72-Hour Party People
Meth: It’s not just for the white-trash crowd.
It comes wrapped in red foil and purple tissue, this intricate figurine molded in the form of a Japanese demon, with clawed feet, a mane of fire and a thick tongue jutting from a bloodthirsty smirk. Transparent, the size of a child’s fist, it looks like a tiny ice carving or a statuette of glass. It is neither. In fact, it is 25 grams (a little less than one ounce) of nearly 100 percent pure crystallized methamphetamine hydrochloride, known on the streets of Asia as “Shabu.” It was almost certainly manufactured in a clandestine laboratory in China, then shipped to the Philippines and on to Hawaii, and finally to Denver. Here it was purchased on the black market for $5,500 — nearly five times the street value of an equivalent amount of cocaine and ten times that of low-grade, powdered crystal meth.
Shabu is radically addictive. Yet Nick seems unfazed by his own estimate that in less than half a year, he has personally introduced the drug to more than a dozen people who now smoke it with him all weekend long at least once a month, if not twice. He and his party posse burn through a 25-gram chunk of Shabu every three or four weekends, which means they’ve each cultivated about a $300-per-month habit.
Shabu, she says, is “like sticking your brain in a huge pencil sharpener and grinding it and grinding it and grinding it until everything you see and think is just super, super sharp.”
This is an example of her “sharpness”:
“Oh, my God, you know the fucking war, right? The liberation, the occupation, whatever? And the Palestinians, right? And the Israelis and the Muslims and Hindus and all the hate and the fucking guns and the bombs and the, uh, the, uh, you know, all the children with their legs blown off by land mines in Afghanistan, right? You see what I’m saying? I mean, you all know, you’ve all seen like a million times that one picture of that little boy from Afghanistan, right? And he’s in his little purple robe, with his little white sheepherder’s hat, and his little Christmas Carol, um, what do you call it? His Tiny Tim crutches, you know, right? And he’s got these, like, you know, like these little sad, brown, puppy dog, fucking abused-animal, dog-pound, take-me-home-please eyes, right? I mean, God…okay, right now, let’s get online, and let’s find out who he is and where he lives and, and, and, let’s find out what we need to do to buy him a new leg, right now! Who’s got a laptop?”
Goddammed deluded bitch cretin.
And then these spoiled motherfuckers, when their lives inevitably crash and burn, will be begging me for money on the street. Die you motherfuckers! Do an overdose and just fucking die. Die now!
–linkswipe via reddit
Previously in this blog:
This Is Your Face On Meth
I Learn A New Word
Die You Meth Bastards! Die! Die! Die!
Meth. Die You Bastards!
You Meth Lab Bastards Must Die!
Ho Ho Owwwww…