Plutonium Shit Logs

I was firing out a hot piss in the men’s room when a barrage of metallic fart sounds pounded out of the shitters. Then something yelled and launched up through the ceiling. I kicked the stall open and there was a pile of glowing rods overflowing the toilet. The hole in the ceiling went up through another two floors and out the roof.
I ran up the stairs to the roof access door and picked the lock. The hole was smoking and a guy in a trench coat and army boots was unconscious on the ground. The back of his coat was ripped open and there were wires coming out from his spine. I called the emergency squadron and rolled a scoob. The minute I sparked it up the guy started moving around. His eyes opened and he tried to talk.
I moved closer.
He was mouthing something. I could not understand the words. I moved in so that I could hear. His arm snapped out and grabbed my throat.
“It ain’t polite to smoke reefer without sharing,” he said. He seemed to be able to talk now.
“Shit buddy, you can have this joint. You took some real damage going through the roof.”
“There were uranium bits in my cereal this morning. I knew this would happen.”
“There was a pile of glowing sticks in the shitter,” I said.
“Yep. Depleted uranium. It’s this new diet my doc put me on. I guess it’s better then the barium enemas but sometimes, usually after a hard session at the brothels, it affects my constitution.”
“I gotta jam. There should be some medics arriving any second.”
“Right on friend. Thanks for the doob.”
“Don’t sweat it.”
I took off down the stairs just in time to see the ambulance arrive. “He’s on the roof,” I said as I passed.
The bus arrived three minutes early. I walked to the back where the drunks and punkers were and took a seat.
“Hey bro, you got any buds?” said the wino next to me.
“Yeah. How much you want?”
“Oh,” he said. “I only got four cents.”
“Four cents. Hold on.” I broke out my calculator and calculated the weight. “That’s about seven thousandths of an eigth.” I pulled out a nug and my pocket scale. I weighted out the weed. “You want it in a baggie?”
“No,” he said. “I’m gonna smoke it right now.”
I poked the flake with a sewing needle and handed it to him. He made a funnel with newspaper and lit it up the grass with a blowtorch.
“That was some heavy fukin bash,” he said.
“You bet yer cornhole. I get from an ogre.”
“An ogre? Does he live under the freeway?”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“Man. I used to rock climb under there. Fukin cranked out some mean traverses. Until I lost my soul to a pack of white wizards.”
“No shitboard. Mages. Magicians. Spell casters. I was real high on methodone, my buddy Charles and I were trying to moonwalk up the riverbank and we heard the huge metallic fart noise. I thought it was a helecopter crashing but when we went to look there was a pack of old dudes with long beards making butsex with the cheerleading team on a huge mattress in the middle of the bamboo.”
I handed him another micro nugget from my stash. He fired it down and burped.
“Thanks. Anyway. One of the old guys saw me and motioned me over there. I wanted to get in on the action so I went over. Next thing you know I’m pakin this hot broad and she turns over and her nose is reversed. It goes inside her face instead of poking out like ours.”
He reached up and pulled the stop wire.
“So I try to pull my pud out and it’s stuck inside of her. She’s got it trapped. One of the old dudes comes up and asks if I worship the devil. I said ‘Of course’ and he reached up my ass and pulled out this glowing rod. I think it was my soul.”
“That’s rotten. What’s it feel like without a soul?”
“Like. You ever seen those people that crowd around when there’s an accident just to watch? Or people that, well shit this is my stop, I gotta get off.”
“Right on buddy,” I said. “It was nice talking to you.”
“You to pal. How about another nug for the road?”
“Can’t do it,” I said. And then I handed him a fistful. “Just kidding. Keep smoking.”
“It’s the only reason I get up in the morning,” he said and stepped off the bus.
I got off at my usual stop and unlocked my bike. There was a note taped to the handle bar. It said “YOU ARE NEXT”. I looked around and then put it into my pocket. I checked the tires and the spokes and rode out to my dealer’s.
Bargain Lou lived in a lean-to in the middle of Featherly Park, what passed for a forest on the outskirts of Orange County. I rode along a dirt road for a while and then turned of into the brush. I ditched my bike and crawled through a dry sewage tube to the other end. Lou was lazing in his hammock smoking a hookah, reading a mag. I snuck up behind him and poked his head with a stick.
“DEA,” I yelled. “Get up slowly.”
He dropped the mag and shit his pants. I walked up.
“Oh you fukkker,” he said. “I just ruined my last pair of choners.” He shook his boot and a little glowing bar dropped out of his pant leg.
“Shit bro. That’s the second time today I’ve seen a glowing turd.”
“Yeah. I’ve been blasting them out my ass all morning. It’s this new cereal I tried. There was a coupon in the newspaper.”
“Well that’s great and all, but I didn’t come here for small talk. Where’s my fukin weed?”

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