Thursday, January 23, 2014

The Time Someone Tried to Kill Me: My Real Life Requiem For A Dream (Sweet Funky Story Time)

Gather round children, gather round. (Not too close though, don't want to look creepy here.) I have a yarn to spin; a bold tale, an Iliad of misfortune, despair, but ultimately...redemption. Whilst dosing off into sleep a few weeks ago, a realization about a moment from earlier in my life came crashing down on my conscience, sweeping me up in a tidal wave of discomforting hindsight. And so I present...

The Time Someone Tried to Kill Me:

My Real Life Requiem For a Dream

Looking back at the events that transpired, it should have been more obvious at the time. While I was well aware during the scenario that the individual I was dealing with was sketchy, it wasn't until years later I realized what this person did was, in fact, attempted murder. But let's start at the beginning.

My band was playing a show to get into a music festival. We lost the battle, but it was a wash. See, the piece of shit band we competed with had poor sportsmanship. They were at their hometown bar, a spot in Connecticut. They had been a band for years. And to describe the band in a nutshell, a bunch of old fat white dudes playing in a cover band that puts a Reggae spin on each song they play. I think one of them was even wearing one of those hats from Spencer Gifts with the fake dreadlocks. So in other words, safe, predictable, tame, and boring.

The drummer even kept saying "Jah man." And the worst part is he was so sincere about it. He was whiter than I am. Brah, my dreadlocks could knock out Bob Marley, but you don't see me trying to act Rastafarian. People from Connecticut can't be Rastafarian. Neither can people from Massachusetts. There is no "Little Jamaica" in Worcester. Not that I'm aware of, at least.

So this band has years of experience. They're playing in THEIR home state at THEIR hometown bar. They've got this, they've already won. Not to mention that the band I was playing in was formed two days earlier at a music festival on a whim. I lived in Massachusetts. My band mates lived three hours away in New York. So we couldn't get anyone to come see us on a days notice. No ones gonna drive an hour and a half to three hours to see a band that just formed last Saturday. We prepared two or three little songs, that's it. The rest was jamming and improvisation. We never expected to win. We just wanted to go play a show......

.....and we played to an empty bar. The cocksuckers in the other band, Groovy Carnival, told their fans to wait outside at the tiki bar while we played. This was right after I told "Jah Man" drummer the circumstances of our ragtag outfit. I told him we were a band for less than a week. He knew he had the advantage, knew there was no chance we could win, and still told all the people to stay outside during our set. It was like tying down a quadruple amputee to kick them in the face.

Not only that, but during Groove Carnivals set, three members of my band (which was everyone in the band besides me) weren't allowed inside the venue because they were under 21. It was like a god damn episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm. In any case, despite losing the battle and playing to an empty bar we weren't allowed in, we all received free entry to the music festival. 
A few days before the festival, I find out my drummer is hanging out with these two chicks we know from other festivals. You know the type, the hot sluts that run around half naked at shows in a loose canon squad, a posse of festie escorts who get free drugs thrown at their feet just for looking good and flirting lightly (or getting cock slapped). As any experienced festival goer knows, these cunts like to get their dicks wet.

(Not the same girls at all. Just to give you a mental image though.)

So my drummer tells me he's got his eye on one of them, I respond that I don't really care and would be fine with either girl, and pretty much invite myself over. They live in Vermont, which is even closer to the music festival we're going to than my house. The two other kids from our band can't make the festival, so we'll use their names on the Guest List to get Sloot 1 and Sloot 2 into the festival for free. Hang out with these chicks a week before the festival, everyone wins.

I make the drive up to this house, smoking joints and cranking tunes the whole way, as one does. This is my first time going to Vermont, and it reminds me of Lord of the Rings. The state has it's own aura, an entirely unique vibe. Pretty gnarly stuff.

I got lost right around the time my cell phone lost service. But I finally found the house, pulled in the driveway, and knocked on the door. A middle aged lady opens the door. Being stoned, I make a perplexed face. ("What the hell are YOU doing at your own house, lady?") I ask her,

"Is Jim here?"

(Jim being the drummer of my band.)

The face of disgust this lady made was priceless. I wish I had a camera on me, I'd have taken a picture with my stoner reflexes of steel. She pointed up at a barn, I thanked her awkwardly and she slammed the door in my face. I re-parked my car at the barn. Jim walks out and says,

"You didn't go knock on the door of the house, did you?"

"Of course I did."

"Fuuuck, we weren't supposed to do that, I did the same thing."

