Criminal Communion

I’d waltzed ‘round Ringwood, slightly, rum rinsed. Rounding to Ringwood station, I’d established elongated eye contact with a man.

Discourse was inevitable.

We spoke of strange stakes, perceptions of time and god, or, as I saw spirits.

I remember Stating,” the only spirits I believe in are above 100 proof, rums whiskies and such.”

“I don’t drink”

Seemed he was a safety centred sort.

“But I do Heroin Amphetamines and weed.”

Situations of this stance require a sensible scheme of response, doing the only sane thing in this scenario, I shook his hand and I brought him a drink (of red bull).

We spoke on all sorts of cool strange situations, such as suckin’ down speed, weed, shrooms LSD and all sorts of substances in-between.

Though, it got serious, seemingly sinister, he started stating sour things.

He told me he’d been taken to an underground base, turned into a test subject for thorough experiment-tation.

Though, the real notions were about to be spoken

“You should cut off the top of your finger, maybe take out one of your organs, put it in some dry ice, then in ten, twenty maybe a thousand years they can restore your life status.”

There’s no logical linguistic way, a learned person can lay down why they’d make live again a twenty-year-old lay about, but there was a more logical way to let him know I was fond of my fingers.

“Listen man, it’s all about supply and demand, if I cut off the top of my finger and they restore my life status in ten, twenty maybe a thousand years, then my life will be less valuable because there’s more of it.” I spoke.

What was I doing? Sitting with him, while he strung together strange sentences, sinister syllables, all concerning ‘life status’.

What even was life status?

Either way, with all sorts of shaking hands, we slinked our own ways.

Then he said it “I’d love you to pop in” laying out his address.

Of course, I’d openly opt for an invitation of this calibre. It seemed sensational and simply a rare thing, the sort of topic and opportunity that doesn’t seem presently possible, or possibly, not even presentable.

I remember discussing this matter with someone I know, one night, being chewed out for the idea.

“That’s fucking stupid” they’d stated.

“I can’t believe you are going to a junkie’s home”

“IT’S A UNIT!” I roared in return

Did they not ‘appreciate’ this point?

Irrespective, this story was as a two-course meal, covering this cracked out concept (of life status) while caressing my (preverbal) cutlery to a fine polish, all ready to consume the story being created.

This sense of spiritualism, that life status brought, seemed important.

Afterall, Abrahamic faith had me fucked, frying in fires and such.

Could I change my life?

Yes, would I? No.

If my recent conversation would reveal a way to revert to life upon dying, I’d be saved. Religion be damned.

Irrespective, if I was to cover something like this, I would need to be prepared.

Safety, some would state was the main concern, those charlatans would sell their souls to cover their arses, the real stance was simple.

The man spoke in strange sorts of ways, stuff I couldn’t comprehend in a straightforward manner.

it seemed the only sensible way to do this interview was under the influence.

I’d rum rations right around the home front, but I required cigarettes.

Consuming nicotine and alcohol in conjunction with one another can create a cognitive condition of sorts, a constrained dazed focus.

You’ll focus on conversation (I think), but not quite comprehend it, or at least, accept it.

If by this I could not accept what he said, I might be able to trick my brain into understanding it.

Of course, just to be safe, I’d get my hands on some laughing gas as well, in case I couldn’t comprehend the conversation while slightly or every so lightly fucked.

This strange odyssey, no doubt, was a slap to the standard sense and ideas of spirituality.

Religion of course, would be wrought with rage at the notion, no faith would be ‘round this ‘redemptive’ discussion on life status.

Afterall, religion was realised as the ‘rightful authority’ on ‘realisations’ of the soul.

though, if I was to speak on ‘life status’, it’d be centred in a religious/spiritual sort’ve spasm. Hopefully providing a modern motion of legality to what I was doing, that being the acquisition of nitrous oxide. I wasn’t sure if what I was doing was legal, I would need to tread lightly.

Under the courts law, religion involved faith in something supernatural be it thing or principle and a canon of conduct.

If the matter that made my body and my spirit would meet the world again in a reincarnation of sorts, from the life status -if it could even do that-, then reincarnation would be my principle, with this man giving me a few guiding ideals along the way. And if I were to fully appreciate what he said, I’d do so under the influence, therefore, inhaling insane amounts of laughing gas would be my code of conduct, my nirvana.

Yet, I still felt the need to tread carefully. We’d the ‘freedom’ to worship as we wished.

No, naivety had known no bounds in these notions, no worship could be done if it did not coincide with the nationalistic laws and ideals of the neutered freedoms and minds of the law makers.

“The freedom to manifest religion or beliefs may be limited as prescribed by law and when necessary to protect public safety, order, health, or morals or the fundamental rights and freedoms of others.” - https://www.ag.gov.au/rights-and-protections/human-rights-and-anti-discrimination/human-rights-scrutiny/public-sector-guidance-sheets/right-freedom-thought-conscience-and-religion-or-belief

At first the arising notions around acquiring laughing gas had been amplified humour of sorts.

