He stood just under six feet tall, gauntly but a strength gained only by years of farm labor. Short sandy blonde hair hidden under a once white now Oklahoma dust stained welders cap with the brim flipped up. Dark knockoff Aviator sunglasses shielded his bloodshot blue eyes from the invasive rays from the midday sun. Blue denim Wrangler pearl snap shirt, one sleeve rolled up, the other kept down to hide a bevy of marks left by a needle that frequented the bruised, ground beef like surface where once was an arm. The jeans matched the shirt, blue Wrangler denim, a few tears, but still heavily starched. The outfit was completed by an old pair of size ten pecan colored Lucchese’s that his father had worn. In his left hand around a pointer finger, he spun a keychain. His name was Hobson, and Hobson was on a mission.

The keychain spinning freely held the keys to Hobsons steed. A true American horse. A 1976 Cadillac Eldorado. Brown in color and covered in dust, the interior once beige leather, but now more of a dark clay hue due to the broken convertible top stuck in the down position. Hobson tossed the keys to his right hand, placed his left hand on the door, smiled, and hurdled the door, landing softly in the driver’s seat. Inserted the key in the ignition and rolled his wrist away from his body. The Cadillac denoted a sigh, shook, choked, coughed, and then the 500 cubic inch engine awoke, thundering with life. Hobson grabbed a half-smoked cigar from the ashtray and bit down on it, shifted into gear, pointed the Cadillac north and bared down on the accelerator.

The last working speaker belted out “Pancho and Lefty,” and Hobson sang along with every word. The sights were uneventful, flat, cattle grazing on barren windblown fields of dirt. In less than an hour, Hobson would see the statuesque white towers of a grain elevator, salvation. Chemicals are what Hobson sought, chemicals would be his reward. He pulled off the highway directly into the red dirt drive of an Oklahoma panhandle co-op. Passing head-on a discerning farmer atop an old Massey Ferguson 135, Hobson met eyes and grinned his cigar toothed smile. Rounding an old one story small red brick building, Hobson popped the trunk of the Cadillac. The large white cylindrical tank read “Anhydrous Ammonia,” this was Hobsons objective. He stopped the Cadillac with the rear adjacent to the tank, jumped over the driver’s door, and fully opened the trunk.

Inside were four twenty-pound propane tanks. All of them banked using a mixture of stainless steel lines, brazed on copper fittings, multiple ball-valves, and one long black hose with a valve at the end. This he snatched from its resting place in the trunk and attached to the Anhydrous tank. Cracking the valve produced a pleasing hiss, his tanks would soon be full. Mission almost complete. After a few minutes, Hobson reckoned his tanks ran full, he closed a valve, gave a quick glance to ensure nothing was leaking, satisfied he returned the black hose to the truck and slammed it shut. He glided around the driver’s side of the car, back to the door he allowed himself to fall gently back onto the dingy, cracked leather seating of the Cadillac. Watching a cloudless sky, feet still in the air above the door, Hobson was happy. He pulled himself up, adjusted, looked around, and then put the car in drive. Circling back around the brick building, Hobson exited the co-op uneventfully, faced southwards, and headed home. Mission complete.

And that my dear reader brings us to our newest topic! Meth. Forget about what you have been told, let’s hear about it from the people that know it best. Cooks, users, degenerates. The science behind it. Where it came from. How its made. Does it really make you go from a pretty pubescent teen to a street walking zombie? Is it not just a home science kit version of Adderall? Will it ruin your fucking life?!

Meth is also not a one-dimensional drug. It has a variety of ways that it is produced and ingested. Here is a list:

  • Anhydrous
  • Shake
  • Red Phosphorus
  • White Phosphorus
  • Crystal
  • Flakes
  • P2P

So forget everything Bryan Cranston and the little whiny one taught you. This is METH. This is the “not for screen, NR, not getting in without a parent” version! Come follow my “fictitious” character Hobson, as he guides you on a journey to explore this crazy little piece of counter-culture.

My goal here is to inform the masses. Not to be preached too by a talking head on a local cable news network. Why are all drug stories told from the pathetic viewpoint of an addict? The sad sob story will not be said here!

Meth is just the first part of this series, we will be touching on all known and unknown illicit substances. Check back next week as we learn about the History of METH. Spoiler alert, it involves the Germans.

Please subscribe to The Last Individual on Facebook and Instagram to be kept up to date on the next article. If you enjoyed this little bit of writing, let me know! And share it with your friends! Or random people on the internet. Thanks for reading.

Published by tamanollahi

Writer at thelastindividual.com come check us out!

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