Chapter 4: Burial of the Twin

Chapter 4: Burial of the Twin
It seemed a good idea initially to invest £300 in johns small crack business. His aim was to ensure free personal usage. Crack is a terribly moreish drug. It is never enough. Ones first pipe can never be improved upon. It's oddities perverse. Rather than savour the sensation of the pipe just inhaled, one can't focus as the mind contemplates the next. Ultimately and innevitably dissatisfying. Unlike other stimulants that can make long term repeat processes enjoyable, crack makes nothing enjoyable. All drugs take time to learn. Expectation and delivery of the expected degree or insufficiency. You have to know the neurotransmitter activity a drug induces in order to look for it. If truth be known a drug is never properly enjoyed until the user is addicted. Think cigarettes. Horrible until addicted. Think heroin. Makes non users sick as a dog. Lysergics, psychedelics aside. These substances, the sacraments of the english shaman are tools to enter altered states, states or domains, many of which aren't enjoyable. I will discuss these later in the book. Psychedelics are 100% tolerant the day after. Effectively impossible to become addicted to. They just won't work again for a good two or three daysMy early crack experiences, the honeymoon period when one is getting to know your new drug, her moods, her nuances, her personality traits, how to administer to oneself in a competent manner, what to look for in quality assessment. This was all good. I liked the junky spirit. The phoning of numbers, the meetings with strangers in darkened corners, the swift intimacy and giving over of trust and money. It was a way of enjoying all the culture of heroin without the physiological dependence. But the money you hand over to never be satisfied. I hate other crack users. I hate myself for ever having had a relationship with the stuff.
My investment ensured each day when john scored he gave me a gramme and he was good to his word. But you never have enough so ultimately, my free first and main always entailed further cashpoint withdrawals for desert. It was a small part of my life. I had other habits on the go. My work. My job. And my various quests. I had begun to take valium to chill out after smoking crack. I was on a subutex prescription and determined never to return to heroin. So rather than buy a bag of gear to wind down with, I bought valium. They came in tubs of 1000 10mg blue pharmaceutical tablets. Very addictive. Withdrawall if done cold turkey worse than heroin, but by taper, handleable. They work on the GABA family of receptors and encompass the whole family. Other, more targeted benzos can hit the GABA for just anxiety say, as with pyrazolam. Ideal for public speaking, no dozy ness or even wobbly feeling most wreck heads look for. Just elimination of the nerves. They were cheap too. Selling a few can help someone out but as the heroin then was of poor quality, people were buying 30, drinking them down with some strong lager then losing any self consiousness. More murders committed on benzos than alcohol relative to ammounts taken. And few like the sensation of not knowing what it was you did last night. These blackouts make me think they have that solitary aspect in common with MDMa. Drink a lot with MDMa and you can find whole chunks of lost time. Guilt fills these vacuums. Often with good reason. This is why I am down on both these drugs. Some common neurotoxicity. Final,y the valium story ends in a murder. But for now it was a good fuel for taking on missions. I doubt we'd have done Box Tunnel, one where both me and Lipton nearly died, yet a hugely rewarding subterranian adventure. They are excellent for fighting, shoplifting, any activity one feels self consiousness trapping you in. But easy to get beat by misjudging ones potential, easy to get caught shoplifting on them. Your sixth sense is there for a reason. For four years I had limitless supplies. This led to addiction, the withdrawall was the worst experience of my life.
Me and Lipton habitually opened our pill bottle and ate four each, our tolerances pretty high. Technically we were trespassing but only on farm land. We had entered Worthy Farm from the Pylle side, late April, on a mission. As GLASTONBURY festival tightened up, getting busted became a real problem for many dealers. Without the drugs there is no festival. For many outlaws GLASTONBURY is the earner of the year. Sell enough drugs there and you need not work all year round if you real,y went for it. Ours was but a small investment. Our plan. Enter the fields when the farm has no fence, six weeks before the vast fencing is even begun being assembled. The ground is damp and digging will present no problem. We'd both invested £300 in high quality e's. Thoroughly packed we planned to bury them deep and secure. Mark the spot. Then the drugs would wait as the festival built itself around them. We'd used several tubes of silicone over many layers of cling film. Theyd survive dry any global warming, any flooding. This ought to to return us a thousand each. Enough to finance our real plans.
