Whitey awoke from his Brooklyn apartment utterly unimpressed. He swung his legs over the side of his unkempt bed and immediately lit his first cigarette of the day. It had been a long week of committing unspeakable acts of violence, and although he enjoyed it, it did take a certain toll on his conscience.

As he walked to the window he tried to remember the names and faces of all his victims as he puffed away on that bent and slightly crushed cigarette. The thing he realized as he pulled the blinds revealing the blinding sun of a beautiful spring New York morning, was the he could not remember. He shrugged in silence and turned on the radio.

 He listened intently, lighting another cigarette in deep thought. He wasn’t listening to any program he was more interested in the occasional advertisement – at times the discussions as well. Cars, Clothes, Women, Money, Politics… What was really important?

Whitey often heard of the fabled ‘American Dream’ The white picket fence, two cars in the garage, a wife and children. Was that it? Was that all there was to life? Searching for a deeper meaning, some sort of purpose or intent often occupied Whitey’s mind.

Whitey walked down the hall to his friend’s room, A young man by the name of Billy Burroughs that Whitey had met in Cambridge, the lad was attending Harvard and was one of their brightest literary students.

In the weeks that Billy had been living with Whitey they had discussed many things. They both opened each other’s eyes to new aspects of life, new joys, and new troubles. Both men considered the fact that pushing the boundaries to what was considered ‘normal’ really was enticing, thrilling, and fulfilling in many ways.

Whitey finally barges in to Billy’s room and shakes him awake.

‘Billy, what is ‘The American Dream?’

Billy sat up and adjusted his glasses and pondered the question posed to him, smiled at Whitey and said:

‘Your mind will answer most questions if you learn to relax and wait for the answer.’

Whitey looked down and stroked his chin in contemplation, as he turned around and sat at the foot of Billy’s bed with one foot on his trunk monogrammed ‘WSB’, he turns with his head cocked and says,

‘Ya know, you’re a real bastard…’

Billy smiled at whitey and started to get up and dressed for the day, as Whitey went off to the living room to contemplate the meaning of the American Dream, and see where that stacked up in his list of priorities.

Whitey decided he needed a day off… The weight of his lack of purpose was too much for him today. Whether it was just a case of melancholic self-analysis or a sincere turning point in his life was yet to be determined.

Whitey dialed up his boss, Phil_Steak…

‘Phil, I’m takin the day off… Me and Billy are gonna have a little adventure today I think.’

“Listen, Whitey, don’t spend all your time around that Hippie. He’s no good for you. Keep your head on you shoulders and when you’re done with your bender call me and we can get back to work… And Whitey, I don’t need to be cleaning up any of your messes – Make damn sure you clean up after yourself this time.’

‘I know I know, I’ll be a good boy I promise’

‘Yeah, that’ll happen’

The line went dead and Whitey smiled to himself – He had the weekend.

Billy walked in to the kitchen and lit his first cigarette, and noticed Whitey’s strange grin. He knew what it meant and he began to beam at the thought of it all. With a wink and a nod they were both out the door.

Whitey opened the garage and took out his favorite car, his brand new Auburn Cabriolet. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and Whitey had the top down.

‘First things first, we’re goin over to my associates house, he’ll have everything we need to get this weekend done right.

Whitey pulled up to one of his own Drug Fronts, a distribution hub for all the drugs sold in Brooklyn. He was let inside by two large armed guards and ushered in immediately to the back room. There was everything in here. Cocaine, Heroin, all manner of Pills, Mushrooms, Marijuana, and of course Speed.

‘Alright, let me get the usual.’ Whitey nodded and smiled at his associate

The man rolled his eyes and got a large trunk from under the counter, He put one ounce of Cocaine, 10 Grams of Heroin, Two Bottles of Barbiturates, An Ounce of Mushrooms, Two Ounces of Marijuana and 10 Grams of Speed. The associate gave Whitey a very stern look and slid him the trunk of narcotics that Whitey referred to as ‘A Party Pack’.

Whitey smiled, took the trunk, and peeled off 200 dollars for his associate, and walked back out to the car where Billy was waiting. He placed the trunk in the back seat and took off.

‘First stop, The Sparkling Bunny.’

‘What’s in the case Whitey?’

‘Open the damned thing and find out for yourself!’

