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Showing posts with label drugs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drugs. Show all posts

Wednesday, June 8, 2016


Kindle & Ebook...
Print Edition...


Getting nailed by those badge-wearing bumpkins not only cost me my hot-assed old school Suzuki but their petty jealousies have been following me around, cramp the fuck out of my style, like a wet sack of shit across the neck. Everything goes wrong; missed chances, sub-par dope, strings of minor but galling hassles.

I’m beset with logistical snags, flat tires and dropped calls. Regulars badger for fronts of my badly cut dope then take their cash elsewhere. I’ve scrambled all over for a decent wholesale connection but keep rolling snake-eyed paper thin puppets who know a guy who knows a guy who knows some other fucking guy ad infinitum.

Years ago, a couple boatloads of Persian traders alighted on our fair shores and filled this three-legged town with brown magic from the fabled hills of Ariana. After their top dogs made a great show of opening vast and glittering discos, they promptly blew themselves up by becoming their own best customers.

Stalwart wops whose forefathers literally built this burgh─even they’ve lost the way, victims of hubris and canny TV producers. They pigged out on the illustrious Sicilian tit for centuries but too much media fawning turned them into a herd of useless Gotti mimics who tried to leverage Omerta into a household name.

Inbred racist bikers step into the breach now and again, reaching toward this cosmopolis from their surrounding hick town bunkers. Too often their success results in inexplicable farmhouse bloodbaths. Police are left to puzzle over mutilated bodies strewn about after a drunken argument involving some arcane point of order escalates into close range shotguns, crossbows and Bowie knives.

I did have high hopes for a gang of slick West Africans after they’d carved out territory in the east end. Not only were they stylish, happily venal and worldly, their pipeline was based on long established clan ties and appeared rock solid. However, as so many who’d sought to become the gods they once feared, these intrepid sons of the mother continent became infected with fetishistic consumerism. Looking to maximize revenue, they developed a rep for poisoning their clientele after diluting the product with mislabeled industrial effluents. This led to several intramural gun battles, leaving their sleek and shapely network a smoking ruin.

So it’s been back to the Saint Clair Porkchops. Stone headed men who beat each other senseless in front of street corner sports bars then stagger home to their mothers’ basements, not twenty doors away. They always have stuff but quality is inconsistent, watered down with the usual shortsighted greed and small time turf wars.

Desperate men do desperately stupid things so I go see an old witch on Dundas West, in the dead zone between Lansdowne and Roncesvalles. I’ve passed her sign a million times: Love Problems and Money.

She’s reputed to be the spiritual and titular descendant of the original Madame Schontz, a renowned Gypsy priestess who star centerman Dave Keon hired in 1969 to put an eternal curse on the Maple Leafs after they’d blackballed him at the peak of his impressive career. The team was condemned to never win another Cup, no matter how much coin they blow on superstars come and gone. So far so good. They’ve managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory in a dozen inconceivable ways so I figure what the hell, Madame Schontz Junior is worth a shot. And what’s a hundred bucks? I blow a hundred bucks before I’m out the door these days. Just think about money and you’ve blown a hundred bucks.

A note taped to her doorway sends me around to a back alley. I knock and a suspicious young muzhyk woman opens up a crack. She looks past me and narrows her eyes, sniffs my air.
“Nobody home.”
I show her some cash. “I need to see Madame Schontz. Immediately.”
The woman’s face off-gases about ten years and sixteen tons as she lets me in. “I’m the daughter,” she reports, poking a finger between her Double Dees, frayed bra straps cantilevered outward. She leads me into a musty hallway converted to a tiny kitchen. We’re pushed up against one another, her knockers pressed into my navel. She gestures further down the corridor. A Socialist Realism Christ on an ancient calendar hangs near the ceiling. We go by a derelict dumbwaiter. I half expect an arm to burst out and brain me with a skillet.

The daughter steers me into a dim backroom, small as a doghouse. Madame Schontz is a four-foot high pyramid of quivering flab wrapped in a sateen Blue Jays jacket, topped with a big pork roast face and pink visor hat. Hunkered on a rug, I can’t tell if she’s got legs or not. She toys with a few playing cards and some yellow dog’s teeth scattered on an overturned plastic bucket. I crouch down and the daughter offers to interpret. She squeezes in beside me and lays her chin on my shoulder. In the mirror behind Madame Schontz, we’re a two-headed Diane Arbus freak.

