The Ballad of Mr. Nectar

Mr. Nectar was a dear friend. The last time I saw him he was a juggler in a band of quasi-gypsies. He went by the moniker "Ocean the Grand" and could eat fire balls seven at a time. Always a good companion. Always a good companion. And the stories he would tell, I swear, would have you rolling on the floor.

His real name was Gordon. As far as I know all he ever did was take speed and not 

eat. But, I am rambling. You see, I am just writing this to document the unusual circums- tances surrounding his birth. He was a good man. Very honest and never told a lie. Though, I must admit to you, dear reader, he was born with a lying soul. An illusionist of sorts. He would lie, for sure, but did so with grace.

Mr. Nectar - this was the surname he chose for himself - never did a bad thing. You

can't say that about most people. Everyone has their flaws. But my friend Gordon could do things, you see. I am a forlorn creature, and I will admit to that mistake immediately. You must understand that. Seven suicide attempts. Friends lost. Narcissistic. To quote Dylan, "Honest to the point of recklessness." Actually, that is from the Dead. Anyway...

I steal freely. In fact, I am a Master Thief. Half of the time I'm not sure who I am.

I don't rightly care, you see. Mr. Nectar does things. I told you that already. But, more importantly he does things to people. By entering this matrix of information you are subject to MY flights of fancy. I will tell the straight story, but first you need to understand a few things.

You paid to have your mind bent, and I am going to bend it. I am like the "Ancient

Mariner" and I travel at will. Xanadu awaits. But we aren't going to Xanadu. No. It is go- ing to get strange. Weird even. Maybe perverse. Talking about my dear friend, dear reader, Mr. Nectar will be obscene at times. There will be sex. Depraved sex. There will be violence. But all of this is necessary to tell the story.

Keep in mind I am counting paragraphs here, and this is my way of being in control.

For instance, we are into the 6th paragraph. Already I am getting off topic. Fuck, I may get bored and never return to this story again. I'm already bored. I shouldn't have said that. Inspiration is like an orgasm.

I am going to rape you. Fuck you in the ass until... nevermind, I lost my train of 



Anyway, Mr. Nectar's real name was Gordon Heavyfinger. If you don't get the pun, than 

that is fine. I always hated the song "The Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald". It made no sense to me. Nevertheless, Gordon was born on April Fool's Day 1969. I met him when I was stoned at a party. He was high on speed, obviously. I was 17 and the song was some horrible disco song. It was 1982 in Buttfuck, Rhode Island.

I regret ever talking to the young man. I can honestly say I have no idea what a 13 

year old boy was doing at such a party. But, he was cute and all the ladies were mothering him. I was sitting in a corner, alone, and I saw this BABY strolling around. I was a Deadhead, at that time, and really stoned. Gordon sat beside me on this disgusting velvet couch and we struck up a conversation.

He had a cigarette dangling from his lips and told me how he just got laid by Sarah, a

really evil woman I had fallen in love with. Synchronicity. Before I get too deep into this li- ttle story let me tell you synchronicity and information play a vital role. I had wanted to lay Sarah since 3rd grade, and he got into this horrible rap about accidentally slip- ping his 13 year old little boy cock into her ass, "Accidentally". You see.

From the get-go I hated this little punk and I still can't remember why he was there. We

are on the 12th paragraph, by the way. For some reason I believed him. You should have seen the way he was being fondled by all the young woman. Gordon's parents were former Hippies, and he had this long blond hair and was absolutely gorgeous. An obnoxious little shit.

I saw him with Sarah, Jessica, Mary, Martha, Alice and practically every beautiful young 

woman I had the hots for. This little Boy! Strolling through a party with an eternally unlit sm- oke, just smiling and breaking hearts. I can't even listen to the Dead without thinking about th- at young man and feeling like human swine.

So I grabbed his little neck and slapped him. I spit in his face. That was the crux of 

our friendship later on. But, the bastard kicked me in the balls. I threw up on the couch. One of the first times I lost mulitple friends. Thurston - the Host of the Party - is dead and never forgave me for that. It turned out Gordon was his cousin visiting from Washington D.C.

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