call has been made, its completely out of my hands now.” Krooked, hearing nothing but the lack of apathy, pressed on. ” Please man, I swear I was just holding it, I’m not a bad kid I swear, I work on the oil rigs, I make good money, I don’t need to be fucking around with drugs, you don’t have to do this.” I shook my head in silence while his voice began to waver. “Honestly what do you expect me to do?” the cop asked. Krooked paused for a moment and said, “I dunno, don’t do this?” The cop gave an exasperated sigh, “Okay, this is the last time I’m going to explain this. The call has already been made, your paperwork has already gone through, so what? you expect me to somehow dispose of it? to lose my job? for what? do you realize I can’t do this? thats all there is to it.” Krookeds demeanor stayed shaky, but he quieted down, accepting the inevitable fate of a true blooded criminal, he acquiesed to the officers wishes. I spent the next five minutes wondering if he was going to break down right there in the back of the car. Instead, The cop eventually pulled over discreetly by a gas station, gave us our court appearances, and drove off as slowly and controlled as he had driven us away from the party. I braced myself to have to console a friend in his much needed time of agony. A time that could very well hang the balances of his family life, as well as the ultimate outcome of his soon to be marriage. I thought of all the stressful, negative and dangerous outcomes of our situation, and realized yeah he should be about ready to cry right now. No sooner than the cop had motered away, and I had leaned in to offer words of retribution to a nervous and trembling ear, than did Krooked lean into me and say with a mischievios grin, “holy fuck I thought that idiot was gonna fall for it.” Completely unsurprised, I basked in the warm glow of his lit up smile when I replied to him “yeah… makes you kinda glad I still got a quarter ounce of blow on me eh???”
Sometimes you find yourself in the shit. No two ways about it really. You’re either on the track or you’re in the shit, and nary the two shall meet. And this is how it came to be at the Shambhala music festival of august 2010. This outing was designed to be a stagg party for krooked, and I knew this would be no simple task, so indicative of our lifestyles, he chose the Canadian equivalent to burning man for his stagg. A completely psychadelic drugfest for the everyman. So thats what we prepared for. I purchased a half ounce of cocaine for 600 dollars, and my two compatriots purchased the other half together, because lets be serious. Men of our ambition cannot climb mountains without ample snow. My plan was to sell one of the QO’s and make back money, plus profit. Herein lies the purchase. I cut one quarter ounce with vitamin B complex, and divided it into 13 poorly weighed, rip off one gram sacks that I knew desperate addicts would fork over for soon enough. I kept another quarter ounce in a canadian classic smoke pack, next to a second pack which was full of smokes. I get in the vehicle with K Hole, our partner in crime, and head for the ferry terminal to the mainland. Being a smart man, I promised I wouldn’t get into the blow untill we were at the festival. 20 minutes later I was high as a fucking kite. We picked up Krooked and his lovely wife Evette, and drove forth towards a 10 hour drive to get to buttfuck nowhere, host of the largest rave in Canada, Shambhala. Krooked has promised Evette that he won’t get into the blow untill were at the festival. 10 minutes later hes high as a kite, and I’m having deja vous. The drive is somewhat uneventful, just us, doing coke and listening to techno while the other partygoers pray for our dismissal. Not till about 2 hours from the destination does K Hole pull over for a rest. Me and Krooked know there is no feasible way for us to carry on and remain quiet in the vehicle, so we leave to do some coke for an hour or two alone. 20 minutes in we’re hearing rustles in every bush, frozen by fear of some hulking anthropomorphized being rising from the bushes and feasting greedily on our cocaine saturated flesh. 10 minutes after that we were locked in the truck, making enough noise to spurn jake into continuing the journey unrested. Two drug frenzied hours later we were at the checkpoint entrance. Lines… On one hand, lines can be wonderful little junk bonds that onset delerium and periods of hyper accute mental awareness. In the case of this fucking festival, the line was the bane of my existence. We’d spent hours in K Holes F150, and I’d just as soon preferred to get out and run to the campground on foot. I hid my drugs, because lets be honest, expected and accepted as it is at our location, I’ll never get used to the Idea of allowing authority to gaze upon my well earned narcotics. We sat in the car, inching forward, untill the security gaurd at the checkpoint viewed our tickets, questioned us briefly about drugs, (claiming, contrary to what is sane and expected, that at shambhala it is frowned upon to sell illegal substances,) and let us through without a hitch. I mean really, this is a 4 day fest of complete skull duggery and illicit drug use, and you’re going to tell me I have to bring four days worth of shit all at once? Are you kidding? Have you seen the way I party? It would be gone in a day. I even halfheartedly assumed I’d end up railing the buffed product I had for sale, or at least half of it. So we arrived to a grassy nole, and set up our tents. Everyone decided it was due time for some rest. But Krooked and I, at 5 am, were not having it. We escapaded to the river, fueled on cocane and wobbly pops. Being retarded, and paranoid of theft, I carried my sellables in a tylenol 3 bottle WITH MY FULL FUCKING NAME ON IT, and my sniffables in one of two cigarette packages. Some pissant ginger kid kept staring at us, but it was shambhala, so worried not, I opened my bag and let Krooked take a snooter. Not two minutes later, this skinny little ginger biatch was questioning us, and asking to see the drugs. The fuck actually reached into my jacket pocket, which as far as I know is hugely illegal, and looked at my pouches. In retrospect I should have knocked his ass out, but that would have secured our dismissal admirably. Instead, we became surrounded by security, were taken to shamha jail and told to wait while they took a browse at our inventory. Krooked became more and more panicky and fidgety, and it was as if I saw it 5 seconds before it happened, and tried to yell no but couldn’t muster the words, as if in a dream. It was as if I saw it 5 seconds before it happened, when that Krooked little bastard stood up and bolted. I gotta hand it to the losers at shambha security, they’re not all complete fucking retards. They did catch Krooked, but it was mainly due to the fact that his fucking pants didn’t fit, and lagged down to his knees like like G funk Rodriguez. I still sat calmly, and was soon cuffed as a deterrant to another incident. I asked the gaurds if I could smoke. Puzzled, they said okay, so in my debut of acrobatic acheivement, I reached into my pocket for my smokes, and pulled out my other quarter ounce. I had forgotten it was there, and the retard prick security gaurds assumed it was full of cigarettes. I quietly took out the baggy and shoved it between my ass cheeks, then reached back in my pocket, all the while cuffed behind the back, retreived my smokes, and, don’t ask me how I did it, lit one and inhaled. Krooked was busy being strip searched. Once the whole ordeal had settled, they drove us to our campground to get our shit. Evette was completely shook up as the cop drove us away from Canada’s largest music festival and cultural event. We never even saw a show.
