Cigarettes and well, cigarettes... - Review of Seminole

A pistol-packing pot grower with a zipper for a mouth called Big Bag was making a move from out on the mesa into town. He intended to capitalize on the isolated heroin market there. We rode with him and his leather-skinned girlfriend on the back roads down to another small town for ounces of heroin, and when we got back to town Danielle and I used our network of junkies to sell his dope. It wasn’t a week before we ripped him off for a bunch of dope. He offered anyone in town a $50 bag for our whereabouts and left promises to murder me on her voicemail.
We shorted other junkies. They hated us. We stole merchandise and food from businesses. The owners and employees hated us. Several cops in town knew that I was driving the Camry and that I had a girlfriend. They hated us too, but we hated each other most of all.
Danielle had a monthly prescription for 90 Klonopin and an SSI check available on the first. We shot so much dope and took so many pills the first week of the month that our only friend quit hanging out with us. When her orange pill bottle quit rattling and the check was spent, anxiety wrought havoc. She left me freezing at the gas station at three in the morning while I was buying cigarettes and drove by a few times, screaming and giving me the finger for no reason. Later in the night, we went to the ER looking for meds.
Her Camry became our home. We cleaned out the ashtray at the casino for half smoked butts several times a day and listened to Depeche Mode and Seminole Wind by John Anderson. Our diet consisted entirely of Wendy’s spicy chicken nuggets and Baja Blast. She made me give her a shot of dope visibly mixed with my own blood, to intentionally contract Hepatitis C. That way I could no longer use contamination as an excuse for why I wouldn’t share a hit or a rinse with her. One afternoon I pulled over on the side of the highway and proposed to her with her own wooden ring made from an old long board. She said yes and we made out like two outlaws in love.

Danielle PART 1

The scars on my neck belong to her. Two cigarette burns, perfectly round and white, sit two inches below my ears where Frankenstein’s creature had his bolts. I see them every time I shave, and they remind me of hard days with my girl. Her name was Danielle, but I just called her baby.

In the middle of our arguments we screamed in one another’s faces. Sometimes, I cleared my throat and hawked phlegm into her eyes, and she spat back into mine. We tried to blow each other away with the spray of verbal buckshot until there was nothing left of us. Ten minutes later we made love on the bed or the back seat of the Camry and found something or someone to rob. It was a game we played, and it was killing both of us.

The first time I met her, her boyfriend lay on the floor of my apartment trembling and bleeding through his pants. My drug dealers pulled him out of her Camry on the south side of town and stabbed him in the knee for trying to go around me and deal with them directly. It didn’t work out for him, thus the crying and bleeding on my floor.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Are you Riley?”
“Yes. You must be Danielle.”
“Sure am.” She dropped his head to put her hand out.
“Good to finally meet you.” I smiled and pinched her fingers.
I was seeing a different girl at the time, a 19-year-old red head who liked to smoke her dope and tell me she was on her way over hours before she left her house, but that morning in my apartment, the look in Danielle’s eye told me it was only a matter of time before we got together. Never mind Mike and the red head.
Danielle and Mike used to come over every day before three to laugh at me for nodding out and looking like Teen Wolf. She always tried to get alone with me, but we didn’t hook up until after Mike started beating her again and I spent two weeks locked up, promising myself and everyone else that I would never do heroin again.
Mike took the battery out of her car and held her against her will in a trailer on the Mesa while I sat in jail. Then he passed out one afternoon after he put the battery back in, and she made her escape. Half an hour later, I called her from the payphone outside of the jail, and our reign of terror began.
I should tell you that this is the part of the story where you might want to stop reading. On the next page or so, I’m going to sell a guy a bag of dirt for 40 dollars and turn his face into hamburger meat before I hold him hostage in his bedroom for the night. My girlfriend will beg me to infect her with the Hepatitis C virus, and I will try. A few pages after that, I will rob a dead man, so if you’re not with all that or don’t understand that we were in a bad way, this is a good time to stop reading.
One of the only three heroin dealers in town fronted us packages of dope, and we came back with the money every night. He fronted us more, and we returned with more cash. Then he gave us a half-ounce, but we never came back. He offered anyone in town a 50-dollar bag for our whereabouts and left promises to murder me on her voicemail. We ripped off other junkies. They hated us. We stole merchandise and food from businesses. The owners and employees hated us. Several cops in town knew that I was driving the Camry and that I had a girlfriend. They hated us too, but we hated each other most of all.
