Baker, A., ‘Alcoholic Depravity’ in Wills, D., Beatdom Vol. 1 (City of Recovery Press: Dundee, 2007)

By Ammon Baker

“I feel like I’m on to something here,” I mumble before gulping down the rest my Sapphire Gin.
I was on to something; I was on the verge of an entire new reality. The bare-naked truth of what there definitely was and most definitely was not. The realization that my dreams and aspirations were dead did not truly take hold until the clock struck two. “LAST CALL,” the barkeep shouted. There I was in a state of complete ambiguity, or is that the wrong word, perhaps I was ambivalent, to say the least. In either case, my alcohol was gone.
My skin was red from earlier that day. Some good idea fairy, hopped up on some sort of drug that can’t even be described, hit this Bill Clinton hero wanna-be a few days before. This man set off a chain of events that led to the total annihilation of all that was good and pure in those children’s hearts. They poisoned those kids before they even knew what happened. Brand new, for a limited time only, green-aprons and flat soda for everybody, all in the name of shadowiness just like the soul of the beast.
Shadowiness describes a whole number of emotions, lightings, and the mentalities of not only my mood, but the waitress as well…all I want is another drink goddamn it. The room was a shadow, decorated in some sort of mix between one of those Americanized far east restaurants that claim to be authentic, and one of those American restaurants trying to be hip by throwing heaps of shit all over the walls. Luckily, was too dark to see this third circle of hell, for it was a muted likeness of the society that created it.
“The only real danger is that you eventually step over the edge,” I mumbled in some sort of terror stricken Hunter S. Thompson voice. All I needed were the large pilot glasses and a baldhead hopped up on drugs running around with a famous biker gang.
I believe it had been service from the bleached blonde-haired girl that put me in this gonzo attitude. Bad service among other things has a bad habit of bringing out the worst in people, and in this case, sometimes the best. Perhaps it was something as insignificant as the uneven lighting of room. Most greatly, however I knew it was my realization of the depravity of this woman. She believed that she was humping the American dream in showing off a great ass, and cleavage for money by horny young males. All she had to do was bring those horny bastards alcohol and tobacco…maybe a lap dance. MTV would have her believe that if the opposite sex wants to fuck her, then she is somehow successful in obtaining that dream. Sadly, the only interest I had was getting another drink before they locked up the booze. The real American dream in action.
I sat back to take it all in. Recognizing this reality’s implications is hard to take sober, but much more difficult to take with a head full of gin, huka, and a massive erection ready to rip out of my pants. Even upon recognizing this certainty, any man would still be subject to the whims of their gender.
Despite my gonzo attitude, I really had been on to something. Nevertheless, the clock struck two and all the intelligible metaphysical leaps and bounds my brain had comprehended, a completely new reality. A brand new world that would make John Stewart Mill envious, it was on the horizon. Change was in the air and on the horizon of this city on a hill. The only danger was that I would eventually step over the edge.