Billy looked around cautiously and peeked inside the trunk quickly, a mad smile broke across his face as he immediately grabbed for the jar of Mushrooms. These were Whitey’s favorite too. Billy emptied out 6 caps on to the front seat, handing three to Whitey, and eating three himself.

Whitey ate them all and smiled, he had bought the ticket, and now it was time to take the ride.

‘That motherfucker,’ Whitey said as he turned to Billy ‘Billy, that fuckin guy must’ve got a bad batch, It’s been a god damned hour and I haven’t felt a single thing!’

Billy turned and stared at Whitey, his eyes wide and glassy. Billy didn’t say anything at all, but Whitey knew it must’ve been working for him at least, maybe he hadn’t taken enough… Whitey reached in to the jar and ate 2 more caps.

As Whitey drove, he began to look at his surroundings. Men, in suits and ties, going to work – Whitey called them schmucks, slaves with white collars. Were these worker bees, these cheap cattle, truly happy? Were they living the American Dream? Only they knew, but most likely even they didn’t know.

Whitey watched the cows, in their black ties, chewing cud – all branded General Motors, Sears Roebuck, Coca Cola… He watched them all, chew cud and be ushered from place to place, sometimes without even being told like by some sort of mind control. The great masses of cows trotted quickly down the streets to their barns where they could all be milked until they were completely dry.

The worst of it all as he watched this horror, was that they seemed to not only endure it, but enjoy it. As long as they were fed, and allowed some time to graze their enclosed pastures for some time every day – they were perfectly content to put up with this horrible abuse.

Whitey turned to Billy, and without any prompt Billy turned to him and said,

‘How I hate those who are dedicated to producing conformity.’

Whitey nodded in agreement as he sped towards his destination, a hotel just across the street from The Sparkling Bunny.

Whitey walked in to the main lobby with Billy and they both walked cautiously to the front desk.

‘Uhh yes ma’am, do you uhh, have any rooms available this evening?’

Whitey didn’t want to alarm the ‘woman’ behind the counter, but she had turned in to a sheep, gradually since they had walked in to the Lobby, which was familiar and calming to him.

The sheep behind the counter bleated loudly at Whitey. Struck by this Whitey held on to the marble countertops, trying to prevent his feet from running in the absolute opposite direction of the bleating, spectacled sheep behind the counter of the Sparkling Bunny’s hotel lobby. Whitey laughed nervously at the sheep.

‘Yes, baahutiful weather, indeed.’

Whitey hoped that this would calm the sheep, but it was to no avail, it bleated louder and stomped its hooves angrily, it’s eyes grew red and horns began to protrude from it’s forehead. Whitey took a step back from the counter in horror and instinctively began peeling off 100 dollar bills and laying them on the counter. This seemed to satisfy the sheep, it turned, picked up a room key with it’s mouth and placed it on the counter. Whitey grabbed the key and ran off nervously with his trunk, dragging Billy away who was content with closely inspecting the design of the marble Check-in desk.

The Mushrooms were beginning to wear off, so Whitey prepared some Heroin and Cocaine in to two separate needles for him and Billy. Billy had taught Whitey this trick, he called it a ‘speedball’, it hadn’t really caught on yet but with the right dosage – it was pure magic.

They both tied off at the same time. Put the tip of the needles in their arms and counted down from three, at one both of them injected and removed the band from their arms, and let themselves melt in to the fibers of the couch. There was no talking for a while. They let the silent and pure pleasure wave over their bodies, uninterrupted.

After the initial rush, they began to talk, as they always did. Whitey started the conversation,

‘Maybe this… Maybe this is the true American Dream.’

‘Oh no, no; Our national drug is alcohol. We tend to regard the use of any other drug with special horror.

‘Oh yeah? Then why… Is it so fuckin easy to sell’

‘Junk is the ideal product, the ultimate merchandise. No sales talk necessary. The client will crawl through the sewer and beg to buy.’

‘I’ll never be like that, not a true junkie… I do this for pleasure, not relief. That’s the difference, don’t you think?’

‘Perhaps all pleasure is only relief…’

‘What is being a junkie though? Is it amoral, indecent? What is morality, when it all boils down… Is there really such a thing?’

‘The only possible ethic is to do what one wants to do.’

‘What does that mean? Do what you want?’

