If you have not read Part 1, please do so now. The tale is told in a narrative-like way, you could become lost and confused. You have been warned.
Hobson’s Introduction to Meth
As Hobson barreled down the highway, heading Southward, redlining his archaic Cadillac past its own limitations. “You might not know what you’re capable of, but I sure as shit do!” The car answered back by sputtering and billowing out the dark coal colored exhaust smoke. Hobson let loose an audible laugh and pressed harder onto the accelerator. The trunk full of Anhydrous Ammonia was all the motivation Hobson needed to hurry back. Hobson cranked up the country station, bit down on his cigar and could only think of the upcoming chemical cookoff.
He hadn’t always been an addict. Hobson was once a clean cut, god-fearing teenager, born and bred in bible-belt America. He had done well in school, played football, even went to the 2A State Championship his junior year. When he wasn’t on the football field, he spent his time plowing the families soy fields and helping his father on the farm. Hobson could build a fence, fix a windmill, and shovel shit with the best of them.
Hobsons senior-year the family patriarch dropped dead in the soy fields. A life of constant hard work and toil on the farm rewarded Hobsons father with a massive heart attack. “His heart simply exploded” the doctor had said. It was Hobson who had found his father dead, lying prone, face down, in his favorite khaki coveralls. A ‘Jamestown Feed and Cattle’ truckers hat lay beside him in rows of soy. The walnut wooded Remington 410 pump his father always carried was stuck in the soil, barrel down at his head, almost tombstone like. The whole scene was made unforgettable by one striking detail. His father had shit himself upon death, it was clearly evident through the khaki coveralls. “Completely normal after death for the bowels to evacuate,” the doctor said casually.
The dutiful son, dropped out of high school to run the farm and settle into a life that Hobson told his mother, “would end by shitting his pants and dying alone clutching a shotgun, soiled in the soy field.” Hobson wasn’t happy about his new path, his life would be lived the same as all the other Oklahoma dirt farmers. Hobson only returned to his high school one last time, he left the contents of his locker untouched, the only thing he went back for was Cassie Jones, the last person he would ever love.
Hobson sat in the same porch swing his father had, overlooking the same flat fields his father had, watching the same sunset dip below a hay meadow horizon his father had. His friends had graduated today. He didn’t. Cassie Jones, now Cassie Dent didn’t either. In the time since leaving school, Hobson and Cassie had married, Cassie was already expecting a child, and Hobsons mother had taken to bed to lay, and eventually die. He had inherited his father’s farm and his father’s life. He looked at his beautiful wife, sighed, took a sip of Makers Mark from his glass, listened to the ice clink as he swirled the bourbon whiskey in his hand, then watched the steady dust trail encroaching upon his land thrown up by a familiar blue Chevrolet.
Careening headfirst to a skidding halt, engulfed by the chasing dust cloud, the blue Chevy was swallowed up. The engine was cut off, a squeaky hinged door opened and slammed shut. As the dust dissipated the only thing left standing was Ray White, classmate to Hobson and Cassie. Ray was wearing a graduation cap, smoking a cigarette, and had half a bottle of Wild Turkey still left to consume. “Getting Fat,” Ray screamed while pointing his outstretched bottle hand at Cassie. Cassie didn’t reply, she had never liked Ray. Hobson stood up and went out to greet his former classmate. The two hugged, made a few snide remarks about each other, laughed, congratulated, and stood against the truck. Ray was coaxing Hobson to come out with him to celebrate the newly acquired freedom. Hobson would object, plead his case for not going, and end up climbing into the passenger seat of Ray’s truck. Waving at Cassie as the blue Chevy spun around in the drive, he promised not to be out too late.
Ray was nineteen, held back in school due to what his mother and the teachers called a “learning disability,” Ray’s father called it “being too stupid to live.” Ray took a swig of Wild Turkey placed it in between his legs and punched Hobson in the chest. “Damn, you’re old,” Ray said. Hobson was actually the younger of the two, recently turning eighteen and settling into his forty-year-old life. “Where we headed?” Hobson questioned. “The Barn,” Ray shouted back.
The Barn was just that, an old, dilapidated barn with half a roof, no plumbing, electricity gained from a large diesel generator, and filled with the worst tasting whiskey and women for five counties. It was set off in a pasture along-side a shallow pond, two miles off the blacktop highway, and at the end of a dirt road. Dan Rowand used to own the farm. He died, and his motorcycle riding, gun toting, drug pushing son Lester Rowand had turned it into a hedonistic den of depravity and debauchery. Hobson had never been to The Barn, and Ray could tell he was not interested in going. “Anything but a good time can be had at The Barn” Ray roared and laughed back at Hobson.
