Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Cheap!

I recently had sex with a young lady here in Niagara Falls. I won't divulge her name, as that would be untoward and ungentlemanly in nature. The entire experience though, left me bewildered and scratching my head, as I realized that I am becoming pickier in my "old age."

This girl in question, and action, had all the physical attributes of the female that are commonly thought of as being desirable and when added up to whole, constitute a jolly good shag. Particularly in the "chesticle" area, I must say.
Now, I have never been what you would call a breast man. Though I wouldn't kick a girl out of bed for slapping me in the face with one during a middle of the night toss and turn. However, on this fateful and drunken night, I found out that some nicknames for the breast area do not sit well with this journalist.

During the "proceedings" with this particular girl, she took to calling her own breasts, and I quote, "titties." For example.
"How do you like these titties?"
"Suck on my titties!"
"You love these titties, don't you?"
...and so on.
From the second she started it - I didn't like it. I didn't like it one mother#$@* little bit. It seemed moronic and put on to me, like she were reading it out of a 1970's porno script. At one point I considered halting the entire affair all together and asking her to just fuck right off!
...but that seemed a bit rash in the end. I just finished up and pretended to make plans for the next day, you know, go to the zoo or something.
We both knew it was rhubarb.

A Chapter from my Novel, "Luke Warm Whiskey"

