#90 - The Death of Davey Dabs

"I may get there before you." Davey Dabs spoons out a sugary booger of hydrocarbon extract with the fastidious surgery of a world-class watch maker before dropping the liquid into the preheated banger, then gazes into the oil bubbling and transforming into vapor as if witnessing the gorgeous volcanic cauldron of hell from the perch of heaven. "Or you may get there before me." His rotund face squares to connect eyes with Rocky the Pitbull, acknowledging their inevitable passing as the most elementary fact of life. He then closes his eyes for a couple seconds as if in prayer, opens wide pointing his attention to the hot rig, draws it to his mouth, and begins to chug and exhale in working mechanical fashion, willing the cannabinoids into his bloodstream as the necessary fueling that keeps the engine performing at optimum efficiency. With the alveoli competing for oxygen, he then half coughs while carrying on with his earnest words while the vapor escapes his teeth and nose like water through a colander. This is Davey Dabs' church, his place of worship, his confessional. "Either way, we're both going to die. And if it's me first, you can rest assured that I will have a tasty dab waiting for you in Valhalla." In his ear lobes are two-inch gauges while a bull ring is cinched through the cartilage of the nostrils. "And if you get there before me? Well, I hope you'll do the same." Rocky tilts his head. Then Davey Dabs drops his robe to expose his naked body save for a cheetah print bikini style swimsuit. The extreme amount of body hair, it is apparent, will not be dry for long as he walks to the back yard, scales the chimney to the top of the roof and proceeds to attempt a failed swallow dive into the swimming pool that instead results into a fried egg belly flop that claps from the water like the crack of nearby lightning. Davey Dabs did not die from that stinging impact. In fact, he will tell you that he's never felt more alive.