Danielle had a monthly prescription for 90 Colonopin and a SSI check. Both were available on the first of the month, and we shot so much dope and took so many pills the first week of the month that our only friend quit hanging out with us. When her orange pill bottle quit rattling and the check was spent, anxiety wrought havoc. More than once she left me at the gas station and freezing at three in the morning while I was buying cigarettes and drove by a few times, screaming and giving me the finger for no reason. Later in the night we would go to the ER looking for meds.
Her Camry became our home. We cleaned out the ashtray at the casino several times a day and listened to Depeche Mode and Seminole Wind by John Anderson. Our diet consisted entirely of Wendy’s spicy chicken nuggets and Baja Blast. She made me give her a shot of dope visibly mixed with my own blood to intentionally contract Hepatitis C. That way I could no longer use contamination as an excuse for why I wouldn’t share a hit or a rinse with her. One afternoon I pulled over on the side of the highway and proposed to her with her own wooden ring. She said yes and we made out like two outlaws in love.
A lot of guys liked her. One of them lived in a nice apartment his parents paid for. His name was Justin. Now I forget what he said, but it made me mad. Then he gave us 40 bucks to go score, so she and I split it between us and put dirt in his bag. He called to complain, but we quit answering the phone. Later that night, I decided we should sleep at his place, so I parked in his parking lot and told her,
“Get all of our blankets and meet me at the front door, baby.”
As I walked through the cobblestone courtyard of the adobe apartment complex, I wondered how mad he was and thought of what I was about to do. I fingered the baggie in my pocket. At his front door breath billowed out of my mouth, and the raps of my knuckles on his door bit cold into my bones. I put my hand back into my pocket and waited. The television played on the other side of the door. He opened it, but the chain only allowed a few inches.
“Who is that? Riley? What do you want? I ought to mess you up for selling me dirt! Get out of here!” The interior light of his apartment poured out yellow through the crack in the door. It looked warm and comfortable.
“I know. I know. Listen. I got something here, to make up for it.” I moved my arm and hand in my pocket, to indicate it was in my pocket. “Open up, so I can show you.”
“Ok.” The door closed momentarily while the chain latch came off. The knob turned. I grabbed it and lodged myself in the doorframe so he couldn’t close it. “What are you doing? You can’t stay here! Why does she have blankets? Dude, what the f***? Seriously?” A pile of blankets with Danielle’s legs bounced through the courtyard towards us. I made sure she got in before I let him shut the door.
She threw the blankets on the shag rug in front of his TV. He whined in the kitchen and flapped his arms, but we disregarded him until we had settled in and felt ready to address him. His accusations were mostly accurate, except when he said we didn’t have any heroin. We did, but not for him.
After she and I situated things, I showed him the 20-dollar bag we had. It was enough to shut him up, because we promised to share. We told him we would split it three ways, but in the bathroom, she and I split it down the middle. Afterwards, we rinsed the spoon and cotton filter a few more times, until all that was left was dirt and ash in the spoon. Then we sucked it up and came out of the bathroom to give it to him. He happily took the syringe full of dirty water and never accused us of anything until we hid ourselves in the bathroom again.
Danielle had her pants down, and I sat on the toilet applying cortisone cream to a patch of eczema on her rear end and thigh. She leaned over the sink. The door was locked while I took care of my baby.
“Open up. I know you’re in there doing more! Open up! You pieces of s!” The door shook as he pounded. “Open up! Open the fing door!” The door hit her in the head when he kicked it in.
My hands ripped the cedar towel rack out of the wall, before I could think. I beat him back out of the bathroom and side-to-side, across the living room with the wooden rod. A symphony of rage blared out of me and into my opponent. High notes of great satisfaction created melodies of glee as I continued to dominate. I was the impassioned composer of a brutal work, wildly conducting an orchestra of fingers, fists and arms. He tripped and fell backwards over his coffee table and couch.
My shirt was off and sweat was dripping when I threw the rod at his face. He could have it, because I owned him now. I leapt onto his chest for the crescendo of my opus and went to work. I pinned his arms under my legs. Bare knuckles bloodied themselves on his cheeks, and his face turned side to side with each punch. Snot and blood leaked from his mouth and nose, and he squealed as I stopped to catch my breath.