Chapter Twelve

Toronto, Ontario
Mid April

Hard knocking at my front door awakened me from a dream about turtles eating me, a dream I often had. I sat up in a momentary terror episode, as usual, and saw that according to my alarm clock, it was 4:12 AM.
“What the fuck!” I said aloud.
Who the hell could this be at four o’ clock in the goddamn morning? I picked up my bamboo kendo stick that I kept beside my bed just it the case that it was some psychopath, and I had to whack him in the face.
I walked through my living room and stepped on a beer bottle cap with my bare feet.
“Shit!” I yelled, now angrier than ever at having someone banging on my door at such an uncivilized hour.
I looked through the peephole and discovered I was correct in my assumption. It was indeed a psychotic - It was Nigel.
“Okay, stop knocking asshole” I said, unlatching the chain lock.
Nigel was out of breath and disheveled looking. He ran inside, closing the door behind him, locking the dead bolt right away and re latching the chain lock in a panic. He looked through the peephole and turned around.
“Anything to drink Connolly?”
“Oh, you know. Can’t complain.” I said. “And you?”
“Huh?” he said, peering through the peephole again.
He didn’t pick up on my obvious attempt at sarcasm, which was strange for a man of his wit. He was totally out of it.
“Uh…sure” I said. “Scotch okay?”
“Perfect, perfect my lad.” He said turning around. “You are truly a gentleman and a…”
“Yeah, yeah, a scholar, I know” I said, cutting him off. “Sit down and shut the hell up for a minute.”
I went into the kitchen and got a bottle of Johnny Walker from the cupboard, pouring three fingers for each of us. This was going to be good I reckoned, I was sure of that much.
Nigel didn’t look well. He was unkempt, pale, and jumpy. He talked a mile a minute, spitting out complete and utter gibberish. He was obviously paranoid about something and most likely on the coke pretty heavy. I never liked hanging out with him when he got high on coke, as he was pretty much himself amplified by a hundred, which was too much for me to take. I could just barely take Nigel as he was normally. Plus, I had an addictive personality and didn’t want to get mixed up with something that I was sure I wouldn’t be able to control.
I went back into the living room and Nigel was staring at his cell phone. He eyes looked maniacal as his pupils darted back and forth from me to the front door, to his drink. I sensed no similarities between this fellow and my friend Nigel and had to admit, I was a little weary of him in this condition. I wasn’t sure what he’d do as I’d never seen him quite like this before.
“So mate.” I said. “What’s up wi' ya?”
“Nothing, nothing” he said, his voice cracking. “Why do you ask?”
“Are you making a joke…huh? Are you out of your sodding mind,” I yelled. “It’s almost 4:30 in the goddamn morning, you stupid bastard!”
I was getting upset and losing patience in the whole proceedings. Nigel looked at his cell phone.
“Is it?” he said, sounding genuinely surprised. “Holy shit, where does the time go, you know? So much to do and so little time, eh,eh, you know what I mean, eh, Connolly? Hey, its 4:20! Got any weed Connolly?”
“Okay! Stop talking” I said.
I was now convinced that he was coked out of his mind. A little weed would only help calm him down right now, so, figured it wasn’t such a bad idea.
“Yeah, fine.” I said. “Hold on, and be quiet until I get back.”
Nigel nodded and continued staring at his cell phone.
I went into my bedroom and got an already rolled joint from my sock drawer. It had been there for a while and was a little stale. It would do the trick though. I’d been trying to cut the herbage from my system for some time and I’m not even quite sure why I even held onto it? Though I’m glad I did.
I went back into the living room and turned on my stereo to create a wall of noise to coerce Nigel into keeping his mouth shut. I lit the joint, took one puff and handed it to Nigel. He inhaled greedily from the joint, smoking nearly half of it. He handed it to back to me and I took a few puffs.
“Okay. Now that we’ve got that out of the way,” I said. “Tell me what the fuck is going on?”
Nigel sat staring at the television that wasn’t on. I could tell that the weed was starting to even him out somewhat. His mind was trying to work, trying to spin some sort of explanation together when unexpectedly, his face disappeared into his hands and he began to cry.
Jesus tap-dancing Christ. What was going on? I’d never seen this hard man from Manchester is such an emotional state before. I was not an emotional guy either, especially with other men. What the hell was I supposed to do in this situation? Give him a hug…I don’t think so!
I warily outstretched my hand to place on his shoulder, in a futile attempt to console him. I couldn’t do it though and pulled my hand away at the last second, lifting my drink from the table instead and taking a long drink.
Nigel raised his head languidly, turning his red eyes and sullen and pale face towards me.
“Kevin, lad... I’ve got me self into a spot of bother” he said.
I nodded for him to go on.
“Man, the thing is…I need some cash. I need to pay back some guys. The kind of guys who if you don’t pay back…well…let’s just say that if I don’t get the money, I won’t be around to hang out with you anymore.”
I threw my glass at his head, missing by an inch. I’m not too sure if I intended to miss him, or if I actually wanted it to smash on his face, instead of all over my wall.
“You fucking limey!” I shouted. “What are they going to do? Fucking kill you, is that what you mean? Let me get this straight, all right? You get into it with the mob and now you come to have me bail your ass out, is that right?”
Nigel nodded. Beaten.
“Are you fucked in the head?” I yelled. “I tell you what, you English faggot. I hope they crush your big pretentious head like a watermelon, all over the goddamn sidewalk, you dumb motherfucker!”
“Kev…pal, don’t say that. We’re best mates, aren’t we? How can you want me dead, man? You’re the only person I can turn to! I need your help brother!”
“Don’t fucking brother me crack head!”
I wanted to punch the dirty bastard in the mouth, and grind his chicken shit eyes into the Scotch coated glass on the floor.
Where was this sonofabitch when I was down huh? Where was he when I was broken and defeated? On then the edge of the abyss. Where was he when I was trying to drink myself to death? Didn’t he think to call me up to see how I was doing? The answer is no. He was too busy doing drug deals and sucking the profits up his own bulbous nose. I didn’t owe this bastard a thing, and right now, all I wanted was to see the back of him as he walked out my apartment door for good. Goddamnittohell and fuck!
I sat there, saying nothing, for what seemed like an hour. Unfortunately, after I’d calmed down a bit, and the weed got into my system, I realized that this asshole was my friend and friends are supposed to take care of each other when the shit goes down. So, he wasn’t there for me when I needed him, maybe he didn’t know how I’d felt, or that’s what I told myself. Like it or not, this character was my pal and I had to do what I could for him, whether he was a drug addict or not.
Nigel was on his feet now and starting to put his jacket on. For a second I thought about not saying another word and just letting him walk out and deal with his problem on his own. I really didn’t want to get involved in any kind of drug deals or organized crime shit. He would probably get the money somehow and he’d be able to deal with it, he had a talent for getting out of sticky situations, just as I did. He was not in his right mind thought and I worried he might hurt somebody, or himself if I didn’t intervene.
He opened the front door and began to walk out.
“Wait…” I said. “Come and sit down, asshole.”
Nigel smiled a pathetic smile, still looking as pale as when he walked in.
“Finish your drink at least,” I said. “Before you go.”
Nigel sat down and nodded his head smiling. He knew that I was going to help him. Maybe he’d been conning me since the moment he’d arrived at the apartment and had planned the whole production. He was certainly capable of that. But I’d never seen tears before. I wasn’t sure he was that good an actor.
“Okay, what kind of money are we talking about here?” I asked.
“Eight thousand…” he said, struggling to speak through emotion, fake or real, I wasn’t sure.
“Eight fucking grand, Nigel?”
“Yeah mate, I know. I fucked up. I’m a fuck up!” he said.
He started to cry again.
“You gotta be shitting me?” I said. “And stop that crying shit you pussy! It ain't helping us, all right?”
He nodded. Wiping the tears from his eyes
“Listen dude, I don’t have that kind of cash. I haven’t worked in over a month!”
“What?” he said, genuinely surprised.
“That’s right, I quit.”
“Why’d you go and do that for?” he said.
“Because it was driving me mental is why. That and… I was too upset about Elsa going that I think, aw shit man. I think I had a nervous breakdown or something.”
“Oh shit mate. I’d no idea. I’m so sorry man…”
“Fuck it” I said. “I’m fine now. Let’s continue with the matter at hand here. I don’t have eight grand Nigel. I can maybe get my hands on four.”
“Oh mate, that’s fantastic. I’m sure I can get the rest from my sister in London. Her old man is rich as the sodding Queen.”
“Well. I guess that’s your problem solved,” I said.
“Oh mate, you’re a bloody saint you are,” he said trying to hug me.
“Get off!” I said.
“There’s no way I can ever re-pay you for this!”
“I hope that doesn’t mean that you’re not actually planning to re-pay me?”
“Oh shit mate. That’s not what I mean at all. I’ll pay you the money back, every fucking cent man, god as my witness son…”
“All right, enough” I said. “You know, that doesn’t mean too much coming from the likes of you.”
“You know what I mean mate. The money will be paid, that’s my word. I swear on the cross and the holy ghost, eight? It’s the gesture I’m talking about Connolly. You’re a good mate. I knew I could count on you, when the shit really hits the fan.”
“Listen here Caruthers. I’m doing this so you don’t get killed or whacked, or whacked off, or whatever the fuck it is. That’s all. If you ever show up at my house all strung out on coke again I’ll kick your ass on site, got it?”
“Yeah mate.” He said. “It’s a fucking deal. I’m staying away from this shit from now on anyhow. It’s what got me in this mess in the first place.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it limey. Now, you can crash on the couch if you want to, but I’m going back to bed.”
“Right mate. That’s mighty white a’ ya. I could use a good nights sleep, if the fucking coke will let me.”
“Cut the shit,” I said. “I’m for bed.”
Nigel laughed and lay down on the couch letting out a great sigh, of what I’m sure was relief. He was sleeping in seconds. Which is strange what with the coke. I’m sure he felt a great weight lifted from his shoulders and I was quite sure that this was probably the first time he’d slept in days, from the look of him. He was my friend and, like it or not, I had to help him. He’d been a good friend most of the time that I knew him and I could trust him to watch my back during times of conflict. But as far as the drugs go, I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw the bastard and I didn’t believe him for a second about getting off the coke. I could only wait and see.

