Sammy was a long haired drunk that hung around the street punks down at peel park in may and june in 2007. I was hanging around because I had no friends that did normale shit and I was drunk at all hours of the day. street punks don't mind that type of thing all too much. I start off with Sammy because he reminded me of myself. Drunk all the time. No job. Incapible of working anyway. He had a big ass beer gut, and when he got loaded he would make incoherant yelping sounds and apologise profusely to his father, whom no one knew and if you asked Sammy about it he get so tight lipped that his lips got scars from the stiches.
I had a shity apartment in cote-des-niegs that was populated by crack hoes and drunks. Nic stained walls and a horrible smell that got into your jeans and made a hybred snot that was painful. The Coke habit I had at the time was probally not helping that. I did the smagiest coke you could get to from the 30 year old crack dealers that hung around beri-ucam and probally still do. With guys like that you never know what you are snorting up your nose.
I walked down the street and felt a snicker from every passing clean respectible person walking by...
Sammy and I were siting at the shit covered statue in the middle of the park one day and the other little street fuckers were yelling at each other about what kind of street drama was going on. I was shouting with a 40 in my hand about the "injustus" of the world and how every on of "you guys had the right idea." I said that "even Sammy and his low grade grade 8 brain had more understanding of life then any fucking rich cunt standing around eating their lunches." And the rich montrealers smiled in their 500 dollar desiner jeans and asked me what I thought about this and that. I spit in there faces and in the morning pulled myself off the grass in a park to find booze and Sammy and the little homeless cult of mine. Sammy being my right hand moron muscel. the only really maluble loser.
There was Paul. Paul the coke banger that wrote in his little dollar store note book some delusional notes on par with my own drunking rants. He had a girl friend that i was trying to steal away from him. I did not get her atraction to this guy paul aside from his scary resembalnce to ancheint barberian leaders who keep girlfriends by treats and have some sad seriouse hurt deep in their past that they shared with the love of thier lives pasting the poor girls soul to some tragic event that never happend, such as his father beating him. I can see on a drake rainy night on the streets of montreal the evil lord paul opening up and spilling the horrble story of his childhood to this girls quivering eyes welling up with tears. I could see it and it made me sick.
It made me sick that on the lowest fringes of society that I did not have the damn chops to suceed in many departments.
After the day I woke up in the hospital one day and the nurse saying to me that I had just come out of a slight comma I said "enough" and desided to jump out on the lease that I had at the shity apartment that me and Paul had trashed just two nights before and go home to halifax--sober up, and start fishing...