Rating: NC-17 (language, drugs, simulated fallatio on a fudgesicle)
Word Count: 3,480
Summary: Jack bad-trips on cannabis. Johnny calls him buzz-kill. (Angst, Dark, Humour)
Author's Notes: Well, here we are at the end of our stoned and faded odyssey. Don't expect resolution or happy endings. I've lived enough to know that you don't really find them in real life. What's that quote from Mr. and Mrs. Smith. "Happy endings are for stories that haven't finished." Anyway, depending on the response I might continue in this universe, so tell me what you think, good or bad or even tepid.
Quote: Johnny’s sitting on the counter, legs dangling down the polished, plastic front of the dish washer and working on a fudgesicle.
Jack suddenly feels a sympathetic connection to that fudgesicle—nay, an extrasensory link that reaches beyond mere pathos! Every lick Johnny takes from that fudgesicle resonates harmoniously on his cock.
Disclaimer: Yeah, mean's shit legally and there's no legal precedend for such a case, but just in case I become Johnny Depp's test case for whether RPS constitutes defamation, I'll write one anyway. I made this up. Every bit of it. Could've happened, but I (regretfully) have not seen it.
Jack’s sucking air wide-mouthed gaping like a hooked fish flopping around a hot yacht deck. Inhaling volumes but not breathing a molecule of oxygen. Convulsively, he grabs his chest where his heart’s thumping madly ready to burst like a dirty bomb—
Falling off the couch, he’s shaking violent as if in the throes of a seizure.
“CALL 911! We’ve got…FOUR MINUTES—!”
‘Till what?” Johnny asks casual, snorting smoke out his nose like a dragon.
“—WHAT—I CAN’T—MY BRAINCELLS—DIE—I CAN’T THINK! ICANTTHINK!”
Johnny sighs behind him and Jack can’t see because his face is buried in the scratchy, course synthetic fibers of a throw rug.
“It’s OK. You’re lucky that I’ve…that I’ve...” he lowers his voice to a breathless whisper. “I forgot why it’s OK.” He laughs, stoned-thoughtfully.
“911—!” tempo crescendos every heartbeat’s a lightning clash—can’t breathe!
“WHY’S IT OK?”
“Huh? Oh. Yeah. Cuz I’ve got the…”
“WHAT!?” curling into fetal position last moment judgments plunge into God’s scowling countenance drowning in amniotic fluid—
“Cuz I’ve got the…the…” staring at the floor open-mouthed like a switched-off android.
“What’s your problem? Oh…the presence of mind to help you.” He starts fumbling for something.
Jack starts crying. Fucking bawling and begging to die.
Jack turns his head, smearing a snail-trail of spit on the rug. It’s colors…It’s music…It’s…
“THE FUCKING JETSONS!” Johnny announces, tossing the remote aside. “This show’s awesome. It’s soooo 50s—in a futuristic kinda way!”
MEET GEORGE JETSON
“Oh my God!” he exclaims to the carpet. A rush through space is there wind in your hair if your ride light and general relativity—relat…related to what?
“Yeah—so demanding. Whaddif I dun wanna meet George Jetson? Whaddif I think he’s an asshole! You sayin’ I got no choice? That’s post-war 50s fascism, man.” Johnny muses.
JANE, HIS WIFE
“Man…is that her whole identity?...an extension of her husband…sexists, man, sexists.”
Jack’s content to lie on the ground, gritting his teeth against the ebb and flow of panic in his belly. Stem the tide—stem? Tides don’t have stems, they’re…gravitational effects of the moon…which has no stem…but if it did it’d look just like a trampled dandelion—half-wish indecision—Johnny…
“What the fuuuck!?” The fuck!...The fucking robot just rolled in and freaked out and—
“Oh my God!” And Jack laughs, no, giggles. A chest-rending, clutching his stomach so his guts don’t burst out his sides—
“What’s so funny?”
But he can’t stop laughing and it’s not mind-funny, it’s convulsively gut-funny.
Not—funny. Like being tied-up and tickled. Stomach cramped, chest aching, can’t—
“Jesus, not again.” Johnny’s miffed.
Jack’s sobbing hot, red-faced tears through the racking giggles that won’t stop—won’t—
“Ouch!—TURN IT OFF! Please—Johnny! TURNITOFF!”
Unhurried, Johnny picks up the remote and turns off the TV.