Looking pa nub in all da wong pwaces!

As a general rule, I don't like dating. Not one little bit actually. It's too expensive and boring and I, 99.9% of the time, want to escape through a bathroom window at some point during the proceedings.
I hadn't been on a "real" date in some time, as shagging random drunk chicks in pubs is not generally considered your usual Norman Rockwell-esque courtship for some reason.
I was surprised as much as anyone when on a strange and eerie impulse, I asked a friend of mine for a mutual acquaintance of ours e-mail address. This of course is the cowards way of getting a phone number, for you can put the initial fellers out there without the ego shattering verbal cock block.

I called this particular girl, lets call her...Lady X, which is a nice old 50's era ladies pro-rasslin' name. Well, after the initial e-mail and a couple of pleasant phone conversations, I decided to meet up with this girl, and I do mean girl, as she was about 10 years my junior. Of legal age mind you!
We went out a to a classy and hip bistro, which I had to trudge through a snow storm to arrive at with my health just barely in tact. We had a fairly nice time and I was rewarded with a kiss. A very sweet and nice kiss of such utter sweeti-ness that I can't describe. A man of my debaucherous nature does not often enjoy the joy of an innocent goodnight kiss at the end of a fairly alcohol free evening from a beautiful and unexperienced young lady.

I proceeded to get drunk for the next week and avoid my natural impulse to pull slutty drunk birds because I...like this girl?

Jah help me!