I’m a drug dealer, I explain, but having a truly shitty time finding decent drugs at a good price and it’s not only ruining my rep but alienating the most important sector of my customer base; a carefully cultivated collection of successful fags, lawyers, academics, arts parasites, petty government asswipes and other sundry middle class degenerates.

The daughter asks me to write down the drugs I’d like to procure. Just two, I tell her: Clean Colombian Flake and Sweet Brown Afghani H, the old fashioned stuff, if Madame would be so kind. The type processed with ether instead of the kerosene or diesel used nowadays by those cheap-ass CIA toadies. And some good sticky bud wouldn’t hurt either but not absolutely necessary since I’ve got weed more or less covered. And please, no pills or other pharmaceuticals. I find them gauche.

My c-note disappears down the daughter’s cleavage as she hands the scrap of paper to her mother. The old woman rubs it on her forehead and on her desiccated neck flab, chews it up and swallows. In about ten seconds she begins to tremble and sweat and jabber in several tongues.

Her nose runs, she pumps at her ears as if they’re ringing. Her hands twitch, she puffs on an invisible cigarette. Madame Schontz goes bug-eyed, cackles, yells and nods madly. She’s ecstatic and inspired. I smell it, a high Andean clean smell, a cold wind clears the sinuses. She laughs, haughty and luxurious. She freezes.

After some long moments, her eyelids begin to hang, blob body sagging in stages. She smacks her lips and savors a deep earthy flavor. She claws at herself sensually, murmurs with pleasure. I watch her lean forward in tiny increments, finally at a steep angle, her face not quite touching the plastic bucket.

“You mean like this?” the daughter asks.
“Yeah,” I point. “Exactly like this. What she’s high on, that’s what I need. And the thing before.”
Madame Schontz snaps out of it and her closed lipped smile beams at me with a heartfelt munificence. Her personal style might be more street corner Carnac than Oracle of Delphi but this bewitched babushka appears to be onto something.

“Go live your life,” her daughter tells me as I unfold myself from their lair.

* * *

Thursday, May 10, 2012

Tightrope Books presents Toronto & Montreal release parties!

you are invited to release parties for...

there's nothing harder than love

the new novel by Basil Papademos

Live show, followed by Q&A and book signing in...
WED. JUNE 06, 2012
783 College St.
Doors Open 7:30pm
MON. JUNE 25, 2012
87 Ste-Catherine Est
Doors Open 9:00pm
Pete's Candy Store, NYC
Boit 999, Athens
Ubud Literary Festival, Bali
Bangkok Lit Festival

Tightrope Books launches...
Mount Royal: there's nothing harder than love
by Basil Papademos
A hilarious ride through addiction, sex,
music, movies, madness and more.
If a book ever needed a parental warning sticker, this is it.

Release parties in Toronto and Montreal June 2012

William S. Burroughs described earlier writing by Papademos as “morally dangerous.” The novel is a wildly entertaining roller-coaster ride, which combines ferociously clever slapstick, frenetic satire, and scorching love scenes to expose a turbulent 1980s Montreal. Mount Royal follows petty thief, drug dealer, and ladies’ man, Johnny Carp, as he explores his sexuality and unearths political cover-ups. The book examines issues of sexual power and individual identity, and the effect of history on us all. Concluding with the 1989 Montreal Massacre, the novel is, at its core, a bittersweet romance–a love letter to a time and a place.

Basil Papademos is the author of the novel The Hook (Emergency Press). A former resident of both Toronto and Montreal, he currently lives in Bangkok.

Friday, December 23, 2011

Insane Men We Have Known + Loved

Christmas can be a special time, particularly for fathers and sons who share a deep affection for Canada's national game, hockey...