We laughed heartily at our synchronized stoner moments, and noted the time. It's about 6 or 7 at night at this point. We're waiting for these girls to get out of work, which as my drummer now informed me, was stripping.
Makes sense. That's basically what they do at music festivals, why not do it at a club and make hundreds of dollars every night? I'm not judging, and certainly not complaining either. So we're waiting for them in this upper half of a barn that has been converted into a cool little apartment. I brought my laptop and thankfully there was Wi-Fi. I would have definitely utilized that WIFI if I had the password to get in. Had to wait for them to get home for that Intel. Holy fuck, did the time drag.

They finally came home a half hour before sunrise.

It was glorious after the painstaking 8 - 10 hour wait. Waiting for them to get out of work was like a work shift in and of itself. Time had never dragged so slow for me.

The details of the next few days were hazy. I do remember the second night vividly though. This is where I get apprehensive in writing what happened - this was an intimate moment I shared with someone else. She trusted me. It would be disrespectful of me to lay out in detail what happened, here on the internet, for the world to read. It is because of this............that I shall change her name and slightly alter the details to conceal her identity.

So on the second day, me and Jim are waiting again for Stripper 1 and Stripper 2 to come home. Another brutal, grueling wait. Finally, they get back, they've brought some rolls with them, and we're all gassed and ready to fuck. (I imagine this was the intent of all four parties involved. We're only human. Sick, deprived, carnal humans.) However, before this could happen a group of locals stop by to hang out. Then I fought a dragon with my bare hands, killing and drinking it's blood, stealing it's life force. I then returned to the barn house.

The local cock block brigade end up staying over for hours. Apparently they're filming a zombie movie and wanted all of us to come help out or some shit, but Stripper 2 "Wants to stay home" and I nonchalantly said "I'm pretty lazy too." We both knew what we wanted. I think the group of McPoyle-esque locals knew too. They finally dispersed.

An hour later they left. We pop our rolls, just hanging out, and Stripper 2 just flat out says "You can't tell anyone." I'm pulling my pants down, and she asks me how old I am. "23," I respond. She thinks about it. "Usually I don't go that young."
Now I was already nervous. This wasn't my first stripper, but it was my first MILF. I also noted she was old enough to have graduated high school before I had started high school. She definitely had way more experience than I did, what with being a female and being 6 or 7 years older than me. But I also have a pretty big dick so at least there was that. Too bad it stopped working.

Starting with a condom on was a bad idea; they have a tendency to kill my boner. They're just too damn snug, kill all the circulation. I stayed hard for 10 - 15 minutes, maybe 20. Then the roll started kicking in and I lost it. While my dick was still at full length, it went into floppy disk mode. The stripper noted "Your dick is still intimidating soft." Cool, at least she isn't gonna spit in my face and call me a faggot for losing my boner. I should have just told her I'm a light-weight with rolls, but I was too embarrassed to tell her that for some reason. She's this dedicated raver chick, so is Jim and Stripper 1. I was just the bumbling hippie. I could eat a half sheet or rip a line of 5me0, but I should have known better about rolling.


I have never liked ecstasy, and I never will. Rolling is not for me. I have never had a good time rolling. Not on pressies, not on molly, not on sass. None of it. But I just couldn't pass up the opportunity of rolling and banging. Having sex on ecstasy is supposed to be one of the greatest experiences on Earth........and I fucking hated it.  My ego was temporarily shattered, as was my libido. But I should have known better. Rolls always hit me hard, always make me sick, always get too intense. Something about them doesn't work with my brain like other drugs did. And these were triple stacks. Maybe I should have only took a half of a half.

So I felt awkward as fuck....for what seemed like hours. Just laying there, feeling like shit for not making the stripper cum, completely out of my mind on a high I've never enjoyed, gritting my teeth with my back in knots, just wishing we had split an 8th of mushrooms and fucked while tripping instead.

At some point she noted herself that these were "way stronger than usual," so we looked up what was in the rolls we had taken, and the site she used to check what they were made from cited they were likely 50% crystal meth. Well that fucking explains why we both felt like such shit. She quickly closed the browser while reading what was in them....I actually think SHE felt embarrassed for getting us the shitty rolls. That made two of us.

The night rolled on (heh heh) and finally I asked her to step on my back, it was in knots. She obliged, probably thinking I'm a fucking pussy and a light weight the entire time, rolling (heh heh) her eyes. As my back pain subsided, my boner came back solid, with a throbbing vengeance. The drugs must be slowing down, I thought. We immediately started banging again, this time no condom. My boner was back in full force, furious and raging, ready to rain it's translucent seed on a classy lower back tattoo.