...to be continued

The Third Annual Canadian Crashed Ice Competition

The Third Annual Canadian Crashed Ice Competition

A Gonzo-esque style sojourn into the depths of Fear and Loathing in Quebec City



It was closing in on dusk, cold and January, as we barreled the three hundred horsepower Ontario made gas guzzling Dodge Charger down Highway 401 Eastbound from Toronto, destination unknown. That’s not exactly true though...we were heading to Quebec, and I damn well knew it. Hell, it was my idea to go there, but what was waiting for us there, no man could know. Gas had hit the price of a dollar and ten cents per liter and I didn’t have much cash on me. We were driving at a smooth 130 km/hr pace in an attempt to cut down on gas costs as we were traveling on a budget. The emissions from the spewing, leaky, ominous blue and black smoking Junkers on the road around us in the frigid – 20-degree (with wind-chill) weather was toxic and vile. Luckily we didn’t give a crap about the planet today, who has the time anymore? Al Gore be damned!
The ganja I’d smoked had made me groggy. But the Jagermeister and Red Bull had done their job well enough to allow me to still be functioning at something of an acceptable level. I had a driver for this mission, so it didn’t much matter what sort of condition I was in. The worst thing that could happen to me would be that I might get an open alcohol in a moving vehicle citation, and I couldn’t care less about that. I was being careful and keeping one eye open for pigs as we roared down the highway.
My driver was a driver by trade, and as he had explained to me previously, was used to highway conditions that included: “drunks, assholes, old ladies, chicken shits, Chinese, and the terminally stupid.” I took him at his word and self medicated myself so I wouldn’t worry. He assured me that the snow covered roads were nothing to him, and the pot that he had smoked, at first liberally, allowed him to relax just enough to handle the pressures of my ensuing deadline.

The previous evening I’d been drinking at the nearly empty Wild Mushroom Bar and Grille in Niagara Falls, Ontario when I’d decided on a whim to get out of town for the weekend. There were hardly any tourists about at this time of year hence there was absolutely bugger all going on in town. The casinos depressed me in the wintertime and I’d spent so much time inside over the past few months that I could easily be mistaken for an albino. I felt like the walls of my apartment were closing in on, though the acid I’d been taking to pass the time recently didn’t help much. If I could afford a trip to a psychiatrist, I was sure that I would have been diagnosed with Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), but I couldn’t afford it. I therefore had no choice but to self diagnose and medicate the ailment to get through the long depressing Canadian winter.
While I sat alone at the nearly empty bar, I saw the tail end of the six o’clock news, leave on a happy note style bubblegum story on the CBC about an event that was taking place this weekend. Something immediately clicked in my head and I decided straight away to write an article about the event for the Internet based news website I sometimes wrote for.
The “Crashed Ice Competition” was taking place in Quebec City that very weekend and was being hyped up on the news and in newspapers throughout the country. The event was supposed to be something of an X-Games Extreme sports hybrid that could only have been put on and celebrated by this hockey mad county.
The Third Annual Canadian Crashed Ice Competition was a sort of downhill skiing competition on hockey skates, with competitors wearing full hockey regalia and helmet, minus the hockey sticks. I’d heard about the event in previous years but had never had a chance, or inclination, to see it. I knew very little about it except for that it was meant to be the kickoff of the big 400th Anniversary of Quebec City event. They expected up to 70,000 spectators this year, which could only mean a chance for a great party…er…story. There would be events going on in that city this weekend, things that didn’t normally go on there. It’s a tough life but someday had to give the underground point of view. I reluctantly took the gig.
A strange subculture of miscreants and maniacs who were willing to hurl their delicate human bodies down a rock hard sharp turning spiral with icy slopes at speeds up to 70 mph for the grand prize of five thousand dollars was something to behold. Five grand? I know of much easier ways of making that kind of scratch, and with much less risk of personal calamity. For an event sponsored by such a major corporation as Red Bull, one would think that they had a little more advertising capital available for a nationally televised event, if only to lure the more talented, higher grade, maniacal daredevils. I think the grand prize for that crazy hockey fight event that was in the news some time ago was more that that.
What kind of individual would volunteer to do this? What sort of desperate mind would subject themselves to this sort of real personal danger for the chance of such a small payoff and the risk of so much personal loss? Probably the same sort of character who was willing to risk brain damage and the loss of teeth in order to win a stipend in the much beguiled Hockey Fight event. I couldn’t be sure of whom there lunatics were, but I proposed to find out.

I’d endeavored to do a pure Gonzo journalism piece for some time, and like a thunderbolt sent from almighty Zeus himself, knew this was the perfect opportunity. As soon as I’d caught wind of the race I knew that I was the man for the job. As homage to Hunter Thompson, I knew that I had to go all the way on this one. I couldn’t do this half-assed like a “real” journalist. This was a freaks event, and there would surely be freaks traveling en-masse to this event, enveloping the entire scene. I had to leave no stone unturned, no bottle half full and no lead un-followed. Like the good doctor said in his most celebrated work, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,
“If a thing is worth doing at all, its worth doing right...”



