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Damn CP busts. In those days I was cruisin with a Ronson Crown, blazin' 'em fat on the daily while my partner took notes in the car. Sometimes on a call you had to roll em while driving with your legs, but my partner Jimmy could do it one-handed. He was quick on the dime and yearned for hearty clouds on the regular; after yellin at his kids every morning he'd start blazin dong-phat bluntz straight to D right after clockin in. Then we 'd hit the office, start vapin, and be vibin green while moving those dang cases from red to black. We solved em all, probably, until Jimmy got addicted to muscle milk and XXL Jamaican blunt wraps, which led to his downfall. He always had his zippo on him, and he went down blazen hazen back in xmas '09, couchlocked to death in a persian hookah bar. After that I got transferred to corporate crime and became addicted to wax hits, which rendered me unable to dream or eat from anywhere besides 7-11.
But I missed the action. I missed hittin' the steamroller on the freeway going code 2, or forgetting your own legs or where you lived. I missed going on calls where NORPS went PERP. So I went full private, full dick, walked a year short of a full pension, all of which was meant be spent on Kush, walked away from the dream. But like Bacon wrote, revenge is a kind of wild-justice, and sometimes the dick's gotta walk alone lest he end up rimrunnin. So I spent a lot of time in a boiler-room office, workin interweb cases. The occasional violent crime, hikkis with meteor-hammers, typical stuff. All kinds of weeaboo shit and some furry shit too. Surfin that net beat, I saw it all: vore, quicksand, adult diapers. Reamed holes, shit-filled condom popsicles, pedo-kings, that goddamn CP. Tansformation fetish, fuckin anything, everything. Every dark corner of human psychopathology, sexual or otherwise, I saw the goddamn result, and only beat it some of the time.
It was enough to drive a man to smoke, and even do mad pills. Something had to give. But I couldn't go back there. Every time I had a wee puff, I inevitably ended up back in the damn chair, jaw slack, eyes glazed and fingers flying. Sad thing is at first I'd get shit done. But at the end of a couple week binge, when my lungs were so raw I couldn't even inhale, I knew it was time to get off the reefer once again. For a good few months at least...But then I'd get bored, and one puff would inevitably lead back to a kief-dusted double-gram hash-infused phat boy, from which I hardly felt a thing. So what is a dick like me to do? Do I have the guts to give it up for good? Or will the sisyphean cycle begin anew, whenever I get that feeling in my bones again? I go a little longer without it every time it seems. Just keep getting up, just keep getting up. Don't ever give up. That's what the Doc tells me at least.
I always waited... waited for the beast in the jungle.. always thought a big case was about to break like a falling chandelier, crashing down atop me and perforating my life with a million seductive shards of subtle, glassy danger... what a time it would be, a time when things would finally become real, and kush would be a silly afterthought. But lately I have this suspicion.. that maybe this is that case. This reefer madness * is * the beast in the jungle. A silent epidemic...too many of us young people, you, me, her, him... all in repose, gaming, movies, media, binging, no sleep, no appetite anymore.. you know who you are, with your cheeto dusted hair set against the sheer willpower of talking a goddamn shower. Wasting away, getting bigger or thinner, hairier, filthier, fire dimming. Weaker. Oh the damn torpor. Oh damn it all. Sucking down hit after hit like goddamn pablum. This problem... is unique to our generation. After all that investigation it turned out the biggest case was this one right here. The case of Mary-Jane, that deadly-sweet-scented moll. Always there.. wating to kiss me deadly. They say in Greek tragedy, we fall from great heights. But with her..we fall from the curb. But that's chinatown.