“Please, stop! Please! Please!” My teeth bit into my bottom lip. I looked at him for a second with my fist cocked back, before I tried to drive it through the back of his skull. His face was swollen and discolored and bloody.
“That’s what you get for messing with my girl.” I thought and jumped up to grab the biggest butcher knife in the kitchen. About 10 inches of blade shined in the living room light.
“I will fing kill you! You piece of s! I will fing gut you! You fing hear me?” The F word constituted about one of every ten of my words back then! “Get in your room and give me your cell phone! You can come out in the morning, when she and I are done. You hear me, you fing piece of s? Come out of the room, and I will stick this fing knife in your throat! Your guts will be all over this fing floor! You f***ing hear me?”
He didn’t say anything. He gave me his phone and held his face as he walked into his room. People around town always told me that he was a fighter. Supposedly he stood up to Diablo once and even “gave him a run for his money.” Everyone always said he was tough, but not that night.
Danielle and I made a bed on the floor out of our blankets. She pulled up some pornography on his phone. Whatever meth we did the day before was too strong and the heroin was too weak to get us to sleep, so we had sex on and off throughout the night. Sometimes, I smoked cigarettes and tried to write poetry on pieces of cardboard box. She played dress up with some clothes that she had brought in. Later in the night she said something that hurt my feelings, so I used the scissors in my hand to stab myself in the leg a few times, but as daylight broke there was forgiveness and more sex. We defiled his toothbrush before we left, but I can’t remember why.

Danielle PART 1

The scars on my neck belong to her. Two cigarette burns, perfectly round and white, sit two inches below my ears where Frankenstein’s creature had his bolts. I see them every time I shave, and they remind me of hard days in Denver. Her name was Danielle, but I just called her baby.

In the middle of our arguments we screamed in one another’s faces. Sometimes, I cleared my throat and hawked phlegm into her eyes, and she spat back into mine. We tried to blow each other away with the spray of verbal buckshot until there was nothing left of us. Ten minutes later we made love on the bed or the back seat of the Camry and found something or someone to rob. It was a game we played, and it was killing both of us.

The first time I met her, her boyfriend lay on the floor of my apartment trembling and bleeding through his pants. My drug dealers pulled him out of her Camry on the south side of town and stabbed him in the knee for trying to go around me and deal with them directly. It didn’t work out for him, thus the crying and bleeding on my floor.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Are you Riley?”
“Yes. You must be Danielle.”
“Sure am.” She dropped his head to put her hand out.
“Good to finally meet you.” I smiled and pinched her fingers.
I was seeing a different girl at the time, a 19-year-old red head who liked to smoke her dope and tell me she was on her way over hours before she left her house, but that morning in my apartment, the look in Danielle’s eye told me it was only a matter of time before we got together. Never mind Mike and the red head.
Danielle and Mike used to come over every day before three to laugh at me for nodding out and looking like Teen Wolf. She always tried to get alone with me, but we didn’t hook up until after Mike started beating her again and I spent two weeks locked up, promising myself and everyone else that I would never do heroine again.
Mike took the battery out of her car and held her against her will in a trailer on the Mesa while I sat in jail. Then he passed out one afternoon after he put the battery back in, and she made her escape. Half an hour later, I called her from the payphone outside of the jail, and, our reign of terror in Taos began.
We moved around town and ripped off everyone. One of the only three heroine dealers in town fronted us packages of dope, and we came back with the money every night. He fronted us more, and we returned with more cash. Then he gave us a half-ounce, but we never came back. He offered anyone in town a 50-dollar bag for our whereabouts and left promises to murder me on her voicemail. We ripped off other junkies. They hated us. We stole merchandise and food from businesses. Business owners and employees hated us. Several cops in town knew our car well and me by name. They hated us too, but we hated each other most of all.
Danielle had a monthly prescription for 90 Colonopin and a SSI check. Both were available on the first of the month, and we shot so much dope and took so many pills the first week of the month that our only friend quit hanging out with us. When her orange pill bottle quit rattling and the check was spent, her anxiety started. Once she left me at the gas station and freezing at three in the morning while I was buying some cigarettes. Then she drove by a few times, screaming and giving me the finger, until she picked me up and went to the ER.
Her Camry became our home. We cleaned out the ashtray at the casino several times a day and listened to Depeche Mode and Seminole Wind by John Anderson. She made me give her a shot of dope visibly mixed with my own blood to intentionally contract Hepatitis C. That way I could no longer use contamination as an excuse for why I wouldn’t share a hit or a rinse with her. One afternoon I pulled over on the side of the highway and proposed to her with her own wooden ring. She said yes and we made out like two outlaws in love and the sunset.