But no such luck. Now I couldn't cum.

How's that for irony? First I can only smash for 15 minutes before an unintentional meth high kills my boner, now I can't complete the smashing because the drugs have finally settled into a manageable high, which has me fucking like a rabbit coming down off meth. I could have fucked for hours and hours. And we did fuck for a good hour or two, before she stopped me. "My pussy is sore."
Long story short, I shouldn't have typed any of that. 

 So the next day the classy dames are back off to sweat it out at the titty bar. Me and Jim are sitting around, yet again waiting. We get some Chinese food, and my fortune is this:


Shit was fucking hilarious at the time, me and Jim laughed for 10 minutes over that. If killing time murdered opportunities, we were committing opportunity genocide waiting around for the strippers to come home from work.
Looking back now, considering what transpired at the music festival, it's actually a pretty creepy and accurate fortune, because I am pretty sure someone did try to murder me less than 3 days later.

We head to the festival, arrive at the gates. I walk up to the little ticket area, tell them all four names on the guest list. Stripper 1 I refer to as "Brian," and Stripper 2 is now known as "Ty-G." The person at the gate gives us a squint-eyed stare, clearly thinking to herself "They aren't Brian and Ty-G." But she let's it slide. Into the festival we go. As we're driving in, Stripper 2 catches sight of her stalker ex, who invites himself into my car much like I invited myself over his ex-girlfriends house, and rides into the festival with us like I rode his ex-girlfriend.

I park my car, and we all head into the festival. Stripper 1 and 2 catch sight of some Hells Angel bikers on 4-wheelers they know. (Hells Angels are security for the festival.) The strippers run over to them, jump on the back of their ATVs, and ride off into the sunset. Me and Jim go off on our own. Not sure where Stalker Ex was at this point.

I know tons of people here, so I'm just walking around chilling, catching up, not sweating the strippers at all. Jim is all freaking out, trying to figure out where Stripper 1 went. Where the fuck you think she went? The cock carousel awaits them, my friend. Their options are vast and limitless, you couldn't possibly have thought they'd follow US around all weekend, did you?

At some point we run into the strippers again though, and Stripper 2 is all pissed off at me, asks me to let her in my car. We walk back to my car, she's flipping out, saying I told Jim we had fucked and I wasn't supposed to tell anyone, that he had recorded me on his smart phone talking to him about what we did on his phone. I bet the little bastard did, too, after getting to know him better it sounds like something he'd do, the sneaky little cunt he is.

Stripper 2 was furious. She grabbed all her stuff from my car and stormed off. She was hanging out with her ex and Stripper 1, and my buddy Jim was following Stipper 1 around like a puppy dog. And they all sauntered off, leaving me at my car. I felt like an asshole for some reason. I don't know why I felt guilty. Who fucking cares? What's the big deal? So you spread your legs for me and I told someone. Get over it. YOU'RE A STRIPPER FOR FUCKS SAKE. Me and Jim didn't exactly have all that much to discuss the 15 hours each day we waited for you girls to get out of work. After he told me about the "Zombie movie" that actually turned out to be a zombie porno, we didn't have much else to discuss. So I told him, with far less details than above, I had slept with her. But at the time I felt guilty, generally sorry. In retrospect, I am pretty sure the "ex" wasn't actually her ex. Or they had some weird on / off again relationship. Which is why I wasn't supposed to tell anyone.

In any case, I went and got drunk with some friends. This was a pretty sweet festival for me. Dozens of friends and familiar faces littered throughout the woods. Bands playing on multiple stages pretty much the entire weekend. I had plenty to occupy my time with, and had spots to crash despite not bringing a tent to this festival. It just so happened to be freezing at night here, fortunately, so there was that to make me feel better.

Second night of the festival, I run into Stripper 2's ex outside one of the music cabins. Yet another awkward scenario to stare down. I half-expected him to punch me in the face, but stood my ground. I had a sense something was going to happen, but the only thing that occurred was a casual conversation.
 This kid was actually kind of smart about this - we were in a very public place. Any sort of fight would be broken up. I had the dreads, he was decked out in wigger DJ gear, he'd surely get stomped out while people would help me, no matter who was getting the upper hand. He just looked like the antagonist in the scenario. What he did instead is far more devious, and looking back, creepy as fuck. We just conversed normally, discussed how I was booking shows, my band, his DJing, booking shows together. He disarmed my suspicion with kindness and amicability like a true sociopath.

