A story of youth, addiction, life, love and death. What happens when a drug fuelled existence becomes a dull, daily grind leading to realisation and recovery…perhaps.
As moose stared intently at the blank page sat open and expectant on the screen of his newly acquired but ageing fourth or fifth hand laptop he became increasingly frustrated as he mulled over a multitude of masterful opening lines for his first novel.
The simple fact of the matter was that Moose Oakley knew all the theory on how to write a novel and had indeed produced many pieces of prose and poetry in the past, even a couple of short stories of note, but that was all years ago now.
In short he had not made the most of his talent or his opportunities. Just the opposite in fact!
For now we will leave him sat at his laptop and return later to see what if anything has made it from his mind onto the page.
Because the story of how he came to be sat in the living room of a long suffering friend on whose sofa he was now calling home is a far more intriguing tale.
A tale of ambition, greed, addiction and compulsive sociopathic tendencies backed up by a good education a charming and persuasive manner and an unerring sense of self belief and entitlement, this is Moose’s tale.
Just a shade under six foot with grey blue eyes, a small scar visible next to his left eye, moose paused in a shop doorway. The reason for this momentary pause was two-fold, he wanted to ignite his Marlboro that had been hanging from his lips for the best part of thirty minutes and also because he wanted to examine his reflection in the smoked glass window. With the knowing vanity of youth his zippo glinting in the low winter sun he inhaled the toasted tobacco and first drag petrol vapour with a long slow deliberate intake of breath. He studied his own reflection with a studious but cool regard, his peroxide blonde French crop, the stainless steel spike through his nose, the full length tyrolean steinbock flowing from neck to ankles which themselves were ensconced in a pair of black dm’s. Puffing on the last of his cigarette moose then removed his sunglasses as the sun hid behind some of camdens bigger office buildings. As he slid his oakleys into their soft case and stowed them safely into the inside pocket of his coat he resumed his route march toward Archway and the warmth and comfort of his new north London residence. After spending the best part of two years living in hostels and shared houses it was a good feeling to finally have a place of his own in the metropolis that was London. Home at last moose moves straight to the kitchen and starts to gather all the paraphernalia needed in order to prepare a much needed fix. Spoon, filter, citric acid, water, syringe, alcohol wipes, leather belt and last but not least two tightly bagged ten pound bags of gear. Having cooked up and drawn the boiling fix into his pin, moose tightly strapped his belt round his upper left arm and with surprising skill and dexterity hit his vein first time drew a scarlet swirl into the barrel then pressed home the plunger and loosened the belt off and then with a big sigh of relief sank down onto the chair in his kitchen as he felt the opiate warmth spread throughout his body. Now casually draped over his sofa in the living room of his apartment hours had passed by and not much in the way of thought or action had entered moose’s brain, that was about to change.