Land of a Thousand Zombies

Vancouver supposedly has the reputation in certain circles as being the Amsterdam of the west. This is primarly based upon the concept of a few local bars which allow pot smoking, there did not seem to be any distribution of weed as found in Amsterdam but at first look after walking into one of the more tourist inhabited locales I found a wet dog shit like scent of novelty wreaking within its walls. The bar felt like what a teenager might experience the first time he or she gets away with using a fake ID to get in a club or buy alcohol at the local liqour store. There is a wave of pure delight, degenerate sheen washing over the teen in a blissful state of victory, popped that cherry, now amongst the deviants, well done, no turning back now so why not head down a few blocks where the effects of self indulgence have turned into a case of genital warts so pustal and infectious that viscous, glowing substance flowing from them takes on an acidic skin dissolving behavior.

My friend Jamison had already given me somewhat of a primer on what to expect in this more deseperate, drug driven, spiral to hell; I must admit things like junkies on parade interest me like hidden jungle tribes in the deepest, most remost parts of the planet intrigue the anthropolgist. Within a few blocks of pot bar, the initial vibes of disconnected bodies searching for the means or barter to invest in another hit, fix, or taste began to mill about the sidewalk selling everything from silverware, lighters, and a single shoe, any sort of possession or object some people might consider of value was available for sale in this single line of swap meet vendors whose faces where hidden by the dark shadows talking incomprehensibly as if I had been transported to a middle eastern zouk ran by crack fiends, did these people realize they were attempting to sell beat up, rundown, and broken materials to other users who had no money of their own, no desire to own anything more than the clothes on their back which they might have traded for whatever delicate substance was current running out of concentrated strength in their veins at the moment. Old junkie in wheelchair fixed in their chairs having a convenient place of nod off once of junk cells received their meal.

Of course, dealers peddle all sorts of typical street stuff, low grade smack, crack rocks, ice, meth, and probably a handful of other things I had not even heard of, felt like this was a place the more adventurous tourists came to score just for the sake of doing so, any neighborhood like this in the states would come with a large glowing sign that stated how you were taking your life into your own hands buy crossing over onto this side of the street, town, hood, or where ever, serious life threatening danger looms, robbery, assualt, and potentially murder, but here in Vancouver, the whole entire traveling sideshow felt more like a carnival, a street theater put on by all the trapped drugs user who had nowhere else to go. Vancouver is the place where junkies go to die.

After a few more blocks, the alleyways began to resemble a cross section of Micheal Jackson's Thriller video and the movie 28 Days Later. Zombiefied people just milled around with no real purpose of direction, like actors in a movie, as a woman started thrusting her hips while sitting with her legs spread open in the general direction of Davidson, I got the thought that by just willing something it would magically materialize right in front of us. Nearly a hundred or so people trudged about in the alley, as two cops attempted to put their finger in the dike by arresting a couple street level drug hustlers. What about all these brain fried muthafuckers, spinning in circles completely devoid of life, mumbling to other rotting corpses in a new form of communication totally unfamiliar to me. I felt like running down or walking down the hundred yard long alleyway in a sort of juvenile fashion but Davidson was not into it, he wanted to score, won't bother to go into much of that except for the guy who helped us get what we were looking for would not let up in getting a cut of goods. He kept on us like a horny pigeon until I told him to breakout, which caused him to go into a well rehearsed routine for tourists like us in hopes of intimidating us into kicking him down, but I could out weird this guy anyday of the week, grabbed him by the shoulders, shook him violently, then laughed in his faced, topped off by jumping up behing one of the lions guarding the Chinatown section of the city, then booty slapping the lion from behind, a nice pushof the guy into a chainlink fence did not hurt either and after another half a block he turned around screaming in disgust of someone who had lost a family member, we are road tested, half ass efforts do not effect me, whether its a gun, a drug, or a shadowy figure, the path I cut is scorched with the flames of hell, do not expect me to be understanding of needs, an hour later I am in a vicadin coma, happy to be away from everyone, content until work the next day.