A lot of guys liked her, and one of them lived in a nice apartment his parents paid for. His name was Justin. Now I forget what he said, but it made me mad. Then he gave us 40 bucks to go score, so she and I just split it between us and put dirt in his bag. He called to complain, but we quit answering the phone. Sleeping in the car was getting old though, so I drove to his house later that night and told her,
“Get all of our blankets and meet me at the front door, baby.”
As I walked through the cobblestone courtyard of the adobe apartment complex, I wondered how mad he was and thought of what I was about to do. I fingered the baggie in my pocket. At his front door breath billowed out of my mouth, and the raps of my knuckles on his door bit cold into my bones. I put my hand back into my pocket and waited. The television played on the other side of the door. He opened it, but the chain only allowed a few inches before it stopped.
“Who is that? Riley? What do you want? I ought to mess you up for selling me dirt! Now get out of here!” The interior light of his apartment poured out yellow through the crack in the door. It looked warm and comfortable.
“I know. I know. Listen. I got something here, to make up for it.” I moved my arm and hand in my pocket, to indicate it was in my pocket. “Open up, so I can show you.”
“Ok.” The door closed momentarily while the chain latch came off. The knob turned. I grabbed it and lodged myself in the doorframe so he couldn’t close it. “What are you doing? You can’t stay here! Why does she have blankets? Dude, what the f***? Seriously?” A pile of blankets with Danielle’s legs bounced through the courtyard towards us. I made sure she got in before I let him shut the door.
She threw the blankets on the shag rug in front of his coffee table by the TV. He whined in the kitchen and flapped his arms, but we disregarded him until we had settled in and felt ready to address him. His accusations were mostly accurate, except when he said we didn’t have any heroin. We did, just not for him.
After she and I situated things, I showed him the 20-dollar bag we had. It was enough to shut him up, because we promised to share. We told him we would split it three ways, but in the bathroom, she and I split it down the middle. Afterwards, we rinsed the spoon and cotton filter a few more times, until all that was left was dirt and ash in the spoon. Then we sucked it up and came out of the bathroom to give it to him. He happily took the syringe full of dirty water and never accused us of anything until we hid ourselves in the bathroom again.
Danielle had her pants down, and I sat on the toilet applying cortisone cream to a patch of eczema on her rear end and thigh. She leaned over the sink. The door was locked while I took care of my baby.
“Open up. I know you’re in there doing more! Open up! You pieces of s!” The door shook as he pounded. “Open up! Open the fing door!” The door hit her in the head when he kicked it in.
My hands ripped the cedar towel rack out of the wall, before I could think. I beat him back out of the bathroom and side-to-side, across the living room with the wooden rod. A symphony of rage blared out of me and into my opponent. High notes of great satisfaction created melodies of glee as I continued to dominate. I was the impassioned composer of a brutal work, wildly conducting an orchestra of fingers, fists and arms. He tripped and fell backwards over his coffee table and couch.
My shirt was off and sweat was dripping when I threw the rod at his face. He could have it, because I owned him now. I leapt onto his chest for the crescendo of my opus and went to work. I pinned his arms under my legs. Bare knuckles bloodied themselves on his cheeks, and his face turned side to side with each punch. Snot and blood leaked from his mouth and nose, and he squealed as I stopped to catch my breath.
“Please, stop! Please! Please!” My teeth bit into my bottom lip. I looked at him for a second with my fist cocked back, before I tried to drive it through the back of his skull. His face was swollen and discolored and bloody.
“That’s what you get for messing with my girl.” I thought and jumped up to grab the biggest butcher knife in the kitchen. About 10 inches of blade shined in the living room light.
“I will fing kill you! You piece of s! I will fing gut you! You fing hear me?” The F word constituted about one of every ten of my words back then! “Get in your room and give me your cell phone! You can come out in the morning, when she and I are done. You hear me, you fing piece of s? Come out of the room, and I will stick this fing knife in your throat! Your guts will be all over this fing floor! You f***ing hear me?”
He didn’t say anything. He just gave me his phone and held his face as he walked into his room. People around town always told me that he was a fighter. Supposedly he stood up to Diablo once and even “gave him a run for his money.” Everyone always said he was tough, but not that night.