Thursday

My driver and I rolled into Ottawa at just past seven in the evening and decided that the most economical discourse would be to hole up at my trucker friends winterized cottage just outside of Smith Falls for the evening. He always had plenty of beer and meat on hand, and some sort of dangerously fun winter vehicle we could jeopardize or intoxicated lives on.
It wasn’t easy to find the place, especially since my friend wasn’t there to provide directions, and the inconsequential detail that he hadn’t the foggiest idea that we were going to stay there. He was on a long haul to Seattle, or some such place, and thus out of touch and completely untraceable. I reckoned that he wouldn’t mind if we stayed there for the night as long as we replenished his beer supply and didn’t burn the goddamn place down.
We found the cottage just after eleven o’clock after driving around for hours in the middle of nowhere. The tin canned/trailer park boys/una bomber like structure was smack dab in the middle of cottage country, on snow covered roads, that no one in their right mind would dare go at this time of year, that is unless they had no sense of their own personal well being.
We decided to stop on the side of the road with our four ways flashing to collect ourselves, regroup, and smoke a five-paper BC bud joint. It didn’t help our sense of direction very much, but certainly did succeed in lightening the mood in the car. By this time we were out of our ever-loving minds, which is why I was certain that we would naturally find where we were going.
There were no lights or landmarks or hitchhikers in any direction in Jason Voorhees country and there didn’t appear to be a living thing for miles. I envisioned the long ago murdered Iroquois of the region having the same sort of problem after eating too many magic mushrooms in some sort of long forgotten spiritual rite of passage. The young braves would wander around the area in a stupor, seeing long lost relatives in trees with bows and arrows, ready to impale them through the abdomen. I knew, but my driver didn’t, that with four grams of shrooms in my briefcase that it wouldn’t be much longer until we tried to recreate that same experience ourselves. I quickly decided against that course of action right now, as it would only succeed in making our situation that much more dire.

The weed had turned introspective on me and I was beginning to lose all faith that we would ever find our destination. I cursed Zeus and when I did we finally rolled up to my friend the trucker’s shack. I was quite relieved. I took a long haul from the bottle of Jager to celebrate and opened the car door to get out.
I remember my driver saying, “be careful, you’ve drank a lot of that Nazi shit.”
I then recall politely saying, “How about fuck yourself?”
I stepped out of the vehicle and gravity kicked me in the ass, sending me reeling head first into a fresh, white as the fallen snow…snow bank, slashing my knee on what could only have been a snow covered barbed wire fence. The combination of ganja and Jager had a dulling effect on my wound and made the gash more or a curiosity than a concern.
My driver, a much smaller man than I, was able to jimmy open the back window and slip inside. I waited by the front door smoking a cigarette with my laptop in my non-gloved frozen Popsicle fingered hands for what seemed like an hour. He finally came around to let me in.
“What the hell took you so long? I’m bleeding to death out here?” I said.
My driver looked at me like I was crazy. “I had to take a shit? What’s the problem?” he said casually, and walked away.
“You goddamn sociopath! I could have died out here, or worse!”
He didn’t seem to appreciate or understand the gravity of his actions, but at the same time, I didn’t have the wherewithal to make a thing out of it.
My driver made a fire to warm up our frozen joints as I disinfected my wound, which was luckily not as bad as I’d first feared. A trip to the hospital would have been a real bummer and would have put a damper on the entire proceedings.
I sat down and stared at my laptop screen for five minutes as my driver stalked around the cottage, opening every drawer and cupboard, touching everything like he was putting his scent on it like some jealous beast. I myself couldn’t concentrate on my story but reckoned that since we hadn’t yet arrived in Quebec and hadn’t really done anything yet, I didn’t need to start working until the next day. We sat in front of the TV with the fire roaring and had a few beers listening to the radio. A George Thorogood and the Destroyers song came on and suffice it to say, it wasn’t long before we were into my trucker friends good Scotch.


