Sunday, June 14, 2015

Episode #3 (part ½ of II) dipshit and Jeffey

The shit head camera guy was in Washington DC attending an Oyster Riot at the oldest bar in Washington DC, Old Ebbitt’s grill when his alert eyes saw the call he was resting for. “Excuse me Kyle” There was no Kyle in the group but it rhymed with “dial” which rhymed and should’ve be the name of the riot. He was a one armed local rapper that sold money. The consummate yuck artist of quick comedy he’d forever get away with if only for his dysfunctional heart and knack for risk taking when something WAY out of line had to be done. This made him electric an exciting addition to any assembly. (Phone Ring is last song from Star Wars, the wedding joint) “Jeffey, talk 2 me, you should see this fucken sleigh ride I’m attending” “rat, shhhh” Jeffrey knew the importance of cutting dipshit off in the name of one life. “Shut the fuck up, this is the call you’ve been waiting for all night.” “OK, how’s Pierce?” Settled he squirts out the question weighing down on his sporadic thoughts. The footage rested on that one question. “Dude” It was the tone, the tenor the gift “oh word?” His instrument of a voice went lower as the line drew itself to the most powerful word in the group’s dialect, “legendary” “OK, OK” Dude It just meant same and same for them meant perfect. The fact of the matter it was the single best report he could’ve received. Dipshit was hyper active to begin with. He also was self possessed most around him in any capacity reclined to the “crazy” theory either that or an alcoholic bully. Dude. Dipshit’s problem had become something he couldn’t stop. He’d done it again and this time the stories were opening Yoda’s eyes. No one can fuck with me. He’d thought of his life as a book anyway ever since losing the arm and the Larry Bird visit. JQ was just Jesus. And all the pain, the suffering, the uncertainity had disappeared. And he was heading back to his first cousin, Chicago first thing in the morning. Dude. It was his saying that about the in season trip the Miners had just strewn together the 30th birthday of the subject Mr. Shithead had been aimlessly following around with a camera for three years. And dipshit had all access a hustler with a crew that survived and someway’s thrived larger than most sans NFL center Ryan Hartwell. Ryan had a story to tell and was a natural in front of the camera. There were three centers prior to his Blackstown arrival in the hall of Fame. This wasn’t like other jobs. The organizations and barriers to film were all but removed the years before. He trusted a couple guys that could work a system. But now Ryan was in Blackstown, playing for the Minors, everything was different, starting with the SB twice winning youngest ever QB Pierce Meridian. The $100 million Nike man. (kid) “yeah, I don’t know dude, he might be off it, I’m not asking him.” “What abut if JQ, does it, fun footage, we gotta get you guys coming off the plane.” “JQ? Will he do it? Yeah that’ll be cool” JQ caught his attention, it was the first story dip shit had told Ryan visiting his 30,000 square foot mansion in Carolina. There were life sized paintings of him, movie theatre’s, mindful mushrooms, fluorescent chronic, wide arcade and of course full court run in the pool. He’d been depressed with injury after signing at the time one of the richest contracts ever for center in the AFL. It’s weird to be so young and get 30 million dollars to play the sport you love. He’d had everything and nothing all at the same time. “So what do you think c-rat?” Ryan had heard enough people in DC where he met this retard who’d helped procure a job in foreign currency for his childhood blood brother, the “weed guy” in dipshits first band since the smooth Adolescents. And the c-rat story was a classic a Chicago classic. And it were these stories and spit that had brought him to this table with an interest, camera and dream. The first story he told at that house in the big house, the NFL was JQ, dude…. It was better than c-rat, then he met en, and that was a rap. For all his brain fog this camera fuck tard had a family, sons of liberty, JQ at the airport with the camera was the green light he needed to really get into this already crazy ass situation. He had to call him back. And as unearthed his cell from the pocket of his beige khacki’s in the spirit of the event said loudly to his circle, “Hey guys, go fuck yourself” And he walked away to laughter everything was working as he contemplated flipping over a servers full trey, why not? I’d probably be given a purple heart. “Ryan, what’s up baby” The center had called. The footage was up in the air. “But how will he get past security? It’s tight, and small place.” “We’ll handle it” And he had done just that up to now. The truth was fuck face had absolutely no idea how they would skirt security. And that was the least of his worries, JQ needed a camera, dipshit aka half-way, needed a flight and Xanex. Dipshit knew that Jeffey the tallest person that ever lived could get by security. That was the Magic. And it was nothing but heart, smiles, sheer talent, multiple TV appearences and of course the old once in a lifetime smile. Above all of that not, nothingness was an ability to listen above their stories, wit sand, crowd savings presence on alert 5 inside a hectic schedule. The dipshit, had taken that from his borderline personality mother, it had made him sick, his sister, I hate you don’t leave me, he’d already died in hell, twice. It was simple trick lost in universal love these two spawned anytime they got together with strangers. It was a rare gift, sons of Liberty reappearing non ironically here again in America, the point was on that weekend for those two guys, this was the AFL, Ohio Miners, the players, the o-line and QB; everyone had a story, that was the table. No one knew that crazy weekend of course they’d win the SB, again. JQ signed, The game is now on he thought to himself, and dip shit went back to his circle which were all buzzing about his life, the call he had been peppering prior on behalf of a hard to conceal fidget from an otherwise jumpy guy. And it was a good crew. A long way from his old visits to the hospital psych ward besides the long held secret truth of rich white people, they weren’t that interesting anyway. And this was the Oyster riot. “Where is everyone staying in Chicago, wow, the Miners” “Trump’s new building, everyone has a suite on the 30th, Pierce, Ryan was telling me has a PH, on the cuff from the Don himself, top floor, 65, half the fucking floor, plus these guys are zillas in the Led Zepplen sense.” “What do you mean by that sport?” “What do I mean by that? They don’t give a fuck, they drink like it’s the 1970’s and don’t apologize for shit.” “Wow” “OMG, that’s like so crazy” “crazy, I’m so excited and got 2 go, love u all, big group hug, thanks” Part of the SOL was never be an asshole a lesson learned long ago. And dawn, yawned for the “dials” and the sun rose from the east a flight was boarded and the camera guy who knew nothing about cameras or doc movie making two years into this project hopped a flight to activate his young Jedi JQ and celebrate his only doc movie client’s / partner 30th b-day stealing Chi-town in what seemed like a Manhattan minute. Dip shit landed, high, confused needing to call Keebs for a quick lesson on how to buy another $800 camera on credit to use. JQ handled the night before and being a legend back in his hometown was busy until 4pm we’re they re – activate for the night, clubs and ensuing shit show.

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