Lacking stimulus, the giggles ebb—and the paranoia returns.
Feelings, those cling to him, like he’s clamped in the jaws of a big, black dog shaking him but thoughts, something to rationalize away the demons—that’s like scooping up water in your hands and trying to hold it—you can’t—it leaks away—
“I DON’T WANT TO BE HIGH ANYMORE! I CAN’T—I CAN’T--!”
“Breathe?” Johnny supplies, not bothering to mask his irritation. “You’ve gotta be the worst buzz-kill I’ve ever seen.”
Jack’s languishing, turning violent shades of red as he hyperventilates.
“All right. If cartoons can’t distract you from yourself—“ Johnny considers.
“You hungry, Jack? You hungry?”
Hungry?—For? What’s hun—Pit in belly chocolate biscuits—what’s a choc…?—Hungry.
“Yeah. Yeah.” Desperate. Like a crackhead, cracked-open drained of body high.
“Good. That’s good. We’re finally making some progress here. How does a pizza sound?”
Jack nods, still on the floor, curled up in an aborted fetal position.
Johnny whips out his cell phone and begins scanning the contacts.
“No!” Jack bolts up and crawls to Johnny’s knees like an old, broken dog, “Don’t!...Don’t!” He begs near sobbing.
“This is the only way to get your pizza, cuz I’m not making one. It’d be perilous for me to deal with an oven right now.” He continues scanning. “There we go, Pizza Hut. You like stuffed crust, Jack?”
Tears stream down his face and his head’s aching from the blind panic coupled with the hard, belly sobs.
“Please Johnny! Don’t—“ he makes a slow-motion grab for the cell phone, which Johnny easily swats away.
“Because,” he lowers his voice, the neighbors might be able to hear through the walls because stucco doesn’t contribute to the sound-proofing. No, not at all. “They’ll know.”
“What are you going on about?”
“They’ll know we’re high. And…call the police—Prison—ANAL RAPE!”
“We’ll be fine, man. If Pizza Hut ratted out all their stoner customers, they’d go outta business.”
Jack throws himself onto Johnny’s legs, hugging his knees and blubbering like a baby, “Please! Don’t!—our eyes are bloodshot and we smell like cannabis and he’ll know and it’ll be in the press and I won’t have a career!”
Johnny absently strokes Jack’s hair as if he’s calming a skittish dog. “Shh, shh. You’re not gonna ruin your career. Ozzy Osbourne has lived off of heroin and lighter fluid for three decades. Y’think anyone cares?”
“Good. You’ve forgotten?”
“Forgotten? Wh—what were we talking…I CAN’T REMEMBER! I CA—I CAN’T LIVE LIKE THIS!”
Johnny rubs Jack’s head more vigorously and it doesn’t feel like hair it feels like there’s a silk shroud on his bare scalp and Johnny’s just manipulating it—deliciously. He nuzzles the hand.
“Mmm…I’ve got no hair.”
The hand pauses.
“It feels like…like a…”
“Shh. Close your eyes and sit still. It’ll take you away.” Jack nods, the adrenaline still floating in his system buzzing electric eels in his veins.
His eyes flutter shut—and his head feels like a bubble being siphoned away from the crown like…like a vacuum hose sucking sucking sucking him away. His head tilts left, then rolls right as his brain swishes around like half-melted ice cream sliding around the base of a bowl…ice cream….
His eyes crack open, “Ice cream,” he whispers, seemingly unable to imbue his words with much more than breath.
“Hey, that’s not a bad idea.” Johnny’s cheeks are tinged pink matching his eyes perfectly. He stands up. Jack can’t help but to whine at the loss of contact—and the loss of distraction…Where’s Johnny? He’d only looked away for a second but he’s…where?...His stomach begins to tighten as the panic attack snowballs around in his guts—He throws himself on the floor, groping the carpet whose fibers actually feel—decidedly un-carpet fiber-ey…like a membrane stretched over gelatin and it seems like his whole body has sunk slightly into the gelatin puddle and he keeps rubbing, experimentally feeling fingers plunge into the gelatinous, fibrous depths…
“What’re you doing?” Johnny’s carrying a Costco-sized tub of Neapolitan ice cream.
“Man, you’re trippin’.”
“Am not.” Is he? What is he—don’t—CAN’T—
Suddenly, a golf-ball sized chunk of chocolate ice-cream is shoved into his mouth.
