Pop Smellers and the Spine of the Earth - Part 1

Part 1

The name’s Smellers. Pop Smellers. And I’m here to tell you how it is. Actually, I’m here to tell you how it isn’t, because due to the very nature of things, telling you how it is would be impossible and downright dangerous. I’m a private dick but my wife would say otherwise, however, Audrey is prone to fits of violence and insanity so you can’t always take her word on things. As I write this, she is sitting across from me, lounging on a battered floral patterned armchair, and I must say that she looks ravishing: curves in all the right places; energetic; and long dark hair (which I’m sure will be a different colour tomorrow) framing her beautiful, beautiful face. I must stop describing her now, or I shall become far too aroused, and that would be a fruitless endeavour, for in less than five minutes I must leave the house to meet my latest client: the elusive Mr Spag Zagley.
I use the word ‘elusive’ but Zagley is only so when it suits him. He always shows up for ‘client liaisons’ but only if he has arranged them; if I attempt to contact him then I must leave a message after the tone, and may the Gods forgive me if I ever turned up at his offices without first calling his secretary and making an appointment. Mr Zagley is of Eastern European descent, and there is an almost grey pallor to his oily skin. He dresses impeccably in traditional three-piece suits, which he combines with hand stitched silk shirts. The overall effect of the well-dressed gentleman is ruined by his compulsion for cheap and garish ties, which I presume he purchases from discount stores. This is the only explanation I can come up with because at our last ‘client liaison’ (God! I hate that wanky term) he arrived in a dark blue pin striped suit, white shirt, and hideous glittery green tie. Why he chooses these revolting accessories; I do not know. In comparison, his choice of shoe is flawless, and I would estimate that he spends at least a couple of hundred dollars on each pair. I think that anyone who spends that much on footwear must have something wrong with their brain. This belief has caused many an argument between Audrey and I.
I was stirred from my shoe ponderings by my darling wife’s enquiries as to whether or not I would be partaking in a pipe of fine hashish before my meeting with Mr Zagley.
I really shouldn’t.
But I did, and very nice it was too.
I left the house in a haze of cotton wool comfort that one can only achieve through the use of the highest quality opiates, or through prolonged and profound meditations on ancient universal truths. Sadly, I rarely have the time for extended periods of yoga so nowadays a quick pipe and a think must often suffice. I usually find new and interesting perspectives on problems after engaging in intense drug use, but alas; my consumption of illicit substances has declined recently due to the lack of quality goods and pleasant service providers. The problem with most drug
dealers is that they are usually complete and utter fuckwits. They start out all groovy and civilised but over time they devolve into dodgy, money hungry creatures of the night. Many moons ago, when I was, as the young folk say “on the scene”, I dealt in a wide variety of substances including dope, coke, pills, and powdered tiger claw, and I like to believe that I was a fair and honest trader, both kind and flexible with my customers. This line of work brought me into contact with some of the more nefarious characters that populate the drug world, and I often found these people to have an attitude of extreme greed coupled with an intense desire to rip off any one who they came into contact with. Not the best attitude to have when one is, in
essence, a businessman, albeit a merchant of narcotics. I always considered myself most fortunate that I was rarely ripped off, and the quality of my wares was generally of a very high standard. However, my days of mass consumption have eased off of late, and may or may not be resumed. It’s impossible to tell but I must admit that I do get the urge for a really good session every now and then. As I left the house, I noticed that it was rather cool outside so I wrapped my overcoat around my broad chest; I felt rather soft and lax after the dope, and my attention was drawn briefly to my physical body. I am neither overweight nor undernourished; to quote Goldilocks “Pop’s just right.” I like my size and carry just a couple of extra pounds because one never knows when one is going to have to go without food, or for how long. To be whippet-like is to invite disaster. This attitude stems from my days as a poor student and dole bludger; I would often find myself in the difficult position of only having enough money to purchase food or alcohol.
Alcohol always won. In those days, I would often take large quantities of amphetamine so that I could save money by not buying food, however, this nice idea never worked simply because the money I saved from not buying food always ended up being used (I say used for it was never wasted) on cigarettes and fizzy pop lager. Fags and booze are brother and sister to speed. How I love to drink and smoke when I’m speeding off my nut. I would compare these joys to the fine piece of cheese that may accompany an excellent bottle of wine, or the delicious chocolate
that compliments fine pot. Ah! The dreamy recollections of youth! I did some crazy stuff back then in the mists of time. Sadly there are large portions of my past that are black holes to me; my memory is really quite shot to fuck – possibly as a result of my drug use but possibly not. I’m not one to cast aspersions...especially on myself.