Friday


The previous night at the cottage was hazy, to say the least. I vaguely remembered getting into the scotch but had no recollection of finishing it. I was on the floor in front of the still smoking fire with the empty bottle a few feet away from me on the floor. I scanned the room for some hint at what had gone on the previous night but could not conjure any memory. My head felt like it had swollen to twice its size and my mouth tasted like a combination of beer, scotch, cigarettes and smoking that tasted slightly of Alfredo sauce.
I dusted myself off and got to my feet with much pain and agony. I rolled a joint and sat on the couch with my eyes closed. After a few puffs I was feeling a bit better and decided I was fit enough to get back on the road. The Crashed Ice Event was waiting for me and I had to get there as early as possible if I wanted to see the event from start until finish.
It suddenly occurred to me that my driver was nowhere in sight. I went into the bedroom and the bed was made and un-slept in. He hadn’t crashed in here. I wouldn’t say I was worried, but I was certainly concerned. I had a vague memory of planning to take my trucker friends snowmobile out for a spin but after a quick survey of my clothes and physical state, figured that I had not done so. I could no be so sure about my driver though. I went into the backyard and into the back shed and the doors were flung open with a drift of snow blown inside. My friend’s snowmobile was indeed gone. My driver had taken it and was probably dead in the middle of a field somewhere. I got the paranoia and worried about what I would tell the cops about this situation.

Ah, you see officer…no, no, this is not my house, but it is my friends…No, I'm not sure why he told you that he didn’t give me permission to stay here... I just assumed that he wouldn’t mind…Breaking and entering? Well, a bit…but with an explanation. You see I’m a journalist and on my way to Quebec but…I work for the Internet and they don’t pay very well, you see? No expense account. Drugs in my car you say? I don't have the foggiest idea where they came from…

This was a bad scene. I would be charged with B and E, or worse, manslaughter or murder even. Just then I heard a revving of an engine sound in the distance. I looked in the direction of the roar and in the distance saw the bright red yellow jacket of my driver. That sonofabitch was alive. I would kill him for this!
When he got within shouting distance I gave it to him.
“Where the hell have you been?” I shouted.
My driver pulled up with a big smile on his face.
“Man is this fun. You have got to try this!” he said.
“What?”
“Yeah, this is a hell of a good time, I mean it dude.”
“Where the fuck were you?” I yelled.
“I woke up early and decided to go for a ride. What’s your problem? You were stone cold so I reckoned that I had time to take a spin. You drank a whole bottle of scotch last night bro. I’m actually a bit surprised that you didn’t asphyxiate yourself in your sleep.” He laughed.
“I thought we both drank it?” I said.
My driver put the Bombardier snowmobile back into the shed.
“Oh no” he said. “I had maybe two or three shots. You had fifteen to twenty, at least!”
With everything explained away and no harm done, we set about tidying up the cottage, replacing a beer, and leaving an I.O.U. in place of the Glen Fiddich.