“Oh my god.” He rolls it around his mouth, feeling it melt on his tongue and cold tingle his teeth and Johnny’s laughing now.
“What?” he sputters, forgetting that his mouth is still full of chocolate ice cream soup. Spews a few flecks that fly onto Johnny’s jeans and dribbles down Jack’s chin. He wipes it away with his sleeve, then sets to wiping off Johnny, but his efforts only seem to be spreading the stain.
Johnny seems unaffected. “You got the munchies, Jack?”
“Huh? What’s the…”
Johnny laughs again, “Here. Come to the kitchen. I’ll show ya.”
He follows Johnny to the kitchen. Johnny opens a cupboard and dear lord it’s like a dream. A diabetic’s dream! Twinkies, Ho hos, Ding Dongs, chocolates, Doritos, biscuits, Wildberry Pop Tarts—
“What’s wildberry? ‘sthat native to South America”
“Nah. Wildberry’s just code for fruit paste and a bag of sugar. You should try some!”
He extracts a foil package. “But first, we’re going to have to turn the toaster on high?”
Jack laughs and laughs and laughs and…
“It wasn’t that funny.”
Momentarily, Jack holds back the giggles, but his eye catches the toaster dial that reads HIGH and busts up laughing again.
“It’s like it knows.”
*ding* The Pop Tart shoots up.
“Oh my god!” Startled, he leaps back.
“Don’t you ever relax? Jeez.”
“Don’t answer that.”
“OK.” Johnny offers the Pop Tart, which Jack accepts gratefully. He takes a large bite and oh my God he feels the subtle differentiation between biting through the frosting and the breading and mastication never felt this good. He rolls the half-chewed pop tart around his mouth, making sure that every crevice experiences the nerve-tickling tingles of the pop tart’s rich texture. When you’re high, you don’t eat food…you experience it.
“You gonna swallow that?”
Jack swallows, and immediately bites off another substantial chunk, repeating the process until the Pop Tart has been thoroughly debauched inside his grinding maw.
They spend, uhhhh…a long time in the kitchen. Jack feeling out the pleasurable nuances of each snack until at some point he realizes that he’s leaning face-forward against the refrigerator tonguing a matted bit of something stuck in his teeth—with mind-numbing satisfaction.
Johnny’s sitting on the counter, legs dangling down the polished, plastic front of the dish washer and working on a fudgesicle.
Jack suddenly feels a sympathetic connection to that fudgesicle—nay, an extrasensory link that reaches beyond mere pathos! Every lick Johnny takes from that fudgesicle resonates harmoniously on his cock.
Slowly, Jack turns so that his back’s flat against the refrigerator humming against his backside.
Johnny withdraws the fudgesicle from his mouth. “Don’t stop what?”
“Ahh! You stopped!”
“Licking the fudgesicle. I…er…sympathetic connection.”
“Huh?” Johnny takes another lick, and the warmth slides up Jack’s shaft firm and warm and painfully ball-constricting. Jack moans, grabbing himself. “Oh, I get it. Your dick and the fudgesicle have some kinda psychic link going on.”
Jack nods like a mad-man. “Yes!—Exactly!” His cock’s screaming for something tactile.
Mercifully, Johnny plunges his mouth down he fudgesicle to the very Popsicle stick and slowly draws his lips back to the top. His tongue swirls around the tip before he dives down again, working that fudgesicle hard and Jack can’t see it, but he feels Johnny’s tongue twisting around the shaft, swirling like a fucking cyclone sucking sucking sucking until Jack’s ridden up the trough, to the crest, poised, ready to—
The fudgesicle breaks in the middle and Jack falls onto the fucking floor. “Ack!”
Johhny laughs, sliding the cold lump of chocolate around his mouth until it’s sufficiently melted to bite into.
“You fucking bit it!” Jack accuses, still prostrate on the floor.
“Dude, no. It broke. You can’t give head to a fucking fedgesicle. It started melting, and it got too thin to take the pressure.”
“YOU’RE A FUCKING LIAR! You…BASTARD!”
“Can’t come up with anything better?”
“NO!...I’m too fucking high,” he says mournfully.
Johnny shrugs his shoulders, “I’m going back to the living room. Come back when you’ve mellowed out.”
“Like I’d come back to a fucking sadist like you!”
But Johnny’s already walked out and Jack feels the most alone that he’s ever felt in his life…and confused…and how did he—CAN’T BR—FUCK!
