Velociworld

BLODGER ETHOS

There is an unspoken caveat amongst drug dealers: don't sample the wares. We learned this as whelps pushing biphetamine in junior high school, long before de Palma had Scarface nose down in the blow. Pushing drugs is a business, like serious games of chance. You can't beat the house soused, nor can you make any scratch huffing alongside your customers.

No, dealing is a business. Which is why I was so disappointed I actually indulged in the Chatham Artillery Punch. That was meant for my Jonesers. And yet, after the ceremonial sip, somehow I managed to dive in headfirst, like Baby Shamu after a fucking bit of herring.

Oh, well. We all backslide, eh? When one sells, or in my case, gives away, pleasure, it is tough, indeed, to refrain. One wants to bond. Actually, one doesn't. One wants to get fucked up.

At any rate, one doesn't partake around one's users, for fear they will roll you, steal your stash, leave you beaten and naked in an alley.

Not so Blodgers. I did indeed end up in that alley, naked and beaten, but I did all that to meself. No, my Blodgers looked out for me. Gave me pajamas. Gave me a bed. Protected my valuables. Gave me shelter unto the storm.

Then they rolled me. I still can't find those sunglasses. Don't laugh. I paid $7 for those bastards. And I want them back.