We were back on the road by nine AM and gave ourselves three hours to get to Quebec City. We stopped at some family restaurant in Ottawa and had a greasy and satisfyingly medicating breakfast. We’d had to convince the waitress to mix us up a couple of Bloody Caesars, as she claimed that she could not do so this early in the morning.
“I’m sorry sir,” the waitress said. “I’m not allowed to serve you.”
“This will not do,” I said. “Please get the manager, straight away.”
The young waitress went off and the also young male manager came over to our table.
“What seems to be the trouble gentleman?” he said.
“Hello…Wayne” I said, leaning over to read his name tag. “We would like a couple of Caesars please.”
“I’m very sorry sir,” the acne faced manager said. “Ontario law prohibits me from serving alcohol before eleven AM.”
He was a snooty little bastard who took great joy from the very little power that had been thrust upon his twenty-year-old, high school drop out, shoulders. I took great exception to this statement and have no problem personally with family restaurant managers. I do, however, take exception to mad with power children who don’t understand their place in society…though I was quite sure he was absolutely correct in what he said. I decided that I wouldn’t allow this travesty of justice to continue, as I had a hangover. My stomach couldn’t yet handle the beer in the car and I needed hair of the dog as soon as possible. It was that simple.
“Madam” I said curtly.
He did not like that one bit.
“My friend here works for the Ministry of Public Health and Safety, do you understand?” I said, not knowing if that was an actual Ministry or not. “And if we do not get these drinks, tute sweet my good man! He has the ability to make sure that this establishment will not pass its next health inspection.”
The waitress was standing behind the manager and looked skeptical, of course. But I was not yet finished with this production. My driver was a part time security guard and carried his badge with him at all times to use on naïve young innocents. He quickly flashed the badge at the manager and we were served our drinks without delay. I felt bad for giving the waitress such a hard time as she was just doing her job, but we made up for it by leaving her a nice tip.
I had decided at breakfast, that when we were an hour outside of Quebec City, my driver and I should each eat a gram of mushrooms. My feeling was that if we did so, it would give the whole event much more of a grandiose and larger that life atmosphere. So, we each ate a gram of the Swiss grown fungus and saved the other two for later.
Ten minutes outside of Quebec City, my driver had something of an emotional and/or mental breakdown. I was unaware that he had never consumed mushrooms before, as he had not mentioned it to me. He was completely unaware, and therefore, unprepared to deal with their often-overwhelming effects. He became completely deranged and seemed to be in a state of incapacitating fear, much to my chagrin, as he was still behind the wheel. I attempted to get him to pull over but he would not listen to me. He thought that I was trying to abandon him and that if we pulled over that I would leave him by the side of the road. I knew we had to get out off the road as soon as possible or some shit eating Quebecois cop would see us swerving all over the road and pull us over. I had no interest in trying to explain myself to a Francophone only police officer who would love nothing more than to bust a couple of Anglophone druggies from Southern Ontario.
Magic Mushrooms affect different people in different ways. I knew a guy in St. Catharine’s named “Bob” (name changed for security purposes) who was the nicest, quietest, and sweetest fellow’ you’d ever want to meet. When he got a little mushroom into his system, he would often end up wielding a large kitchen knife, threatening to murder everyone around him while yelling,
“There out to get me!”
I on the other hand, had never really experienced that sort of negative reaction on mushrooms. All they really did for me was amplify the colors and sounds around me. Making everything seen that much more interesting and exciting. Occasionally I would see the mish-mash of colors and auras but that was only on rare occasions.
My driver was having a “Bob” type reaction and I knew that this was only the start. I had to get him off the road and get some beer into him. That would level him out some and allow us to get into Quebec City as least. One thing for sure was, I was now my drivers driver.
We stopped at a plaza with a convenience store and a Laundromat with a large parking lot and parked away from the general buildup of vehicles. I made my driver get into the back seat and forced him to drink a beer.
“What in this? You’re trying to poison me you bastard. Help! Police, he’s trying to kill me!”
“Shut the fuck up” I said. “You just took too many mushrooms. You’re trying to fight the effects too much. You can’t do that, all right? You just have to go with the flow and follow where it leads you, and you’ll be okay.”
My driver stared at me like I was the lord Jesus Christ. I can’t imagine what he must have been seeing at that moment and don’t think that I want to know.
I convinced him, finally, that if he drank a few beers that he would feel better, and that the more debilitating effects of the mushrooms would be dulled. After much coercion on my part, he eventually agreed and after an hour or so of tense beer drinking, he calmed down to the point where we could get back on the road.

When we finally arrived in Quebec City it was getting dark. The Château Frontenac was lit up like a Christmas tree and surrounded by a giant white winding structure like an albino python. There were people about and some of the maniacs were running down the track.
It was qualifying heats and I had no interest in them. I wanted to meet some of the racers and see what the deal was with these kids.

We checked into a motel where some of the racers were known to be staying. I wanted to try and rub elbows with some of the boys and see what kind of vibe I could get from them. I immediately saw a few of the boys standing around in the lobby looking uncomfortable and drunk already. I used my journalistic instincts to ascertain that they must have finished their qualifying runs.
I made my way over to the group and spoke to a kid who had his hair shaved into a Mohawk which was died Toronto Maple Leafs blue.
“Hey. You in the race kid?” I said.
He looked perturbed that I had bothered him. “I didn’t qualify,” he said dejectedly.
“Oh, too bad.” I said.
“Yeah it is,” he said. “What the fuck is your problem asshole?”
Was he talking to me? I bit of an overreaction I would say. Maybe it was “Roid Rage?” You never know these days. One thing for sure, this youngster didn’t have very good manners about him. Bloody parents.
“Did your father not give you enough hugs, young man?” I asked him politely.
This surprised and confused the youngster something awful.
“Wha...?” he said, his cheeks turning red. Well redder.
I looked around for my driver who was nowhere to be found. He likely went up to the room to hide from the mushrooms. I wished he were here right now, as he was a quite a bit more violent than I.
“Listen asshole, what’s your problem?” the embarrassed youngster asked me.
“Nothing my lad.” I said. “Buy you a beer?”
The young man was intoxicated and not too bright and accepted my peace offering of a nice cold beverage. It was the Canadian way.
We entered the motel bar, commotion abounding, filled with Crashed Ice competitors and what looked to be all blond girls for some reason. We were all drinking like there was no tomorrow, which was not entirely true... the competition was indeed tomorrow.