A muddy pit with patches of hay and alfalfa served as the makeshift parking lot for the outlaw watering hole. Its inhabitants were what one would expect of an off-highway hideaway. Hobson had school-time memories conjure up images of where Jean Lafitte must have stowed away while hiding from the United States Government. Littered throughout the parking area were large men in black leather vest, wearing unruly hair and unkempt beards. To the left of the barn, men were establishing dominance over each other by way of their fist. Ray gave this calamitous section a wide berth, navigating the Chevy to a more secluded section which was in the mud.
The Chevys engine hollered as the wheels began to lose traction and slip in the muddy parking lot, the needle of the tach climbing higher and higher. They were stuck. “No big deal, I’ll drop her in four-wheel when we go to leave,” Ray informed Hobson. Ray shut the truck off, downed the last of Wild Turkey, tossed the bottle in the bed of the truck, and both men exited the vehicle. Wading through the mud, then a small crowd, the boys entered the non-existent door into The Barn.
The Barn was uglier and more chaotic than it was from the outside. Dirt floor from what could be seen under beer cans and other refuse. A few tables with mismatched seating, lawn chairs, and wooden benches. One corner had a “VIP” sign hanging over it, ordained with Christmas lights. Behind the roped off area lay a few couches and even a mattress, two comatose or dead women were completely naked on top of the bed. The furthest corner had poorly been boarded up to conceal a large room, on one of the see through walls the words “Keep The Fuck Otta Here” was painted in yellow. In the center of the chaos stood eight wooden tables, tethered together to form a rectangle, this was the bar.
The bar is where Ray and Hobson stood. A short, topless, dark-haired bartender served them two shot glasses full of foul Oklahoma potato mash. The bartender said in a high pitched white trash Okie accent, “These are on the house, congrats on graduatin.” Ray still wore his blue graduation cap, a dead give away. They upturned their glasses, resisted the urge to vomit, and Ray ordered another round. Not that he needed it, he could hardly stand. Ray and Hobson took six more shots each. Ray yelled at the topless bartender for more mash, hiccuped, and then proceeded to puke all over the white-trash-beautiful topless bartenders’ tits. After which, he unceremoniously fell to beercan lined floor.
Hobson attempted to grab Ray and carry him off. The now soiled bartender was screaming obscenities at the two. Before he could hoist up his intoxicated friend, he was grabbed around the throat by Lester Rowand. Hobson slipped the grappling Lester, hopped back, and came in with a heavy-handed right that was sure to put Lester out. Hobsons fist was captured by a leather, sandpaper-like mitt before it could find Lesters waiting chin. A beast of a man held Hobson off the ground, dangling him by the right hand. Next, Hobson knew, he was slammed to the tabletop, looking at the night sky through the patchwork barn roof.
“You boys out chere celebrating! Let us fuckin celebrate!” Lester bellowed. A cacophony of uproarious patrons filled the entire barn. The beast pried open Hobsons mouth and inserted a bottle of potato mash. Hobson gargled, puked, swallowed, and puked some more. Lester had retrieved a filled syringe, the contents of which were not known to Hobson. Lester began to push the needle into Hobsons left arm. Thrashing proving ineffective as Hobsons entire body was pressed down upon by cheering onlookers, the puke covered bartender’s titties bounced playfully on his head as he squirmed.
Hobson would not return to Cassie that night.
History of Meth
The timeline for the discovery of Meth is up for some discussion. Multiple sources cite multiple dates. So we won’t focus on the actual date as much as we will on this sequence in which the events took place.
First, we must go back in time to 200 BC, to a Han Dynasty lead China. In the eastern mystical wonderland, shamanistic gurus brewed tea from the Ephedra plant. This healing concoction soothed coughs and opened airways, and even was a regular combatant of asthma. Other than its healing properties, the stimulant effect from this tea made it a very trendy beverage. Then, in the late 1800s, a Japanese Chemist studying in Germany was able to isolate the “go fast” property of the ephedra plant. The stimulant was ephedrine, ephedrine is a type of amphetamine. Now amphetamine could be created or “synthesized” from the ephedra plant.
And then the Japs did it again! Around about 1920, yet another Japanese scientist took the amphetamine: ephedrine, mixed in a little red phosphorus and iodine, more chemistry scientific shit, and methamphetamine was born. Another drug created that really had no medical purpose. Sure methamphetamine and amphetamine would be tossed into curealls, aces in the hole for the sleeping American Pharmaceutical Industry, lying dormant until it could be marketed as a cure for a disease not yet discovered.