Danielle and I made a bed on the floor out of our blankets. She pulled up some pornography on his phone. Whatever meth we did the day before was too strong and the heroin was too weak to get us to sleep, so we had sex on and off throughout the night. Sometimes, I smoked cigarettes and tried to write poetry on pieces of cardboard box. She played dress up with some clothes that she had brought in. Later in the night she said something that hurt my feelings, so I used the scissors in my hand to stab myself in the leg a few times, but as daylight broke there was forgiveness and more sex. We defiled his toothbrush before we left, but I can’t remember why.

In case you aren't aware, /26frightsoffreddy has been running into some technical difficulties as of late relating to the Great Firewall of China. So I'm giving you a little one-off that has aspects of that series (but it is closer to canon + UCN in one key aspect of plot).
Some days both Lefty and Mike wished that they'd just burned, that they should just have let eternal rest take them in. To fight that off and keep motivated, Lefty read almost every hour of waking rest she got. She'd probably finished over 100 novels from various libraries across the US, most touching on familiar themes - robots, automation, AI, the afterlife, and the battle of dark and light. One day she'd read an ultra-grim Horus Heresy novel to remind her of the dangers of playing with the afterlife for fun and profit, while the next she'd tuck into a utopian novel of the Culture series in which humans and AI coexist in a world free of poverty. She probably didn't even need that motivation, though, as the daily news alone should be enough to keep her and Mike going. One day in April, they and Mike were driving through their home region - the Desert Southwest - and listening to news radio.

"Unknown hackers crippled the computer systems of Hard Rock International and the Seminole Tribe of Florida, taking offline the systems of every Hard Rock Hotel, Casino, and Café worldwide as well as the Seminole Tribe's independently flagged casinos in Florida. The attackers are a heretofore unknown individual or group based out of Thailand called Khun Rat, and claim that they were exposing corporate use of Afton-derived security and IT systems by creating a worm that would only target Afton's proprietary operating system, Hand Unit. The group has given Hard Rock 36 hours to donate $500,000,000 to charity or else face total physical and digital annihilation. Khun Rat's logo consists of a Freddy holding a machine gun in each arm with a mask and the Thai and English words 'Khun Rat Enterprises Ltd.'"
"In the first major European election since the full scope of the Afton scandals, popularly known as Animess, came to light, the far-right political party Jobbik has won an unexpected absolute majority in the Hungarian parliament. The openly anti-Semitic and anti-American party rode populist sentiment after video leaked of the incumbent prime minister stating that he 'doesn't care about this - animatronic - funny business'. The speech caused massive protests and dovetailed with increasing anti-Americanism in central Europe, allowing Jobbik to coast to victory. Reports of antisemitic, anti-American, and racist violence are pouring out of cities within the country and its surroundings, emboldened by the unexpected performance of the far right and rising conspiracy theories."
"Police have responded to a tragic mass murder in Lemay, Missouri, in which seven children at a special-needs preschool were found mauled to death at a nearby family fun center. Brenda and Chico's, named after its rabbit and duck mascots, has been closed indefinitely after a security guard was captured brutally mauling the handicapped children; the guard reportedly killed himself and his identity has not yet been determined due to forged identification. The animatronic duck, Chico, has been reported missing as well."

Michael suddenly lost his decorum and pulled over to the side of the road. "Sick f-" he stated, before cracking the door open and becoming violently ill. Lefty reached over and whispered in his ear. "I hope that's not Henry, back from the dead just like you and your dad to play with more kids for science or power," she muttered. "I still cannot accept that my father killed innocent children. Henry, yes, but that man was not my father, and whatever new bodies he's been playing with are not my father either. He was corrupted somehow by what he researched for so many years."
The two crossed into Nogales, Mexico - Mike had briefly been married in the 1990s to a Mexican-American named Rosa, and had remained on good terms with her even though she had wanted kids he could not father, being a zombie and all - and pulled up at her current in-laws' house, where they had given the two animatronics a place to get away from the US for a bit. There was a note in broken English on their little beat-up Chevy - "Take this car, Mikel. Is free" - in Rosa's father-in-law's handwriting.
The two of them drove their car, and the Chevy, out to the desert, and ringed it with flowers and the names of everyone they knew who had died at William's, Henry's, or desperate animatronics' hands. Lefty pulled out a horribly damaged phone and pressed "play" on the music app, and out came a familiar voice.