Race Day

I have no memory of the previous night at the bar and awoke in my motel room, fully clothed, with a nasty bruise on my forearm. My mouth tasted of scotch, whiskey, cigarettes, and cheese curds.
My driver had decided that he was not getting out of bed that day and therefore was not going to the race. He had been scared straight by the mushrooms and apparently had had some sort of like altering experience in the process. Lucky bastard.
I knew I was at the race before I had arrived. I could hear the ridiculously repellent techno beats echoing into the Wintry Quebec City evening. I could see by breath but didn’t feel very cold. I’d had a couple of Caesars with breakfast, plus a few beers with lunch and was feeling quite nice.

I arrived at the track to pomp and circumstance all around me. The competitors, wearing full hockey gear and serious game faces greeted me as I passed.
“Angus! Party at the hotel tonight!” someone yelled at me.
“You know it!” I said, not knowing whom the gentleman was.
Who were these people? How did they know my name? I had no memory of speaking to any of these fellows, but apparently, I had interviewed some of them the previous night, misrepresenting myself as a journalist, which was not entirely false. I felt however they would expect to see their stories in print, which was not likely. I felt bad about this. I had no memory of speaking to them whatsoever and would not be able to quote them in this story.
I was able to speak to one of the event organizers who advised me that they expected over 70,000 people to show up at the event. There appeared to be 100,000 people there, I though, thought it was probably closer to 50,000. There was still a steady stream of spectators filing in, jackets filled with booze, fighting for spots around the icy track.
The Château Frontenac Hotel looked spectacular lit up in the night sky. Even the advertising laden icy track was a sight to see. It was coolly attractive and slick to the eyes and touch. Much like an Inuit prostitute.


The Race!

The race began to shouts and screams and hollers and music and spotlights and lunacy. I felt like I was in Sodom and Gomorrah and was glad of it. I’d taken the last of the mushrooms just before arriving and felt that they would give me a unique perspective on the race. The fact that I was intoxicated did nothing to distinguish me from the other spectators as 9 out of 10 spectators were out of their minds drunk. Many under the legal drinking ago, I assure you.
The racers flew down the track like some sort of deranged and bastardized Canadian version of roller derby. They crashed into the corners, flying down the cheekily designed track at speeds of up to 70kms an hour. They smashed into each other and into the icy walls when they couldn’t turn in time. Some sections of the track had stairs cut into the ice surface that the skaters would take at full speed either bouncing down the stairs awkwardly or trying to clear them in a single bound. The first maniac I saw hit the ice fell like a sack of hammers as his razor sharp blades dub into a groove in the ice sending him face first into the ice at warp speed. He rose with a crimson mask, however, he seemed strangely un-fazed by this. He was after all a hockey player, something that I had completely forgot about, with the flashiness of the event. These men may be glory seeking maniacs, but they were hockey players at heart and therefore tough as a Brazilian street footballers feet. The kid returned to his feet and the spectators broke into a roar of approval as he took of down the track after the other boys in his heat. These boys were men. They were out of their minds for doing this for the outside chance they would take the event and the “grand prize” of $5000. You had to respect that.

Everyone was out of their god damned minds. The racers and the spectators were going crazy. I literally think that they lost all control of their sense of right and wrong and it became a Grateful Dead concert on ice…with violence. The spectators were beating, pounding, and slapping the icy walls protecting them from the oncoming human projectiles flying down the track. All the while, the lunatics tried to touch, slap, and beat the racers, as they zipped past. It was unreal and seemed like I was watching an art film of some sorts, a satirical Nuremberg rally perhaps. I felt the vibe shifting into something ugly. Something primal. I don’t know if it was the mushrooms or if everyone was on mushrooms. I sensed ensuing violence and knew it was time for me to make my exit.
I was later told at the bar by one of the competition officials that there had been 107 competitors and over 75,000 spectators. I’d watched several heats of the much-misunderstood Third Annual Red Bull Canadian Crashed Ice Competition and several hours watching the people watch it. After a while though, they all seemed the same. Everyone there, the racers and the spectators, were attempting to escape their normal humdrum lives for just a little while. A miniature one-day vacation from the grind is sometimes all that we need to make it one more week. As I sat at the bar of some Quebecois tavern, drinking Red Bull and Vodka’s; I wondered, who had won this race? Nobody seemed to know. And rather, nobody seemed to care. I asked one of the race officials, just before last call, and even he couldn’t remember. I suppose it didn’t really matter. We got what we came here for. We had all won.