Neither of us liked Elvis. Chuck Berry invented rock and roll. Elvis just gyrated.
'A bit over elaborate this one is Skree' . Lipton preferred bringing thr drugs by vehicle. 'Thing is its a cert. I'm not losing out like last year.' We'd taped a nine bar deep into Hostile Daves engine last year and lost the whole lot. Lucy got stopped walking in too. We couldn't afford those type of losses. Not with this new Jesse work underway.
The downers were starting to kick in which was some relief. After buying the pills we'd been at them like smarties for four days and hadn't slept properly for days. Our senses were jaded and hallucinatory.
Having broken into or worked at the festival for many years as a cover for drug dealing we could see where virtually everything would be. The lay out is essentially the same each year despite its endless expansion as more straight people came. The free festival movement of the seventies had built itself on LSD. By the eighties Stonehenge had become a focus for the united Mystics of Britain. Thatcher, threatened by these 'medieval brigands', travellers who lived in trucks and buses were growing in number. The city is a Barron place for the unemployed and freedom, the call of the wild, had taken many seeking a better life out on to the road. The Convoy of vehicles, painted in bright colours, clearly having too much fun,meeting up festivals often lasting weeks before police could gather eviction orders. The battle of the beanfield where vehicles, men ,women and children were systematically smashed was filmed by an intrepid young ITV journalist. Further destruction at Nostell Priory, worse if anything, carried out in 84 by police fresh from the battle of Orgreave changed traveller culture forever. Gone was the green ethos, peace, LSD. In came heroin, special brew. The peaceful types relocated to Spain, Ireland, Portugal where their lifestyle choice was tolerated. The traveller scene continued in Britain but they were a more violent type. Committed to a lifestyle they believed was their right. After the battles they'd never lie down again. Not without a fight.
Once the drugs were buried deep. Made in visible by the railway tracks wooded sides, somewhere nothing could spoil we began to plan the other burials.
'He could be underfoot now' I pointed out to Lipton. Elvis was a twin. His stillborn brother was buried in a paupers grave. Once Elvis became king of rock and roll the money poured in yet he could never shake off the guilt that God had chosen him. Elvis roots were in gospel and he was from poor but deeply religious family. Jesse could so easily have been the lucky one. After buying Graceland Elvis sent team after team of men out to dig for jesses bones. Despite all efforts they were never found. These thoughts never left Elvis. As the amphetamines he took, an addiction he died with in deep denial, Elvis became a pittyful figure. There was no one he could trust. Especially after Reds sacking and the damned book he wrote. Reds Had been like a brother yet jealousies in Elvis gang over gifts of cars, houses, shared women, that God damned traitor had told all the world. In graphic detail the world learned of Elvis drug addictions, his impotence, his burgers. Nothing was left out.
Many speculated it was Elvis who had died. That he was jesse. Where were the bones? Only close family knew the exact location so no crazed fan, steeped in voodoo, could have carried out an ungodly internment. Unless he could find them bones, rebury jesse in the grounds of Graceland, the king would surely die. At fourty two, surrounded by pills, the King died, on the john.
A weird aside. Many Elvis fans could not accept that the bloated king was dead. Theyd endured his disipation. The slick leather clad hunk of the 68 comeback special was as beautiful as ever. The worlds most beautiful man had dragged the Devils music through the cleanly trash of cheap poor movies. Any respect he had enjoyed before joining the army and the taking of a underage bride had dissolved as colonel Parker arranged his appearances in film after film. Elvis died many times. Yet we must not forget, some of his finest moments 'suspicious minds', already the psychosis of amphetamines. 'In the ghetto', for me Elvis finest moment came as the early weight problems began. A mere decade after the leather clad glory Vegas concerts in harlequin costumes had seen his body bloat and distort. More pills left him lost. A shadow of the one time king.
