It was party time last night. In town. Acquaintances. Big fans of bad country music and Jack Daniel's. You know just who I am talking about. Redneck motherfucking Anarchists.
Only people I knew there were Hunky and Kitty. They were the ones who insisted we cab it to the party. "Going to be a lot of Jack there Beer and Kevin is the sort of host who will be offended like fucking Russians are when you refuse to drink their shit vodka. We'll be blind in no fucking time at all."
Strange party by Dope City standards. No dope. Hunky did not even bring any because dope is kind of beside the point when some asshole in a cowboy hat keeps putting another Jack in front of you. At least he did not make the girls drink the shit.
Once we had our fill of Hee-Haw and bad whisky we called a cab. Driver was a Jamaican. Did not think we had any fucking Jamaicans living in Steepleton. Hunky, who is half Jamaican himself, started up a conversation with our driver straight away in the accent he saves for such occasions and mentioned the dopeless nature of the party we were leaving.
Just like that our driver pulled out a bomber and shared it with Hunky as we made our way home. The girls had already passed out in the back seat with me.
The dope did its after midnight work on Hunky. After we had heavily tipped our driver he emptied his guts all over my driveway. The neighbour's cat is out there cleaning it up right now.
Fuck Jack Daniels.
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