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Attack in Portland

Homar was one of our main dealers. After giving him enough money to pay for his whole family to ride on the space shuttle, he wouldn't give me any credit. I was at an unnamed bud's house, who was on methadone with me. We had been out unsuccessfully hustling in the rain all day and had missed our dose. We called Homar and told him to come over, "Yeah, we have money." He sent one of his boys over, name long forgotten.

Portland, Oregon. We had already been told no on the credit. My amigo said, "let's just kill him, take it all and get rid of the evidence." I was down with robbing him, but putting him on ice was a little too much for me. He said, "I will smack him with a cast iron skillet and when he falls you choke him with the phone cord." Let me point out that my bud is a queer and gentle person, so you get the idea of the desperation behind dope and methadone. I agreed to go along thinking it will be over before it comes to actually killing the fool.

Just in case though, I took the telephone cord into the bathroom and put a few slices in the line to make it weak.

Ding dong, come in, whack, wobble, fall. All in super slow motion for me. My bud behind thee door stepping out with a huge cast iron skillet and doing a full baseball swing on the the fucker's head. Whoosh, crack, then dong is what I heard. No sound for the Mexican's mouth. He wobbled, eyes rolled back and then he tumbled. When he hit the ground he opened his eyes and started begging for his life.

My bud was screaming, "Choke him! Choke him!"

We both jumped on him and I wrapped the cord around his chicken neck and pulled, a few second later the cord broke and the Mexican started begging for his life again. I told my friend (who was freaking), "Get the pan and get out of the living room!"

He left the room and I turned to the Mexican and said, "Drugs and money" holding out my hand. He whipped out his wallet and handed it over. I took the money, looked at his ID to get his real name and said, "Now the drugs." Of course, out of his mouth came mad balloons and then from the sock came bag of balloons. I then said, "Get the hell out now, and don't come back."

I remind you that we were at my bud's house which they had been coming to every day.

He left and 30 seconds later Homar was calling saying, "All I want is the money back, just give the money back." Of course, we said fuck you. Haven't seen him since. I did, however, spend the next six months scared every time I was at a call back phone or waiting "two blocks north."

Jukin'

[Editorial Note: When I first read this story, I had a hard time finishing it because it had such a strong emotional impact on me. It does illustrate the desperation that junkies sometime experience. Even though it is extremely rare for a junkie to act as the people in this story, I doubt there is a single junkie who hasn't fantasized something similar. By publishing it, HEROIN helper only wishes to show the diverse experiences of heroin users--both good and bad. We are just as strongly opposed to violence and theft as we are in favor of personal freedom.]

Edited by Dr. H © 2001
Last Modified: 10 January 2004


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