He scrambles to his feet and heads to the living room—no, that’s the dining room—where the fu...other way…
Miraculously, he finds his way back, but the exertion has done nothing to stunt the panic swelling in his chest.
He throws himself against the wall, running his fingers against the stucco begging the panic to just go away but so long as he’s thinking about not panicking he remembers he’s panicking and you can’t make yourself forget!
“What are you doing?” He hears Johnny ask, disinterestedly. He probably is just wondering why Jack’s getting his chocolate-covered fingerprints all over his California, white-washed walls.
“I’m mountain climbing!”
Johnny returns his attention to his computer, though it never truly left. And music—an electronica song. The music makes Jack’s head pulse in time with the rhythm and each note swells like a swallow of honey in his throat. The tempo crescendos, the bass goes wild and all of a sudden his throat’s so clogged with music that air can’t seem to pass through.
“I CAN’T BREATHE!”
Johnny just stares at the LCD screen, clicking indifferently through his music library.
“JOHNNY! I’M GOING TO DIE! DON’T YOU CARE THAT I’M GOING TO DIE!?” He’s crawled to Johnny’s legs again. He tries to touch him, but Johnny shrugs him off.
“LOOK! I’M SORRY I’M SORRY IMSORRY! PLEASE, PLEASE HELP ME!”
“Hey, I don’t care about what happened in the kitchen, but I’m not going to help you out of another bad trip. You’re making them for yourself, so you’re going to get yourself out. I’m not a fucking babysitter.”
Jack chokes back a surge of tears. For a moment he’s too hurt to panic…for a moment. Then it comes back ten-fold and it’s like “A Perfect Storm” where they’re in a dinky, rickety little fishing boat and a mighty edifice of a swell rears up big as the Empire State Building—
An idea strikes him. Fighting the current of his own terror, he pulls the orange bottle of Xanax out of his pants pocket. It takes twenty minutes orally but he can—He drops two pills on the table and tries ineffectually to crush them under his fist, but his cell phone’s hard enough to do the job, so he grinds them to powder under it and gathers it into a mound. He launches himself onto the blue powder pile (looks like pixie stix), plugs one nostril with his thumb and snorts as much as he can in one drag—and it feels like a wildfire’s burning between his nose and his tear-duct.
He collapses against the couch, waiting with eyes clenched shut for the burning to fade. After forever, (though according to the grandfather clock was only three minutes) the panic is purged from his body clean and effectively as flushing a toilet.
He crawls back to Johnny. “All better,” he announces, penitently but cautiously optimistic. Johnny douses his cheerfulness.
“Yep. You are,” not looking away from the monitor. Jack senses a note of disappointment in Johnny’s voice.
“What—what did I do wrong? You told me to make myself better and I did.”
“You didn’t make yourself better, man, a sedative did. Drugs aren’t going to solve your problems.”
“They solved this one.” Jack offers, and immediately realizes it was not the correct thing to say.
Johnny shrugs, selecting a new song. A terrible metal song that makes Jack cover his ears and hum to keep out the invading cacophony.
“What the hell is this rubbish?”
“Gay for Johnny Depp.”
“You taking the piss?”
“No man. That’s really their name.”
“Oh. What else you got?”
“Well, let’s see. I’ve got Grand Mother Fucker?”
“What the fuuuuck?” Jack giggles.
“And Inhale Mary…Lesbian Dopeheads on Mopeds….Oedipussy…Sucking Diction. Oh, and my favorite, Barabara’s Bush.”
Jack’s giggles have broken off. Johnny looks down, and realizes that he’s staring wide-eyed fascinated directly at the screen.
“You trippin’ on the visualizer?”
Jack nods, his mouth pops open. An electric blue, squiggly bubble swells in time with the music, and lighting lines trace unknown patterns across the screen. “It’s so…”
“Tripulous?” Johnny supplies.
After about a half-hour, Jack re-discovers that the high is enhanced when he closes his eyes. The moment they shut, the floor of reality drops out from under him and space is fluid. He feels like there’s a magnet directly in front of him drawing him to it and he rocks forward. Amazing.
He lies down, and lets the closed-eye visions come to him like mad, whimsical revelations. With an effort, reaches up and tugs on Johnny’s sleeve. “Hey Johnny, it’s so much better when you close your eyes.”