"Stripper 2 told me you were trying to trip this weekend."

"Sure, yea. I was looking for doses but haven't found anything."

So the guy offers me this huge chocolate.

"It has RC's in it," he says, "it's pretty much acid." I was apprehensive in taking it. I insincerely thanked him and pocketed it, holding off eating it until the next day. I parted ways with stalker ex / RC slinging cuckold, now holding a chocolate with more than enough RCs in it to have killed me. And I'm 99% sure that was his fucking goal.

Seriously, I had this overwhelming sense of dread when talking to him. Not fear of physical confrontation, not fear of communicating. He was taller than me, but in a fight I'd do all right for myself. I wasn't scared of a fight at all. In any other situation this kid wouldn't come across as all that threatening. But this situation was different. I had banged his ex-girlfriend, his ex-girlfriend he was supposedly obsessed with, his ex-girlfriend who was now REALLY pissed off at me. And my shit-storm alarms were going off in full force. Something about the conversation was OFF. Something felt wrong. I didn't feel compelled to run, but I knew something was amiss.
I now realize, years later, that my instincts were correct - I had every reason for that instinctual warning. The chocolate I held in my hand was intentionally spiked with way more drugs than any person needed to trip. The kid told me to eat the whole thing and I'd have a good trip. He was setting me up to overdose, make it look like my own fault, so I'd OD and choke on my own vomit in the woods. It was a fucking brilliant scheme. He was trying to kill me, and my fucking instincts could feel that impending doom while we talked. He even gave it to me for free. He was investing his drugs, his money, in my death.

Some time on Saturday I found some friends in the afternoon to split the chocolate with me. I told them I didn't trust it, that I didn't know what RC was in it and wasn't gonna eat much of it. They were all down to try it despite the sketchy origins of the drugs, so we split this thing between 3 or 4 people.

I barely gave the chocolate a nibble. It tasted like pure chemicals. I probably took a bite the size of 3 or 4 skittles.....and I tripped HARD for 16 hours.

The trip was very digital. It was hard to see without the world glitching in front of me, as if the fabric of existence was bursting at the seams only to be repaired right before my eyes. Looking back, I am pretty sure it was 2CI. I can't recall if the stalker had told me what the drug was, or if he just said "It's similar to acid."

Luckily I had my electric guitar with me and my amplifier, and set it up at an organic soda stand, raging solos for hours. I got stuck there, in a glitch. Every time I felt like I was coming down off the high, I'd start tripping again. I literally jammed for 8 hours, tripping face, unable to move or escape. This young metal guitar kid was jamming with me. My buddies at the organic soda stand gave our amps electricity. That kid was kicking my ass on guitar, I was just tripping too hard.

At one point, I saw someone getting stretchered out. They were overdosing, and it was incredibly graphic, and it made my bad trip even worse. The same feeling of overwhelming dread I had earlier when receiving the chocolate came back over me; I didn't connect the two at the time. But now, I am certain I was staring into the overdosing face of my own alternate fate, a possible outcome I myself could have endured. It's all a very haunting scenario to reconsider.

Finally some friends found me jamming at this soda stand. They could tell I was out of my mind tripping. They helped me carry my amp back to our group of friends camping area, where a DJ happened to have set his stuff up. I jammed with him for another hour or two, and this shit was epic. I was coming down off the RCs at long last, coming down off a high that I was never supposed to see the end of. And those jams were so nasty, it was the perfect music to jam after unknowingly cheating death. Trancey, dark, shredding.

The final day of the festival, I ran into Stripper 2 and her ex. They were walking around together. They seemed surprised to see me. I was wearing this "Sit On My Face" Grateful Dead shirt....

...and remembered that she had wanted it earlier that week. Before all the petty drama and bullshit.....before her and her ex TRIED TO FUCKING MURDER ME, she had mentioned that. Despite the cold weather and the fact she was with her ex again, I took the shirt off my fucking back and gave it to her, saying "Don't be mad at me, here." I wished them both a safe drive home, and they left, me now standing around in bitingly cold air with a jacket and no shirt underneath, freezing my balls off. And I think that later pushed her over the edge.
It was like Requiem for a Dream for everyone involved, in all seriousness, and I fucking shit you not.

