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The Crack Monster is a totally filthy, destructive creature, nothing like the prissy little perfectionist old bitch Narcisa becomes whenever she’s away from the drug for awhile.

Tonight she actually blew her fucking nose right in front of me into the hundred dollar blouse she’d begged me for the last time she swore off crack for a few hair-raising, white knuckle, teeth-clenching restless, irritable days, consumed in a swirling consumer cloud of continual endless Want, gravely exaserbated without any crack to stifle or anestetize her bottomless need for impossible material satisfactions, distractions, adventure and unattainable “fun.”Later tonight, when she’d got herself well buzzed with a good head full of crack smoke, she just began tearing the fancy little mother of pearl buttons off the snot encrusted shirt, one by one, before slowly, methodically shreading off strips of fabric with her yellow teeth, until her beautiful, expensive designer-label shopping-mall trophy was finally reduced to a tattered remnant of it’s former glory, about the size of a ragged little dishrag bra….I think she trashed the shirt because she was pissed of at it for not being able to fill up the gaping hole in her soul.But the crack monster wasn’t satisfied, even with the shirt’s demiseBroken mirrors, mangled silverware, shattered cups and glasses. Torched, melted sticks of lipstick, tampons (*see below). Disabled radios, telephones, binoculars, sunglasses, pens, pencils, scissors, eyeliner, furniture, whatever…

fire, originally uploaded by Scab Vendor.

Whatever gets in the crack monster’s path, it immediately and efficiently destroys.Cigarette lighters seem to be a specialty…The other day, she put her little “Cricket” disposable lighter down on the table by my bed and walked away talking to herself, the way she does when she’s flying smoke rings around Alpha Centauri. Suddenly it just exploded like a flaming grenade, singing my head, reducing my beard and eyebrows to ashes.Scaring the shit out of us both.I walked around for days looking like that fucking dog in The Little Rascals. How?The Crack Monster has a special touch…Fuck. Does this kind of shit happen to “normal” people? I sure hope not, for their sake.

“Oops” is Narcisa’s favorite word, poor thing.The other day my friend who knows all about these weird plagues from the spirit world told me she carried an “encosto”, some troublesome, pissed off crustacean attachment that fucks people up really bad, makes them break everything they touch before it finally just all turns to shit.That sounded pretty familiar.Quite plausible too, especially in Narcisa’s case.I asked my friend how she could get rid of it.”She has to want to,” he told me.Great.He also said it would help a lot if she gave the crack pipe a little rest for awhile.Duh!Shit. That’s not gonna happen. No time soon, anyway.I don’t think Narcisa wants to get rid of the Crack Monster. She thinks it is her best friend.Narcisa says she really likes things the way they are.Oh well.She just came out onto the balcony where I’m sitting and looking out over the bay, writing about her. She sat on my lap for awhile, singing some crazy old song in her heartbreaking and raw, savage growl. After awhile she got bored, as usual. Then she stood up and walked away.As soon as she was gone, the biggest, ugliest, nastiest, most persistent insect I have ever seen in my entire life swooped in on me, circling my head like a miniature helicopter from Hell, going round and round and round, until I was so dizzy and pissed off I thought I would puke.Beelzebub…The Lord Of The Flies.Shit.I’m really starting to wonder about this shit…Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção - registrados na Biblioteca Nacional como ficção com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa viva ou morta se trata de pura coincidência.As vários fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.