‘It means… Nothing is true, everything is permitted.’

Whitey’s mind was engulfed in this great thought of subjectivity. Different strokes, for different folks. One man’s hell is another man’s paradise. That was what made America great. The right to choose for yourself, do what was best for you. Nothing is true, everything is permitted. Whitey pondered upon this for the remainder of the night. Was he living the American Dream? Yes, he was doing what made him the happiest… But not all the time – His engrained sense of loyalty and responsibility came to mind. He didn’t always do what he wanted to do, when he wanted to do it. Many occasions came to mind in particular.

What did make him happy though, was being loyal to his friends, being someone they could count on – there is an immeasurable solace to the fact that people know they can count on you, and trust you with anything…

He had set out to find the ‘American Dream’ – The answer to all of our problems. What would ‘fix’ this generation of gangsters, what could possibly make them content. But what he found out was that, the answer was nothing. There was no truth – no fact. The only true question is what do YOU want. Of all the wants and expectations in this thing of ours, the only thing that really matters is you. Your wants, dreams, and desires – and how you can personally achieve them. Because as with everything – Nobody gives it to you, you have to take it.

Cassadaga sees all of this with utmost respect.. what a visionary.
(OOC: You are amazing for a Hunter RP)

TokyoBambi smiles brightly!

I loved this story and reading it I hope you write more!!

Whitey awoke the next morning and looked around his hotel room – in complete disarray. His once proud, organized, and full trunk of narcotics – now left sprung open, hardly any of his medicine was left. The jar of mushrooms had but two or three caps left in it, there were half smoked joints and little nuggets of marijuana bud scattered throughout, and to Whitey’s sincere admiration, someone had created the silhouette of J Edgar Hoover almost perfectly out of perfectly cut lines of Cocaine alone.

Whitey stumbled to the restroom and looked at himself in the mirror – checking to see what had been written on his face, or stuck to his forehead… To his delight there was nothing to be found, a strange occasion after a night like that one.

Whitey exited the bathroom to resume inspecting the rest of the room, hoping to find some clues as to what kind of sordid debauchery went on last night. He sat on the edge of a couch, the majority of a joint and the jar of remaining mushrooms sitting on the coffee table in front of him. Whitey lit the joint, to help him think, as any junkie knows – Thinking on a clear head can be a dangerous thing.

Looking around the scene of the crime, Whitey began to deconstruct it. Finally he noticed the two people sitting on the couch opposite to him. TokyoBambi and Cassadaga, sat there seemingly strung out and complimenting him on his ‘work’.

‘Why, thank you…’ Whitey said as he looked around sheepishly, and finally handed Cassadaga the joint.

‘Tell me friends, what are your dreams? Or, do we have any dreams at all in this society?’

At this, Billy strolled in from the next room with some random New York floozy clinging to his arm and said;

‘There couldn’t be a society of people that didn’t dream. They’d be dead in two weeks.’

‘Ahh, another county heard from.’

Whitey retorted as he opened the jar of mushrooms and started eating the remaining caps. A thought came to mind, a group of fresh faced thugs that constantly heckled him on the street corners. They called for his immediate removal, and threatened his life and the lives of those that protect him. What did these people want? What were they seeking in their holy war against him.

Whitey was often told ‘don’t worry about them’, but that brought him no satisfaction whatsoever. Was it revenge they were after? Had Whitey slighted the bloodlines of these individuals in some way? Whitey lit a cigarette while the joint was still being passed around. What was their version of the American Dream? Did they have one at all? Maybe heckling him was in fact what made them happiest… One thing was for certain Whitey would never know unless he asked.

‘We’re going down to that corner, the one where those young thugs want my head on a stake.’

Billy shook his head at Whitey in disapproval and said,

‘Nothing good shall come of this Whitey, you know that for a fact.’

‘I know and I don’t care, I have to know.’

‘Don’t take any guff from these swine Whitey, go get your answers.’

Whitey stumbled over to the mirrored table and snorted half of the president’s face, got his jacket and hurriedly marched out the door, his three companions following closely behind him. As Whitey passed a mirror in the hallway he had to do a doubletake, crude red writing on the mirror read ‘What is the American Dream?’ The question that had haunted him throughout the night. Whitey wrestled TokyoBambi’s purse away from her and removed a tube of lipstick and wrote ‘You are’ on the mirror, and of course returned the lady’s purse.