First of all, the scumbag  that attempted to murder someone. Second, that someone he was attempting to murder was me...I was almost poisoned with a heavy overdose of research chemicals, and had to deal with an uncomfortably intense trip for 16 hours. Third, Stripper 2 felt bad about everything. Not soon after this festival ended, I was told she tried to kill herself....she drank a bunch of Windex and almost died. And the ONLY reason I'm mentioning that is because I honestly believe that was her attempting to deal with the guilt in helping her ex come up with his little attempted murder scheme. Why else would he give me a free chocolate after I banged his ex? Then they see me at the end of the festival, I give her the shirt off my back and tell them to drive home safe? That must have made her feel like such shit. And so she tried to off herself.

The more I remember about the scenario the more it all makes sense, and the less I feel wrong in posting this real life scenario online. But I'm not a scum fuck, I'm not gonna put anyone on blast besides myself. I am, after all, the guy who did a bunch of illegal drugs and suffered from a floppy dick when I should have been slaying stripper snatch. But I need to vent about this situation, and wring the comedy out of it, or I'll lose my fucking mind trying to comprehend the absurdity of it.

Oh ya, and fourth, Jim was totally cheating on his girlfriend with Stripper 1. And fifth, Stripper 1 lost her smart phone over the course of the weekend. They got off easy, the bastards. A lost phone and ended relationship? Whatever. Try two people attempting to murder a third, and one of them trying to off themselves afterwards. THAT is Requiem For A Dream worthy right there.

And that's not even the end of the fucking story. The SIXTH victim was a friend of mine. The last day of the festival, she was all sloppy drunk. My friends Tom and his girlfriend (again, names have been changed) told me to come help them, that Melissa was "gonna go home with some random stranger" and she was apparently really drunk. I quickly ran over, and there she is, sitting on some kids lap. We all start fielding him with questions. I'm still hungover from my little "almost-over-dose," but I'm not about to let my friend get brought home by some creepy bastard. After a line of questioning, I cut the bullshit.

"Listen, you can't take Melissa with you. She's drunk, none of us know you, it's irresponsible of us as friends. I'm going to give her a ride home, and you can call her after the festival."

This kid gives me the death stare. His eyes were enraged. He definitely had ill intentions. I was a magnet for these lunatics this weekend, apparently. But I wasn't fucking budging. I stared him down back. He would have stabbed me if he had the chance. Same fucking vibe I had from the chocolate, same vibe I had when I saw the kid ODing....once again, my fight or flight was kicking in, instinct was telling me to take control. My other friend Kathy said she'd ride home with me and watch over Melissa. We carried her out of the festival and were on our way home, at long last. But first, I had to stop back in Vermont to get some clothes and other things I left at the stripper barn. I grabbed my stuff, taking a big whiff of the smell of my stale sex and staler regret, and head off.
Kathy and Melissa are sleeping in the back seat, I'm driving home from Vermont. Kiss From A Rose is on the radio, and I sing every word without a care in the world. Song ends, I change the radio, KISS FROM A ROSE IS ON ANOTHER FUCKING STATION. I'm fucking pumped, going "YEEEAAA!" and I start singing it again. Kathy starts laughing hysterically in the back seat. That's just a funny scenario.

Melissa wakes up, refuses to go home, wants to come home with me. Me and Kathy are like "You sure that's what you want," yadda yadda yadda. Meanwhile, I take note of a suspicious car that has been following me since Vermont. When I finally pulled off the highway back in Massachusetts, I saw it drive past. It was an undercover Vermont cop. The fucker followed me all the way back to Mass. I guarantee he saw me go to the strippers house, grab my stuff, and leave with TWO GIRLS IN MY CAR. He thought I was with the strippers; that house was being watched. So he followed me all the way to Mass, but only I was with the wrong girls. Once he realized his mistake, he just drove past me, I saw the VT plates and was like "Daaamn." That explained why the strippers weren't home; they bailed to Boston after the festival to lay low. I took the heat off them.

So I drop Kathy off, Melissa comes home with me, we sleep in the same bed and don't even spoon or cuddle; she's sick and I'm just being a friend. Not trying to mack it, just trying to help her get through the bullshit. The next day she asked me to bring her to the hospital, she felt sick and dehydrated, just a really shitty hangover. I don't even think she realizes we saved her from Uncle Creepy with his dead eyed stare.

Looking back at the entire scenario, what a clusterfuck of a situation. Next time I'll keep my dick in my pants.


  1. Lol, good read. Will rep on r/c @ misc.

  2. That was a good read stay up big homey.

    1. No doubt Wingnut, good to hear from you my nigga. Stay black

    2. Gracias Vato Mi gusta mucho pinocha

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