The first real widespread usage of amphetamines started during World War II. Nazi doctors discovered that giving troops this magical pill would decrease their appetite while increasing their ability to fight. Poor weather, impossible odds and the breakdown of supply lines were of no concern as long as “soldiers little helper” were within bayonet distance. The German Blitzkrieg was fueled by amphetamines, Ol’ Adolph himself would even have his doctors administer the drug intravenously. German soldiers would even write to their families and beg them to send cases of the drug when possible. Pervitin was the pharmacological name, and it was legal for the public to buy.
Japan would also hop on the Axis lead meth train. I mean the Japanese basically started all this bullshit, it was time to abuse it. Filling their kamikaze pilots head with thoughts of grandeur, honor, and methamphetamine. Flying a plane headfirst into an unsuspecting vessel is of little consequence when jacked out of your fucking gourd. I imagine the idea sounded crazy at first, but after ingesting some chemicals it just kinda made sense. The war would end for Japan, but the massive stockpile of “Kamikaze Tang” lead to widespread abuse and addiction that would plague the country for decades.
The United States would also dabble in distributing amphetamines to their troops. Never one to pass up a good time, dextroamphetamine was introduced to battle fatigue. Americans fought Fascism, amphetamine fought fatigue, the casualties would be numerous.
After single-handedly winning the war, America’s amphetamine obsession would continue to rage on. Obetrol would pick up steam in the 50s and 60s, prescribed initially as obesity medication. However, the drugs rapid fire stimulant properties would make it very popular with nonfat people too. Amphetamines would go mostly unchecked in the USA until 1970 when due to the profound usage and misusage, that cocksucker Nixon would sign the Comprehensive Drug Abuse Prevention and Control Act of 1970. The Controlled Substances Act would declare amphetamines a schedule II controlled substance. Thus ending Americans obsession with amphetamines. Nope. The signing of this law meant that the drug would just become more regulated.
Not an issue, though, plenty of legal disorders still allowed the screaming pharmaceutical lobbyist to push their dope. ADHD? We have a pill for that. *Just a note, Ritalin is not an amphetamine, Adderall is. Fat? We have pills for that. And when you become physically and chemically dependent on our drugs, we have pills to help you get over that. Big pharma really does get money on the front and back end.
With the new regulations, people who had previously abused amphetamines were now in need of a way to obtain them. You can only buy other people’s prescriptions for so long. This is where the big wheel of American capitalistic values gets powered by the supercharged engine of the American Dream! Supply and demand, free-market capitalism, and a group of marginalized veterans unwilling to assimilate back into traditional American values came together to converge into the perfect storm.
If people wanted to get high, American biker gangs would scratch that itch. The manufacturing and distribution of methamphetamines would be handled by these outlaws for the next twenty years. Eventually, though, the prized recipes would be leaked. Chefs would leave their former employers and strike out on their own. Enlisting the help of ordinary everyday addicts to procure the necessary accouterments, which were readily available. Bathtub meth was ready to be born. No need for the quality control of an illegal superlab, this shit can be done at home.
It is like this. John likes to smoke meth. Billy tells John that he will give him an ounce to cook his dope in Johns house. John says, “fuck, yes.” Billy cooks, John watches. Not too long later, John says he can cook this shit himself. John has his girlfriend Ashley and her friend Becky help him cook. Now Ashley, and Becky know how to cook too. Becky blows John. Ashley gets angry. John kills all of them in an explosion while making meth. It is like that.
Now, if you’re addicted to meth, or manufacture meth, and are going to get twenty-five years for cooking an ounce, or twenty pounds, what are you going to cook? Bathtub Meth would flood the streets.
This was all good until 2005. Big Pharma bitched and moaned and paid enough money to Republican campaign funds, that Bush signs CMEA, or Combat Methamphetamine Epidemic Act of 2005. Basically, you can’t buy pseudoephedrine by the caseload from truck stops anymore. Thus ending the outlaw mass production era, and the diy, shake and bake era. To an extent anyway. People are still cooking, it’s just scaled down.
We, as Americans, share a border run amuck with powerful drug cartels. Canada. No, not those lumberjack, hockey-playing, moose-fucking, free healthcare having socialist assholes to the North. I mean Mexico. See, Mexico if you didn’t know, is a lawless, godless country, ripe with corruption and greed. Very similar to America, but with less regulation. Seeing a significant demand with limited supply, the Mexican drug cartels happily stepped up to smuggle in meth. Most stepped on, chemical laden, trash product comes up from Mexico.
That is pretty much meth. From its inception to its current state. Please come back and see us for the next installment, How Its Made: METH. If you liked the story, be sure to like and share. If you hated it be sure to like and share. Like The Last Individual on Facebook and Instagram to stay informed on when we release a new article.