"Uh hello, hello. I'm back. She - they - fixed me. They're really sorry about what happened, you know."
"P.G.?" replied Mike, incredulously.
"Yup, that's me. I just wanted to say that we in the next life are very proud of you guys and all you've done to try and put the world back together. Keep calm and carry on."
"Well, thanks", replied Mike.
"Anytime," replied the midwesterner.
"Watch this," said Mike to both Lefty and the possessed phone. He grabbed a cigarette lighter and threw it into the old Hyundai, sparking a fire. "To the fallen", he said with no emotion in his voice. "To the fallen," replied a chorus of human and robot voices in the background.
This can be a sequel to this story here.

I was at the Zo's Comedy Groove charity show yesterday and was extremely disappointed and frustrated. Not at Dave Chappelle, but at the crowd. The hecklers were absolutely relentless. I know his performance is going to get a lot of bad press and publicity so I wanted to come out and clarify a few things in order to put the whole situation in perspective. Dave Chappelle is still as great as ever, it's the audience that has changed for the worse.
Dave Chappelle on stage: He had a really calm and relaxed demeanor. He was completely lucid and wasn't going to let anything bother him. Any time someone would shout something or heckle him he didn't respond with emotion or anger. At one point in the show he even smoked a cigarette on stage. A few times he checked his text messages. He made it clear he wouldn't let anything bother him (Even though it seemed like this was extremely hard to accomplish). Later in the show he mentioned that his son was in the audience and said he was staying up on stage to teach a lesson to his son. He said that the more he got heckled, the more he felt like staying and that he had all the time in the world. His set was suppose to last for 22 minutes, he ended up staying on stage for around 55 minutes only to be cut off by the DJ. In those 55 minutes he was only able to perform 1 joke. The rest of the time was spent responding to hecklers.
The audience: Terrible. Absolutely rude and obnoxious. For the most part, everyone seemed to be on Dave's side. People kept yelling nonstop "We love you Dave", "Come back and do you show", ect. This might sound flattering at first, but it gets really fucking annoying when your 30 minutes into the show and people are still yelling this type of shit. Sometimes people would yell things that didn't even make sense. Any moment of silence was seen as an opportunity by an audience member to yell something stupid. You also had the bad audience members that would yell at him to get off the stage or "Tell some jokes so we can enjoy ourselves". Chappelle simply laughed it off and told them they could leave.
Chappelle was the last to perform and he was slated as a "surprise guest". Already 5 or 6 other comedians went before him without any incidences. When he was introduced and walked on stage everyone stood up clapping and cheering. Only comedian I've ever seen that was greeted with a standing ovation. It seemed like it would be the start of a great show but that wasn't the case. I was really disappointed at how the audience was acting. Chappelle couldn't talk for a few seconds without getting interrupted by some idiot yelling some the crowd. It's impossible to perform comedy under these circumstances.
Once crowd sat down, the cell phones and video cameras were immediately brought out. Everyone in the audience had their cell phone or video camera pointed at him within the first 30 seconds. This wasn't a small comedy club typesetting either. This was an arena with hundreds of people. It was like a sea of cameras and Chappelle had yet to even speak. You can expect to see tons of videos uploaded from the show within the next few days. Many of people who heckled Chappelle and bantered with him back and forth openly had their cameras out filming his reaction.
It was clear that all the cameras recording his every reaction bothered him but he tried his best to let it not get to him. Comedians usually dislike being recorded and always request that people not film them before the shows as was the case here. Chappelle pleaded with the audience on a few occasions to put the cameras away. He mentioned that he didn't want to make his big comeback on youtube.That didn't stop the audience though.
As I said before, many of the people who were heckling him were recording him too. Most of those sitting in the front row were filming and heckling him from literally 5 feet away. He spent the first 10 minutes of his set just going back in forth with a young couple in the front row that kept yelling shit at him and recording him with their camera. These people were complete assholes and were largely responsible for the deterioration of the rest of the show. Chappelle got distracted and was just going back and forth with them. He kept his cool but you could tell he was extremely pissed. 'It's a good thing you bought tickets because I would have never stopped for a second to say a word to you on the street' he told them. All the while this couple was pointing their camera at him and cheering like idiots at every word directed toward them by Dave. Part of the problem was Chappelle giving them too much attention which you could tell they were thriving for. Later on Chappelle started smoking a cigarette on stage and this same couple started heckling him for that as well. At one point, fed up, Chappelle offered them the mic to say whatever they wanted. He pointed it right at them and told them to speak up. This shut them up for a little while but they started back up later on in the show.