‘Come now, we have no time for these games!’ Whitey bellowed as he dragged his companions down the hall and out the door of The Sparkling Bunny hotel, but before he could reach the door he was confronted by three loudly bleating sheep. The one in the middle – the ringleader – Seemed oddly familiar to him.

The three sheep turned in to mountain goats, still bleating louder and louder. Their horns grew enormous and their eyes turned red, smoke protruded from their nostrils and their hooves beat the ground in anger. What did the sheep want?

Bewildered by his current predicament Whitey started bleating back loudly at the sheep, ‘GoodBAAHH, I’m leaving now!’ But this did not calm the sheep, they were angry about something but what? Could it be the damage Whitey had done to their Mountain? Had he damaged some sacred and vile ground? Whitey again, almost by instinct started peeling off hundred dollar bills in every direction, this distracted and placated the sheep just enough for him to sneak by. This was a close call, one that Whitey would not soon forget.

Whitey prayed: You better take care of me Lord, or you’re gonna have ME on your hands!

Whitey exited the hotel, where was the Cabriolet? There was a rather large Penguin outside the entrance standing next to a booth with a bunch of car keys. Had the Penguin stolen his car?

‘You there, penguin, you seen my car?’

The penguin started flapping and squawking at Whitey, so he peeled off a few crisp bills and the penguin grabbed a pair of keys off the booth and left. Wasn’t it a little warm for penguins? Whitey looked around for some ice, maybe this would make the penguin a little more agreeable, but nothing.

The penguin returned, riding the back of Cerberus, The three headed dog – guardian of the gates of Hell itself. Whitey was taken aback by it all. He stood back for a moment, staring, taking it all in. The penguin smiled and tapped his foot on Cerberus’s neck, and He roared loudly. It was magnificent.

The penguin got off of Cerberus and looked at Whitey, trying to get him to climb on the beast’s back.

‘Isn’t it a little fuckin WARM for penguins? I don’t trust a penguin that can stand heat like this! You sir, you disgust me!’ Whitey shouted at the poor valet as he boarded his Cabriolet.

Whitey kicked Cerberus’s neck and it took off, roaring in leaps and bounds, breathing fire and smoke tearing up the road. Finally Whitey made it to his destination. Cerberus slowed his motion, with a low grumble he stopped in front of a group of pig-men in suits and ties, burning Whitey in effigy. Their snouts dripped with snot, their filthy ashen suits covered with all manner of debris.

Whitey climbed down off of Cerberus and started to address these swine…

‘What do you want? What have I done to you, foul swine?’

Whitey ran up to one of the hogs and decked them, grabbed them by the collar and shook them shouting, ‘What is the American Dream?!’ ‘What does it mean to YOU?’ ‘What do you WANT from me?’

Whitey’s companions ran to him and pulled him away from the bowler-hatted pig-man, now squealing and snorting in horrible fashion.

Finally, Whitey turns to YOU. He grabs YOU by the collar.

What do you want? From this thing of ours. What are YOUR goals – YOUR American Dream. And how can you TAKE it?

After abruptly being pulled from the spot she stood on the street listening to the great man speak and speak, TokyoBambi was being choked by the firm grip on her collar. She kind of liked it. It kind of sent a mad rush of power to her head. It kind of made her dizzy. She kind of felt like passing out.

The American Dream you say?

Her japanese accent thick, she spoke through tiny breaths of air and hoped the man would release her collar. This would probably look perverted to any on lookers. A man grabbing a tiny japanese girl in a school uniform. Someone might come and beat him with a stick or worse….

I think the American Dream is a great thing. I think many moves forward, they ought to be in the hope that it is possible to achieve it. I also, I think the sun and peace, and the fluffy kitten with a rainbow in the world!

A high pitched nervous giggled came from TokyoBambi as she smiled like a happy child up at the man who spoke of American dreams and was a very good street speaker and she wished for more. She just wanted more and more. And maybe an egg roll and maybe some more air. TokyoBambi hoped someone else would speak so she could have her collar back.

Unfortunately the one thing I want I cannot take. It can only be given. Respect. Many men have attempted to take it but sadly they blindly accept fear in place of respect.

Respect makes the world go round.