Low Down in a Public Toilet
I retired to a public loo to do some coke. I had recently met a girl just as fucked up as me. It was a blessing to find someone else who was crazy about drugs. Our plan was to keep getting high until we run out. We got a taxi to go meet my dealer in Barbican in Central London because he was threatening to go home (it was around 3am). Having grabbed more coke we got a taxi back to Hackney in East London where we had started. Earlier that evening I had introduced her to the wonders of smack and she had done the usual newbie trick of puking her guts up. Generally she seemed quite happy with the overall effect though.
I left her doing an awkward pole dance and briefly left the club to use the public toilet which was a short walk down a filthy and depraved side street. The toilets in the club had eagle-eyed toilent attenders employed. They demanded extortionate bribes if you wanted to use the cubicals for the only thing club toilet cubicals are good for and I couldn’t afford 20 quid every time I needed to sustain my giddy mania.
As I picked the wrap out of my pocket I dropped it. Swearing audibly, I looked down and noticed a caged floor. It had dropped through one of the holes into the ugly muck below. I tried to reach it with my fingers, I tried to reach it with my keys, I ended up pulling the fucking floor off the toilet. It came up with a rusty ‘screetch!’ I grabbed the wrap. It was soaked. Feeling like a newly orphaned Bambi, I scraped the coke mush off the wrap and put it in some foil to dry out.
I looked at the wrap. It didn’t look that dirty. I knew that coke dissolves very quickly in water and that wrap would have been soaked through with cocaine. I gagged it down, toilet water and all. After all, the acid in my stomach would kill anything on it right? Luckily I woke up the next morning with my usual feeling of depression and worthlessness. I reached for the brown lined foil as my dissapointed lover stirred gently.