Mr Dexies

 

 

Charlie doesn’t have an ounce of fat on him. It was the summer of ‘01 that he was described the holiest of holy prescriptions: 100 D5’s per month, but Charlie was always prescribed 3 bottles at a time. The doctors figured it’d save him multiple trips to the practice, and it wasn’t like dexies had any recreational value right? Fucking idiots.

Fast forward a few years and Charlie is your classic adult-ADD sufferer. Kind of bloke that can never chill. Has no concept of sitting still and watching the cricket. Oh no, as soon as the Test Match starts, Charlie needs to be zooming around the room like a dexamphetamine’d fueled blow fly, “nah, come on, lets go down to the nets to bowl a few overs”. For the rest of his mates that have sucked back a few brews and cones, the idea is outright ghastly. Nevertheless, Charlie was the gatekeeper of all things energy and confidence: the bottle of D5’s. Want one? Then get your stoned hole down to those nets to face steamers from a ever-charging Charlie.

You bring out a sick antipasto platter. You purchased every individual ingredient from Woolies and you are feeling like Heston at this BBQ. You offer Charlie a crack at the sun dried tomatoes and those mini toast biscuits that taste oh-so-divine with a bit of Tzatski, “no thanks mate”. As per usual, Charlie has rejected the prospect of putting anything solid down his gullet. You notice his jaw gnaw ever so discreetly. Cunt’s been dipping into that bottle of fuck yeh. So you ask, “mate, can i grab a couple of D-Bangers”. Charlie’s demeanour suddenly resembles Golemn from Lord of the Rings. you have just asked for a couple of his precioussssssssss. Trying not to feel like a total fuckng fiend, he chucks you 2. “$8 mate”. When the fuck did they climb to $4 a pop?

You pay. You always pay. They may as well be $10. You’ll pay. There is no better tether back to sobriety, no better magic pill for a night of guaranteed sobriety, and after those 5 cones, you were going to be useless as Clive Waterhouse at a motivational speaking course. You only bomb dexies on the weekend so you down them in the usual way: with a big sip of VB. Not Charlie though, the wired cunt needs to rack lines on one of your dinner plates and snort them up with a fucking $5 note. You can’t help to think that old mate Charlie ain’t exactly living the rockstar life. Nevertheless, you snort up a line. You are from Western Australia ain’t ya?

It’s 3:30am that night and you are still awake thanks to Charlie’s magic bottle of euphoria. You look at your beloved antipasto platter and realise why Charlie rejected it so many hours before. The thought of food literally disgusts you. You take solace in the fact you are shredding… as you take a sip of your 15th beer and a draw of our 23rd dart. Yeh mate healthy as. It’s not a total pig-fest though, you manage to send off an overly emotional text to your newly ex-girlfriend. Fuck it though right, she needed to be told she was an angel that made you hard, especially at 3:45am right?

You sleep like a Priest before a Royal Commission. Probably clocking up a total of 3 hours of real sleep. You swear off the D-Bangers as you witness Charlie up at 5am cleaning the house and sucking back darts. He gets right into your shattered soul, “mate, got any Xanax?”

What a fiend.