A going a-stray, acquisition for gaining a laugh.

Things got serious.

A task as this, it seemed treacherous.

Trawling, through trenches into vast territories of the drug use/trade I had never seen before.

All this, for some laughing gas.

Would a tale as this be told without trouble?

Could I tell this, without being thrashed by higher authorities?

It seemed I would be committing a social suicide.

Ostracised for the use of drugs no doubt, the same stuff they snuffed at in dentistry’s and before surgeries.

That seemed the great difference, the duality of it, drug use in a distinguished manner by distinctive professions. Deemed acceptable, but those dastardly bastards doing em for fun? Damn ‘em!

It didn’t matter now though; I was in the thick of it.

I started off some time in the day light, all set to get the Nitrous Oxide, I didn’t know where to get it, just some places I could guess.

I’d an internal bias against internet imbued deals, no real intention came about involving nitrous from those invisible vendors, instead I’d try to buy them in person.

As I’d been walking, I’d heard something and saw a group, one of them waving around a wine bottle, better keep things smooth, don’t wanna send speech their way , after all, I didn’t want to start trouble for police, especially when I was off to do something of which may not have been stated to be illegal, but certainly hadn’t been slated as legal either and could carry some sort’ve punishment for people selling to those who would ‘misuse’ the gas.

I rounded to the rows of shops, that’s when I saw it.

I spied a security camera on the outside, had I been, recorded? Could I view these in some court case to come?

I tried to coerce calm, considering my cover story while I committed this certain (potential) ‘crime’. Name: Kurt El Milch, Occupation/Hobby: Dairy Enthusiast.

I stepped in and slinked to some corner of the store, staring at the display with no real sentiment on purchasing what was there, with some courage, I relinquished with the sunglasses I’d worn and stepped up to the counter.

“Hello, I am a dairy enthusiast of sorts, do you have any whipped cream chargers?”

*Sigh “How many do you want?”

“How many do you have?”

“How about ten?”

“Yeah, sure”

As she went to get the ascribed order, I said further

“I have a pension for whipped cream”

No matter how suspicious I seemed, or even if they suspected the strange skinny man stalking the shelves in a supposed search of Nitrous Oxide, I walked out with about 10, 8-gram cannisters.

I’d gained a great many grams of the stuff, but it would do me no good.

A sick sense of humour! They sold the nangs but stocked nothing to crack the seal and get the gas.

I’d need to find a way to open the damned thing as sucking on the cannister hadn’t registered with me at the time. Irrespective if it had, it’d be of little good as if gas escaped, my oesophagus would irritate and ignite in damaged flesh as it was seared from the callous cold of the condensed gas.

No, I’d need a siphon, to form a temperate free-flowing chain of gas to find its way into the lungs.

My conundrum had me clammer to another closed in corner of the suburb, concealed in the confines of a mall, hopefully, they’d have a cracker, or siphon, a potential for me to become another consumer in their string of clientele.

I stepped into a tobacconist in the mall.

Cameras, they could see me, cornering me, my image caught, would I see this in court? The case of the nang crackin’ crook, whose greatest crime was consuming cooking supplies in conditions unfounded to civilised minds?

Calmness was again coerced, conversely, even if it wasn’t, it didn’t matter, a call to action was coming my way. the cashier had concern with the notes I’d been creating in my notepad.

She seemed suspicious, started askin’ what I desired.

I stated I was interested in a cream whipper, she looked confused, I would need to make her understand.

“A cream whipper, you whip cream with it, do you have one?”

“No.”

Fear that had been forwarded was furrowed down by the frivolity and spontaneity of this exercise.

A spontaneity, that didn’t yield the cracker or siphon needed, but may be able to gain the cigarettes, after all, this was a tobacconist.

“Do you sell ‘cigarettes’ here?” I recall in ‘quiring, but the cashier seemed to become increasingly suspicious, when I questioned them on what their most carcinogenic cigarettes were.

‘Smoking causes cancer’ after all, that advertising, I wasn’t going to be shorted on my cancer.

Confusion clouded them, concern was causing them to act in strange ways it seemed, requesting I ‘identify myself’, with the passing of some card in my crowded wallet, I managed to purchase the cheapest cigarettes.

I’d gotten the cancer-causing cigarettes, the smoke of which no doubt had contributed to the smog of the city

Acquiring the alcohol, was easy, walk in a suburb for a while, bottle-o’s will emerge. In spite of the harm alcohol can do.

But acquiring a whipped cream siphon, legitimate cooking equipment, had caused much strain.

What a state, cigarettes and spirits freely sold and easily accessible, but a whipped cream siphon, cooking equipment; sinister and straining to obtain.

Seemed the siphon sought could only be obtained from some shady home delivery service, of which many existed, but few seemed trustworthy.

With little choice, I called one.

No answer, hope seemed lost, until they called me back.

“Hello, you called me”

“Yes, is this --------, or --------?”