"What do you want?"
"I called to see how you're doing."
"What do you care how I'm doing? When you were living here you never came around so now you're calling from spic land to see how I'm doing?"
"Look, Dad, I didn't call to-"
"I bought you your first car, you know."
"Yeah, I know. It was a 1968 Fiat shitbox with a rotten floor you got off some secretary for fifty bucks."
"So what? I bought it for you."
"Okay, I guess I forgot to thank you. Thanks."
"And you remember the AMC Ambassador? I gave you that car."
"You'd blown the engine and it was almost scrap. Me and Gus and Sam fixed it and it drove for like three months."
"So what? I gave it to you."
"Okay, thanks for that too."
"Y'know, you're lucky I made you play hockey."
"Yeah whatever. I don't need to hear all this again."
"It's the only reason you're not a TOTAL faggot."
"Just out of curiosity. I mean, I don't really care anymore but why DID you tell people I was a faggot?"
"Because you WERE a faggot! And if you didn't play hockey, you would have been a real lube-assed cocksucking whore of a faggot!"
"Okay, thanks for that too."
"You could have been good. Really good. Not great but good enough. Not like Chris Chelios maybe, but look at those faggots Nick Mastroyannis or Chris Ioannou. They weren't any better than you! They weren't any tougher than you but they stuck with it and played in the pros for over 10 years each and made a lot of money and made their people proud. They retired at thirty-five, thirty-six years old with no worries and they support their parents."
"Yeah yeah."
"Yeah yeah? Nick Mastroyannis was all fucking mouth! You remember you cleaned his clock when you were playing for Wexford? Remember that?! After you had him on the ice, out cold, I fucking spit in his old man's face - that Macedonian cocksucker! You kicked the shit out of him and HE went onto the fucking pros and made millions and you became a fucking drug addict! You were good but you weren't smart. You were drafted in the 4th round in the Ontario Major Juniors, for fucksake! Remember?!"
"Yeah yeah, I remember."
"You remember... You stupid faggot - do you know how many boys your age would have given everything for that chance? If you'd played Major Junior for three years -LIKE YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO - you'd have been drafted by the pros for sure. And THAT was when the league was expanding like crazy and they needed good hardnosed players. Hockey is a game of-"
"-intimidation. Yeah, I know. Do we have to-"
"You don't know anything, you moron. You would have been drafted in the first 5 or 6 rounds - FOR SURE! You could have played for one of those new teams then- Anaheim or Colorado or Dallas, brought our game to the American south."
"Oh, Christ... not this again."
"Don't give me your bullshit! I gave you the OPPORTUNITY. I toughened you up. You could have had respect and money and people would have looked up to you. Instead you listened to your stupid mother."
"Leave her out of this."
"She kept you soft, like a fucking girl, like a fucking faggot. All of you, Sam, Gus, Marco - you were all tougher than so many of these faggots who made it to the pros. Any of you could have been good solid players. Okay, not big fancy stars but something better. You could have been the fucking BACKBONE every team needs to win! You could have been the foot soldiers every coach needs to win!"
"Yeah, okay. I've heard all this shit a million times."
"Too bad it didn't get through your thick skull, you stupid asshole. I gave you the best years of my life, waking up in the middle of the night to drive you to fucking Midland or Bancroft in the snow to play good teams so you could compete against the best, become the best. Now what are you doing? Living down there with a bunch of spics and some whore and doing drugs. I hope you're having a great time."
"I am, me and my whore and my drugs, we're living it up. I've never felt better. So are you going to go into the Bayview Lodge or what? Mum can't handle you anymore in the condo. Anyway, she's gonna be in the hospital over Christmas and you're too fucked up to be there by yourself."
"What do you care what I do? Your stupid brother's been pushing me to get out of here, trying to get me into fucking diapers. I'll go when I want to go and don't worry about your mother. She's fine. She's not that sick."
"She's dying, you idiot."
"Dying. Yeah, she's been dying for 15 years. She's outlive us all."
"For fucksakes... Okay, I gotta go."
"Yeah. You always have to go. Thanks for calling."
"Go into the fucking home, will ya? Just do that for her, at least that."
"You handle your women and I'll handle mine, okay? Go fuck your whore and your faggots and do your drugs. Don't worry about me."
"Merry Christmas."
"Yeah, you too."