I wondered why this couple hadn't been kicked or escorted out of the show since they were the primary agitators and were completely obnoxious. Turns out they were part of the Seminole tribe that owned the Casino where he was performing at. Go figure.
I have to go to work now but I will added more details and answer questions later on.
TLDR: The crowed was very large and would not stop yelling random things. It was like everyone was trying to get some type of reaction or attention from Chappelle. He was suppose to perform for 22 minutes, ended up on stage for 55 minues and told only 1 joke.

Taos 2011
Winter
The scars on my neck belong to her. Two cigarette burns, perfectly round and white, sit two inches below my ears where Frankenstein’s creature had his bolts. I see them every time I shave, and they remind me of hard days in Denver, hard days with her. Danielle was her name, but she was just baby to me.
In the middle of our arguments we screamed in one another’s faces. Sometimes, I cleared my throat and hocked phlegm into her eyes, and she spat back into mine. We tried to blow each other away with the spray of verbal buckshot until there was nothing left of us. Ten minutes later we made love on the bed or in the back seat of the Camry and found something or someone to rob. It was a game we played, and it was killing both of us.
The first time I met her, her boyfriend named Mike lay on the floor of the room I was renting trembling and bleeding through his pants. My drug dealers had pulled him out of her Camry on the south side of town and stabbed him in the knee for trying to go around me and deal with them directly. It didn’t work out for him, thus the crying and bleeding on my floor.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Are you Riley?”
“Yes. You must be Danielle.”
“Sure am.” She dropped Mike’s head to put her hand out.
“Good to finally meet you.” I smiled and pinched her fingers.
I was seeing a different girl at the time, a 19-year-old redhead who liked to smoke her dope and tell me she was on her way over hours before she left her house, but that morning in my room the look in Danielle’s eye told me it was only a matter of time before we got together. Nevermind Mike and the redhead.
Danielle and Mike used to come over every day before three to laugh at me for nodding out and looking like Teen Wolf. She always tried to get alone with me, but we didn’t hook up until after Mike started beating her again and I spent two weeks locked up, promising myself and everyone else that I would never do heroin again.
While I sat in jail, Mike took the battery out of her car and held her against her will in a trailer on the Mesa. Then he passed out one afternoon after he put the battery back in. She made her escape. Half an hour later, I called her from the payphone outside of the jail, and our reign of terror in Taos began.
A pistol-packing pot grower with a zipper for a mouth called Big Bag was making a move from out on the Mesa into town. He intended to capitalize on the isolated heroin market in Taos. We rode with him and his leather-skinned girlfriend on the back roads down to Chimayo for ounces of heroin, and when we got back to town Danielle and I used our network of junkies to sell his dope. It wasn’t a week before we ripped him off for a bunch of dope. He offered anyone in town a $50 bag for our whereabouts and left promises to murder me on her voicemail.
We shorted other junkies. They hated us. We stole merchandise and food from businesses. The owners and employees hated us. Several cops in town knew that I was driving the Camry and that I had a girlfriend. They hated us too, but we hated each other most of all.
Danielle had a monthly prescription for 90 Klonopin and an SSI check available on the first. We shot so much dope and took so many pills the first week of the month that our only friend quit hanging out with us. When her orange pill bottle quit rattling and the check was spent, anxiety wrought havoc. She left me freezing at the gas station at three in the morning while I was buying cigarettes and drove by a few times, screaming and giving me the finger for no reason. Later in the night, we went to the ER looking for meds.
Her Camry became our home. We cleaned out the ashtray at the casino for half smoked butts several times a day and listened to Depeche Mode and Seminole Wind by John Anderson. Our diet consisted entirely of Wendy’s spicy chicken nuggets and Baja Blast. She made me give her a shot of dope visibly mixed with my own blood, to intentionally contract Hepatitis C. That way I could no longer use contamination as an excuse for why I wouldn’t share a hit or a rinse with her. One afternoon I pulled over on the side of the highway and proposed to her with her own wooden ring made from an old long board. She said yes and we made out like two outlaws in love.