“Yep. I know,” he answers, sounding like he knows something that Jack’s about to discover. He hopes it’s as interesting as the feeling of sinking through the floor like quick-sand.
A memory flits before the apparitions. His purpose. His drive. His whole motivation for putting himself through this purgatory.
He tugs on Johnny’s sleeve again, like a child trying to capture his mother’s attention. “I love you Johnny.”
The visions close-in in a dense tangle, like he’s weightless in a sky filled with warm jello.
“Hey, wake up.”
Johnny’s shaking his shoulders. “It’s almost eleven. You’ve got to get going. You sober?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sober.” He says, perhaps a little too early to evaluate.
“Good.” Johnny helps him up. He hands him his keys and powder-sprinkled cell phone.
“See you tomorrow.”
He ushers Jack out the door with disorienting haste and closes it quickly behind him.
“Now where the fuck is my car?” Jack mutters aloud.
After searching up and down the block for a quarter of an hour, he remembers that he’s parked two blocks away. Johnny had insisted.
He climbs behind the wheel of his behemoth Escalade and suddenly realizes that he is definitely not sober.
Then he remembers his university friend’s words, “Cannabis is like alcohol, except you can drive.”
He takes a deep, sobering breath and thrusts the keys into the ignition.
Jack pops another Vicodin, dry-swallowing. The doctor said no more than one every four hours. Well, he missed one this morning, so spread over the twenty-four hour day, that shouldn’t be more than one every four hours. Actually with the two at lunch….fuck it! This bloody hurts! Each one of the twelve sutures in his arm seems to be screaming falsetto.
“So, how did you get out of a DUI?” Gore asks, intrigued.
“Well, I was lucky enough to crash into my own garage door. Since I was on my own property and not on a public street, the said they didn’t have jurisdiction.”
“Thanks man. I’ll remember that.”
“No problem.” A walkie-talkie crackles in his breast pocket. “Yeah?” The voice on the other end blares unrecognizably. “I’m on it.”
“Sorry man, I gotta get going.”
Ever since the accident, Jack’s received a heavy outpouring of sympathy from everyone, from Jerry himself to Alejandro the grip. Jack’s kept his distance from Johnny, though. Thankfully, they haven’t had a scene together in the week since the accident, so avoiding Johnny hasn’t been difficult. Not that Johnny’s really looking for him…
It took a bad-trip into stark madness (one which still gives Jack nightmares) and a car accident, but Jack’s finally willing to accept that maybe Johnny’s always going to be locked-up. Maybe he’s not a safe after all. The correct combination isn’t going to crack this guy. Johnny doesn’t even have a lock. That would mean that he’s intended for someone to open.
No, Johnny’s just a block of steel-reinforced concrete pushed overboard into the bottom of the fucking ocean and no one—NO ONE—is ever going to see what’s buried in his core. Maybe there’s nothing. Just a solid block of fucking concrete that makes you so goddamn certain that he’s hiding something magnificent…if you could just chip away…
Three quick raps on the trailer door.
“Hey, it’s me.”
It’s Johnny. Shit.
“Come in.” Voice cracks. God, he sounds nervous.
The moment Johnny opens the door, Jack stammers, “I’m s-so sorry. I thought—I thought I was sober. I didn’t mean to—What I meant—I’m sorry for what I said to you.”
“Don’t worry about it, man. All’s forgotten.” He takes a seat beside Jack, “I just wanted to see how you’re doing?”
Jack peels back his sleeve, revealing the monstrous laceration running from his elbow to his wrist.
“Wow. That’s a good one. Where’d you cut it?”
“Haven’t the foggiest. I just crawled out of the car, fell onto the pavement, and realized that my arm was bleeding.”
“Oh, man. I’m so sorry.” Johnny sits beside Jack, takes the injured arm in his hands, and lays down a line of kisses running parallel to the stitches. Jack melts. “I’ve got to get back now, but if you need anything just ask. I’ll make you some chicken soup or something.”
Johnny leaves, sucking the all air out of the trailer with him. When the door smacks shut, Jack jumps up with a marvelous idea. He’s found the combination! Why hadn’t he thought of it before!?
He looks at his half-healed injury and frowns. The stitches are due to come out on Thursday…Oh, but Doctor, the car door caught it and cut it back open.
Jack re-settles on his chair and methodically scratches off the soft, red beginnings of scabs, pondering in what inflection Johnny would say, “I love you.”