Crack Attack

It’s been awhile since I’ve submitted various, miscellaneous musings from the brainpan of a junkie and social leaper. No better time than the present.

Blake (my brother and creative collaborator) and I have been hard at work on the second issue of our comic book – the H-Boyz. It’s an autobiographical essay on our lives as hard rock’n narcotics abusers, sexual deviants and all around reprehensible bottom feeders in the aquarium of society.

Our comic serves as a punk-rock style middle finger pointed in the general direction of pop culture. We hate a lot.

One of my favorite stories in issue two is one written and pencilled by Blake. It’s called ‘Crack Attack.’ It’s about smoking crack. Brilliant, I know! I don’t need confirmation.

‘Crack Attack’ as an illustrated retelling of one of our countless journeys down the blighted path of smoking rock cocaine. Sure, we punched up the dialogue for comedic effect, but rest assured that every moment of this harrowing tale is true.

Roasting your first boulder of sweet, sweet ‘butter’ (as our drug dealer, Barney calls it) is like the soft embrace of a lover. That initial hit is the inhalation of a celestial cloud. Your brain fills with white lightning as a flood of endorphins wash over you in a gentle wave of euphoria.

That sensation lasts…oh, I would say…five seconds. The warm, fuzzy feeling is immediately chocked like a defenseless kitten and replaced with a clawing, hateful need that screams inside your skull with rabid, wanton, feral desire.

“More! More! MORE!” is the unending chorus in your mind, looping in a cycle of hunger that can’t be sated, even if you’re ‘fortunate’ enough to have another rock at your disposal.

I know that sounds bleak, but the comic is hilarious. If you want to check out the first issue of our comic, visit and order an issue. Issue #2 is being worked on and will be available soon.

Until next time, this is Clay Hatrison from the H-Boyz, reminding you that if it feels good, most likely it’ll get you into trouble, therefore you shouldn’t hesitate. Peace!


Hungover Like a Mother F$#*er!

I feel like a leaking bag of shit today. The staccato drum of pain in my temple feels alarmingly like a series of mild stroke. Acidic bile is percolating at the back of my throat as waves of nausea threaten to blanket retail customers in a column of vomit.

Calling in sick to a month old job is probably a bad idea. Fuck it. One of the few benefits to a shitty, minimum wage retail job is the freedom that comes with not giving a fuck.

So, staying loyal to my apathy, I decided to go to work anyway, hung over, smelling like fetid garbage left in the hot Atlanta sun, and openly unpleasant to the customers.

“Do you have any black Barbies?” some disembodied voice cuts through my muddled thoughts like the sudden rattle of a jackhammer.


“BLACK Barbie dolls!” the fat woman snorts, her forehead wrinkling in annoyance. “All the dolls here are white. Do you have any dolls of color?”

“No,” I sneer, fighting back the mouthful of yesterdays toaster pizza. “This store is run by white supremacists. They think black people are inferior.”

Her outrage renders the woman blissfully silent, allowing me the opportunity to stumble to the bathroom and retch violently.

Last night was a transient slur of booze fueled rage. Blake and I decided to practice, something I was convinced would improve our less-than-stellar live performance. I queued up a drum beat I liked and we got to it. Inevitably, things quickly degraded into bong hits, chopping up lines of prescription drugs, alcohol binging, then fist fighting as a nightcap.

Thankfully, Blake’s roundhouse jab missed my face, striking me on the side of the head. A painful lump the size of a small walnut is concealed by my hair, which is convenient. It’s important to maintain a professional level of presentation when working a shitty job you hate. It just won’t do to have a black eye or split lip when you’re selling action figures to spoiled children.

Despite my state of walking death, I’m glad I came to work today. Shit, I’m typing this blog on my phone while children turn the aisles into complete bedlam. I need the cash. Since this isn’t a full time gig, sick days are unpaid. As we all know, narcotics cost money.

An eight ball on payday is looking mighty tempting. Fuck rent.