So I’m in Afghanistan right? I’m not sure how I got here it’s all kinda fuzzy. I remember popping five Dilaudids and I woke up on the airport runway in Kabul, Afghanistan. I check my pockets and my wallet and drugs are still there and my bag was next to me, Cool, I wasn’t rolled.
So I stagger to my feet and head for the terminal hoping no one notices how fucked up I am and that I have no idea why I was in this shit hole.
As I try to regain my drug legs I notice how poor most people look and how rich a few people look. I’m a reporter I can tell that shit. It didn’t take me long to get the lay of the land; apparently, in Afghanistan if you have a lot of goats you are considered a rich fucker. And the rich fuckers get to kill the poor fuckers.
This one guy had about fifteen goats tethered to his wrist and he was capping the fuckers who had no goats.
I’m like “What the fuck?” So I cold cock this sheet that had two goats and I take his goats. I wasn’t in the mood to get capped in this cesspool. If I wanted to get capped, I could do that in any US city.
It was kind of like America, only the rich don’t cap the poor they get cops to do it and they value money instead of goats. Same difference.
So I make the dreaded phone call to Trevor my fag yuppie assignment editor at Schizoid Magazine.
Ring… … …
“Hello”
“Put Trevor on”
I hear a muffled voice say
“It’s Oddpoet”
“Hello Oddpoet?”
“Trevor you yuppie fuck, what am I doing in Afghanistan?”
“Don’t you remember Oddpoet?”
“Fuck no! I took five Dilaudids, you gave them to me!”
Now you have to understand that Schizoid Magazine houses the cheapest people on Earth. Sure they give me an expense account while on assignment, which enables me to sleep in cheap seedy hotels and eat maybe two candy bars a day but I don’t make any salary. They pay in drugs, hence the Dilaudid. When you think of it, who needs money when you have drugs. And if they did pay me a salary? I would wind up buying drugs anyway.
“What am I covering?”
“You have an interview with the warlord, Hasid Morbis Ali Ama Ah la Smegma”
“Who?”
“Some guy with a beard and a sheet.”
“What’s his claim to fame?”
“He’s a warlord and he kills people. Give it the old Oddpoet edge.”
I hate when he tries to butter me up. I hang up and make a mental note to fuck him up if I ever get back.
There is a guy with a cardboard sign with “Oddpoet” written on it. I follow him out the terminal and he leads me to a cart with a donkey attached to it. I hate those cheap fucks at Schizoid. He speaks broken English and he tells me we are going to the Mosque hotel where I would meet the warlord.
As we were riding through the streets of Kabul I notice I was in the Cadillac of vehicles. Being poor really sucks, I know, I’m poor. . There are carts that have little kids attached to them pulling the cart and these jerk off are whipping them. I wanted to get off and kill the fucks. Instead, I wonder, if I get home, maybe I could steal some poor inner city kids to pull me around. You can’t beat the gas mileage.
We stop and in front of the Mosque hotel and I pop three more Dilaudid. I enter the shit hole and start getting Psyched. I never fucked with a warlord before.
Unfortunately, to be continued.
Oddpoet reporting live from Afghanistan
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