“Do you have the stuff?” I ask, leaning in to look at what was inside the clear container.
“Right here, same as always.”
“Good. I’m holding too.” I tap my pocket containing the fat sack of pure Colombian cocaine.
My glazed eyes nervously dart back and forth along the window, checking for witnesses.
I quickly pull out the bag and discreetly slap it in his hands. He opens the bag and boldly investigates the rock in plain sight. After sniffing a chunk of the rock, he slams an imaginary air drum and yells, “Woooo!! Well toss my salad and call me Tatiana!!! We got ourselves a snow day here!!!! Call the mothers, call the fathers, tell the bus drivers, today is a SNOW. DAY. Just bring the chilluns right over here to pappy and tell them they can sit right here and tell Santa how bad they really want that new remote control car and if they’ve been a bad, bad boy this year!!!!”
I stare at him in equal parts disgust and disbelief. He quickly tries to justify.
“Oh I’m actually acting in a play. A Christmas play, and those were my lines. I was just going over my lines. Not the coke, the lines for the play. That I’m in…fuck just come out back bitch!”
Raul walks to the back room to a small office. I follow with caution. We enter the room and then he quickly shuts the door and locks it. He then throws the Tupperware on the table. Just one look and my mouth begins to water. I start to break out in a bit of a slimy sweat. He takes out the Tupperware.
“It’s called ‘mama maracuya.'”
He opens the lid and reveals the freshest, purest, most beautiful white I have ever seen…
–ice cream that is.
Of all my vices in this world, my ice cream habit is, by far, my crowning addiction. While nights, and even weeks will pass with my Colombian gold, untouched in my drawer, any gram of ice cream, no matter brand, flavor, or expiration date, has a shelf life of greater than 24 hours in my hands. I have never thrown away a single bite of the stuff. Ever. Even when my dipshit cunt of an adopted brother puked in my bowl of moose tracks on July 5th 2006. In a genius manuever, I was able to scrape off the layer of puke, refreeze the bowl, then break off the puke remnants and then joy. But I digress…
I bid adieu to Raul and run home, looking over my shoulder for po-po and obese bystanders. I unlock the door and head straight to the room. I get the lights just so, put on my “creamin'” playlist, and stick my face straight into the good stuff. Fuck a spoon. They just get in the way.
Well, the paramedics happened to get called due to a loud thud and a suspicious smell that drifted through the ventilator shaft. Apparently I had a sugar overdose after eating 3 kilos of ice cream in under one hour. I blacked out after the first kilo so the rest of the blanks were filled in by hospital staff and neighbours. A loud crash was heard, followed by vomit spilling down my ventilator shaft, into my neighbour’s kitchen.
Luckily the ambulance arrived in a timely fashion and they were able to pump my stomach and equalize my heart palpitations. And so here I sit in hospital room 1402, writing you this story. And if you’re reading this Tony, can you run over to my house and put the rest of the ice cream in the freezer? Hurry, now before it’s too late. You know where the key is, now go!!
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