After his death a country music magazine ran the weirdest full page advert. Well, advert does not explain why this page occurred. A silhouette in cowboy hat and in large letters 'Jesses Comin'' . Was this Parker? Was jesse alive?
To me and Lipton this could be the only truth. We discussed it as the MDMa kept us awake for days. Elvis had such gyratory powers he was banned from the waist down. Women could not be expected to control themselves if they witnessed these sexual moves. The advent of television meant a simultaneous orgasm could form as every woman in America lost control. An earthquake could form from such devilish magic. Elvis had to be banned from the waist down. It was a matter of national security. And if the securities were that scared of what could ensue from group viewing of these girations what further conspiracies took place. It was clear. After entering this mystical condition we were able to decide the truth. Jesse was not dead. Sure they tried to kill him but jesse was more than just a man. Fortunately our minds have been improved by years of psychedelic drug use. Though having had frequent hassle from mental health experts, Lipton has developed a multi dimensional maths, much of which goes over my head. But I trust him implicitly as frequently we depend on this advanced athe for our quests for jesses activity. Through these complex mathematical calculations involving planetary alignments we were able to ascertain jesses gyratory powers were in the region of twenty times that of Elvis. Let that figure sink in a minute. Twenty times the gyratory power of Elvis. A mere hip flick could cause clitoral stimuli for miles around. The power of the devil.
So poor jesse was buried alive. One can imagine the struggle as even as a baby it took five men to wrestle those powerful hips down that six foot grave. Impacting the soil these government agents felt relief. Nothing could escape that. Having witnessed something ungodly. The live burial of some hell spawn demon baby left all involved sworn to silence. Rumour has it two took their own lives that very day. A further two sought escape through alcohol. From bar to gutter, telling anyone who would listen their strange twisted tale. Few believed these lost derelict souls who, like Ira Hayes, were found dead, together, in a ditch one morning.
The only answer that made any logical sense was that jesse burrowed. From graveyard, under field and Ocean, gyrating at speed like a demonic mole he made his way beneath the deepest Seabees on planet earth. Feeding on deep sea fish, his flesh white but strong. His eyesight withered but a shark like sense of electrical pulsations and sonar sense, like that of bats replaced his lost vision.
By the time he made these shores he was far from man. And, my god, was he pissed off. Gradually he built up an army of premature burials. From these followers he learned his brother had been made king of the overworkd. Jesse became king of the underworld. His musical skills were similarly disproportionally greater than his twin. But the subterranian Rock and roll his army danced to was far darker, far weirder than that of his brother. He sang not of jailhouse homosexuality, not of blue shoes. He sang of rejection and burial, of darkness, of never having seen the sun. A music so loud and booming any who heard were forced to dance to the dark evil rhythms. A trance like state would overcome his followers. An empire of underworld subterranian eternal rock and roll.
It was on a journey we took through Brunels box tunnel we first heard jesse. A story I'll explain.
Today our drug burial was cover for our real mission. A few weeks back Lipton and I had bought an action man each. One to represent jesse one to represent Elvis. I made small coffins from appropriate American timbers. Elvis action man was fixed in a maple coffin, jesses similarly crafted miniature coffin was from black walnut. Our mission was to give the twins a decent burial. A ritual to bond ourselves to lifelong, or as long as it took, to explore all subterranian labyrinths, to travel to any reports of underground noises, minor earthquakes. Our duty was to find jesse. To join his empire. Perhaps we could encourage him to join with us, to take the top world. After all, he was rightfully king now.
We walked up the festival fields, empty but for cattle, working our way up to the fake stone circle. Our chosen spot was the centre. This must be the most powerful spot. Checking for security or farm workers we dug two morticer slots, a foot deep in the earth. Genetally laying in the coffins that contained our action men. Relaying the soil and pouring special brew to seal the spell. We were burying our past too. Since the Fall of Solomon we had become less keen to climb. We were to focus on the ground and what lay beneath. But one more quest was comitted to. It seemed essential I climb moortown water tower, once more, as adults. Only through this could we regain perspective.
'So, Leeds next, the water tower'.


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