A lot of guys liked her. One of them lived in a nice apartment his parents paid for. His name was Dustin, and one afternoon, he said something about her that made me mad. Then he gave us 40 bucks to go score, so she and I split it between us and put dirt in his bag. He called to complain, but we quit answering the phone. Later that night, I decided we should sleep at his place, so I parked in his parking lot and told her,
“Get all of our blankets and meet me at the front door, baby.”
As I walked through the cobblestone courtyard of the adobe apartment complex, I wondered how mad he was and thought of what I was about to do. I fingered the baggie in my pocket. At his front door breath billowed out of my mouth, and the raps of my knuckles on his door bit cold into my bones. I put my hand back into my pocket and waited. The television played on the other side of the door. He opened it, but the chain only allowed a few inches.
“Who is that? Riley? What do you want? I ought to mess you up for selling me dirt! Get out of here!” The interior light of his apartment poured out yellow through the crack in the door. It looked warm and comfortable.
“I know. I know. Listen. I got something here, to make up for it.” I moved my arm and hand in my pocket, to indicate it was in my pocket. “Open up, so I can show you.”
“Okay.” The door closed momentarily while the chain latch came off. The knob turned. I grabbed it and lodged myself in the frame so he couldn’t close the door.
“What are you doing? You can’t stay here! Why does she have blankets? Dude, what the f*ck? Seriously?” A pile of blankets with Danielle’s legs bounced through the courtyard towards us. I made sure she got in before I let him shut the door.
She threw the blankets on the shag rug in front of his TV. He whined in the kitchen and flapped his arms, but we disregarded him until we had settled in and I felt ready to address him. His accusations were mostly accurate, except when he said we didn’t have any heroin. We did, just not for him.
After she and I situated things, I showed him the $20 bag we had. It was enough to shut him up, because we promised to share. We told him we would split it three ways, but in the bathroom, she and I split it down the middle. Afterward, we rinsed the spoon and cotton filter a few more times, until all that was left was dirt and ash in the spoon. Then we sucked it up into his syringe and came out of the bathroom to give it to him. He happily took the syringe full of dirty water and never accused us of anything until we hid ourselves in the bathroom again.
Danielle had her pants down, and I sat on the toilet applying cortisone cream to a patch of eczema on her rear end and thigh. She leaned over the sink. The door was locked while I took care of my baby.
“Open up. I know you’re in there doing more! Open up! You pieces of sh*t!” The door shook as he pounded. “Open up! Open the f*cking door!” The door hit her in the head when he kicked it in.
My hands ripped the cedar towel rack out of the wall, before I could think. I beat him with the rod back out of the bathroom and side-to-side across the living room. A symphony of rage blared out of me and into my opponent. I was the impassioned composer of a brutal work, wildly conducting an orchestra of fingers, fists and arms. He tripped and fell backward over his coffee table and couch.
My shirt was off and sweat dripped. I threw the rod at his face. He could have it, because I owned him now. I leapt onto his chest for the crescendo of my opus and went to work. My legs pinned his arms to his chest and stomach. Bare knuckles bloodied themselves on his cheeks, and his face turned side to side with each punch. Snot and blood leaked from his mouth and nose, and he squealed as I stopped to catch my breath.
“Please, stop! Please! Please!” My teeth bit into my bottom lip. I looked at him for a second with my fist cocked back, before I tried to drive it through the back of his skull. His face was swollen and discolored and bloody.
“That’s what you get for messing with my girl,” I thought, and jumped up to grab the biggest butcher knife in the kitchen. About 10 inches of blade shined in the living room light.
“I will spill your guts on this f*cking floor! Give me your phone! Go to your f*cking room and don’t come out until we leave! You hear me, mother f*cker! I will f*cking kill you!”
He didn’t say anything. He gave me his phone and held his face as he walked into his room. People around town always told me that he was a fighter. Supposedly he stood up to the most feared dealer in town, Diablo, once and even “gave him a run for his money.” Everyone always said he was tough, but not that night.
Danielle and I made a bed on the floor out of our blankets. She pulled up some pornography on his phone. Whatever meth we did the day before was too strong and the heroin was too weak to get us to sleep, so we had sex on and off throughout the night. Sometimes, I smoked cigarettes and tried to write poetry on pieces of cardboard box. She played dress-up with some clothes that she had brought in. Later in the night she said something that hurt my feelings, so I used the scissors in my hand to stab myself in the leg a few times. Daylight broke, and there was forgiveness and more sex. The blood on his face was crusty and black when he peaked out of his bedroom on our way out.