MEGAN FOX, OMEGA SUPREME

IRON FROM ICE...

    Greetings...if you read the short description of me, then you know that I'd planned on writing about Taylor Swift and Yara Shahidi. That's what I claimed, but I didn't mean it. I was inebriated while writing that. See, the truth is, the girl in the blue blouse reminds me of another woman I met back when I was eighteen.

    In reality, the woman I'm referring to actually looked a lot closer to Taylor Swift. But the app I'm using to find artwork for this project has no photos of her. Thus, I must use these various models as substitutes. Since they're all beautiful, it's no big deal. Now, it's not what you're thinking. This is not a story about me meeting pretty chicks and having sex with them. In fact, there won't be much sexual shit in this story at all.

     This tale (or these tales) has more to do with my childhood; and with some of the experiences I went through. And since they're all true and therefore not actual fiction, I must obviously change the names and locations. But the following accounts are true, whether you choose to buy that or not. By the way, I begin with the Game Of Thrones intros only because I love that show. There is no deeper meaning involved that I'm aware of.

    I'm going to try something new with this project. Instead of starting at the beginning, I'm going to go where inspiration takes me. For example, this is not where everything began...I'm laying on my side. My left side...I know that much. And I'm laying on something that feels like stone but I vaguely remember it being wood. My eyes are closed and tears are spilling down my face. They must have been falling for quite some time because there's a puddle of them beneath my left cheek.

    Somewhere close by I can hear someone crying all out; sobbing and saying something which is garbled up by the sobs. It's freezing cold wherever I am. Strangely, I couldn't feel it while I was sleeping, but I can feel it now. And I can also feel that my left arm has gone to sleep thanks to me putting my weight on it for who knows how long. I know that I need to move it, to let the blood circulate in it again, but not just yet. I'm too cold to move at the moment.

    Where the fuck am I?

    That question floats into my befuddled mind, and no answer comes immediately. No matter how hard I try to remember, my mind simply draws a blank. Once, maybe two years earlier, I considered going into the heroin business. Where I dwelled at the time was filled with addicts, and besides "hard", which is street slang for crack cocaine, most of the addicted were on heroin.

    One of the residents in my building told me he could bring me plenty of customers if I bought some and let him sell it for me. His name was Rahdee, and he was dying from AIDS, and I considered his suggestion for quite some time before deciding to do it. See, I knew I couldn't trust him completely. No drug addict can be trusted completely. And I realized that he was just as likely to tell building management I was selling out of my apartment as he was to help me make money.

    Anyway, once I agreed to do it, Rahdee took me to one of his connections to get the work. It was in a building not too far from where I was living; a building I passed every single day and had no idea that was going on in there. The apartment was on the fifth floor, and once I saw who the person was, I was really surprised. I knew them well, but didn't have an inkling they were into that. I won't reveal the person's identity for obvious reasons, but let's just say I often drank beer with her grandson, and leave it at that.

    Now, my point of telling you this is the fact that in order to buy the heroin, I first had to sniff some. The woman (let's call her Joann) said that a cop either wouldn't use any, or if he did, it would negate his attempt to arrest her if he ever tried to. Something to do with entrapment, I imagined at the time, but didn't ask her. I simply said, I'm no fucking cop and sniffed some.

    Sniffed quite a bit, actually. And to this day, twenty something years later, I've never been that high again. I could barely walk home; everything was bright and loud, and for a time I couldn't recall my own name, my age, or where I lived. I'd even forgotten who the fuck Rahdee was!
Xxx
    That's how I felt that day, waking up on what felt like stone, but was probably a wooden bench. One thing I did know...whatever it was felt sticky and moist; maybe from the tears of whomever else had slept on it before me. My left hand was still pinned beneath my body, but my right one was free so I used it to explore the shit. Yes, it was a bench of some sort, and it felt disgusting. I shuddered as much from the cold as from the nasty feel of it.

    I decided to open my eyes, and the moment I did, my heart lurched in my chest. A second or two later, I forgot the pain in my left arm and hand. I forgot whoever that was sobbing somewhere to the right of me. I forgot the nasty feel of whatever it was I was laying on; I forgot the bitterly freezing cold and sat up straight. Sat up so fast my head spun like a top.

     I gazed at the iron bars, breathing heavily. Oh my God, is all I can think coherently. Bars? I'm in jail! But how...