Booze, bitches and benzos in the city of sales

A work of fiction. That is: not, strictly speaking, true. There have been (alas!) no bitches and (unfortunately) I still have no benzodiazepine, but there is always plenty of booze. Auckland bro, the big smoke, it's a whole 'nother world. The very lap of luxury. I live in an apartment, like an American. I have genuine leather furniture and a goddamn ENSUITE for chrissakes. Everything smells of freshly laundered banknotes. The company pays through the nose to keep me in the manner to which I am quickly growing accustomed.

Crank the stereo, tap a vein, go rip a page from the bible and let's tear the roof off this motherfucker.

Fast. Fast and fast and faster. Oh yes, there will be meth. This frantic city never sleeps, it's jaw just grinds continual. Also on the hunt for cocaine, nearly impossible to obtain in this country but if it's available anywhere it will be here. Meth and coke and booze and booze and booze and lots of loose, easy women with self-esteem SO LOW they may even condescend to sleep with me, hard liquor permitting.

Fuck yeah, hell yeah, oh yes. I love this place. It ain't off; much like the family television it's always always on, twenty four seven halogen spotlight, sweeping the streets clean with a bulldozer, an under-stated undercurrent of spice.