“--------"

“Yes, I am a dairy appreciatist doing some baking away from home, could you drop off a whipped creamer at an oval”

“No”

“Are you sure?”

“…”

*Hangs up*

Angst annexed me

The downward spiral of the discussions on the phone gave me a deranged jolt.

Would police be pounding past my door?

Screeching and shouting strange questions on why I had tried to get a whipped cream siphon?

The fear was getting real free flowing

This fear seemed a strange experience on a Monday night, perhaps that was my fault? Though it seemed almost as if the shady vendors knew what I was up to, what I would really use their products for, like some sort’ve goddamned inside joke they played along with, yet they’d seemed rigid, unable to meet me at the oval I had mentioned

Did they generally believe in the proposed purpose of what they peddled-that their supplies would be used for cooking-, punctuating their concept with notions of being honest businessmen?

Note: I may have seemed sketchy to --------, but I was not the one selling goddamned whipped cream siphons at around 2am (allegedly – couldn’t even meet that quota man)

Perhaps the potential $8000 fine (for selling to people suspected of misusing the gas) does that to people, makes ‘em clam up, that or the prison time, especially with other proposed prisoners being suspected of being generous with their ‘cream’.

Eventually, I tracked down a cooking supply store that sold them, I brought a siphon, now, with the whipped cream chargers and siphon, I was ready for my interview.

I’d ridden the train to the station, slightly perturbed by the man on the station platform eating a Cheeko roll with more passion than it deserved.

It was time to walk.

It could be a slobbering sort’ve experience sipping at cigarettes and smoking spirits on my stride over to the man’s unit.

It was part way through I decided it wise to more efficiently get a nicotine hit.

I tried consuming a cigarette nasally, not being a fool, I lit the thing, snorting at the cigarette through a nostril, smoke swirled to my sinus when I stuck it up and snuffed it up, I thought it was a good idea, it was not.

Coughs caught up with me, creating notions it would be cause for throwing up. Either way, when I got there I was of the eventual effect I desired.

I knocked on the door, no effect, made myself known through calling out, nothing.

My adventure and more importantly, wasting of alcohol, had been for naught.

Sitting down on the front step, I started scribbling some notes, on what I’d seen, then I saw it.

Police and Paramedics, pulling up.

It became clear, it was time for a hasty get away.

But the driveway was blocked by them, I’d have to go past them.

Complications were caused on this account, in my pocket, detailed notes containing the various sketchy things I’d been up to, things which my not necessarily be illegal (not that I knew at the time), but are better off not known by police.

I remember removing my sunglasses as I grew closer to them,

Without the sunglasses, I seemed less suspicious, not that I wasn’t suspicious at all, but I looked less suspicious, which seemed important at the time.

As I proceeded, I perceived a person, with the police pointing towards me

Fuck, I’d been fingered (metaphorically), though, from the frisky jail stories floating about, I may be fast paced to a more non-metaphorical experience.

Irrespective, it wasn’t over, until I heard an order to stand still.

Closing in closer, I could start to catch their conversation.

“No, it’s number 13”

Thank God, they’d pointed at me, but not to me, it was a house they were after.

Though, as I strode past, it didn’t stop me receiving the must suspicious look I’d received from an officer.

I stood staring on the other side of the road, the police followed by ambos in tote, a knocking stopped the silence.

A minute or more, before they marched down, no man moving the door open.

I cantered to the police, who’d looked at me queer, began to question what had occured.

“I was meant to meet up with the guy there, is something wrong?”

“How do you know him?”

“Oh, well I met him two-weeks ago at a train station and thought he seemed like an interesting character”

Officer seemingly ogled me, no real obvious response coming to mind

“Right…” he said.

Supposedly the man had skipped a shot of sorts, being a heroin having sort, it seemed unlikely he was outta shots, just maybe not the ones approved. Perhaps he did speak true, either way, I was out of the most interesting interview.

But, I still could attempt to prune some shrub of ‘spiritual enlightenment’ from these events.

Understand the greater picture, at least legally speaking.

Technically, this life status business, could be legally defined as a real religion, a ready faith. The nitrous oxide had taken on a greater meaning in this circumstance, a way to see a higher ‘spiritual’ meaning in the words the man spoke.

So, I’d participate in this ‘criminals’ communion.

Of course, the ignorant swine seated in Canberra and state government, hell even the charlatans of city council wouldn’t stand for such a spirituality

Claiming immorality and other mean ignorant things. This made little sense.

Afterall, if it was so ‘bad’ to use low-risk drugs as laughing gas, how come the government let harder stuff (like spirits and cigarettes) be peddled in the bottle-o’s and such?

Hurtful hypocrisy, enough to make both my head hurt, no logic, manhandling.

Of course, I was ‘free’ to practice my ‘faith’, but these heathens had made a quintessential part of our communion (the nangs) a difficult affair to obtain.

And what was seemingly the point?

Then, it seemed clear

We were free, so long as it was founded in their way of affairs.

A Free State, For Citizens Who Stood in Assorted Agreeance with The Sanctioned Laws.