The Shit Bucket

By Red Ghetto Rebel

Dakota Treaty Territory

December 8, 2019

She exists for the meth high. She is the brooding stain on society, which lurks in the basement apartments of despair and perversion that society ignores. Unaffected by reality, she cuts her flesh with the razor blade of delusional gangrene.
In her mind, there is only one purpose, only one faith affliction. She needs the meth to tick-tock her life away. At any cost, she must survive for the cocktail of chemical euphoria to which she owes her soul.
Her insanity of choice this decade is her beloved meth. She calls it her medicine and worships it as all Satanists do. She craves the battery acid to which she finds 5 seconds of salvation — rocking back and forth while her green shit and piss bucket sits by her bed half full, floating on its particleboard destiny.
Her dirty mind infects the meth smoke-stained walls and her diseased rugs that permeate with dog piss and feces. Like all feral animals that live without the comforts of cleanliness, too socially abused to clean themselves, she swims in the filth of her life and calls it happiness.
She lures other addicts into her shit and urine hole abyss with her rat trap mouth, which snaps shut once her tapeworm tongue whispers their five-minute sanity away. Her blood-stained words pour from her nostrils as she cuts her victims into dollar bills and change for her next hit.
Unable to understand the role she played in the future of her offspring, she already condemned them long ago to addiction when she held them as infants and blew meth smoke into their innocent faces. Society has a new version of the grandmother, one that awaits to victimize anything that falls into her hole underneath the house.
All while laughing and giggling to the sound of her sadistic spongy gray matter consciousness whispering her satanic truth from her scarred lung tissue. What the world calls grotesque, she calls elation as her soul burns in her hell she calls normalcy.
Her rotting teeth have all but turned to sand in her mouth. She liked the way they crunched between her remaining nubs as they blackened and broke apart. She was eating her teeth, hoping to get high off them until her mouth became infected with the oozing abscess of her condemnation.
From her throne of dog urine, she spreads trouble and violence with the shit mouth on the back of her head. One of her horns rotted off her head long ago, and she used it to tamp her glass meth pipe as she watched one of her brood slowly die behind the truth in her little basement illusion. From that hole, she formed another mouth to inhale her fate through.
In the deepest and darkest ocean of society, she lives as the blind fanged demon that lures others to it with a small light protruding from her deformed forehead; from a distance, her victims can see this light in this emptiness and innocently swim to it. She waits for them and entraps them in her meth smoke as she feeds off their flesh, picking them apart, one scale at a time.
In her world, she is the ruler, but for those who see her in the light of the sun, she is feeble and broken, hacking up sickle cells that turn back to crawl back upon her pale skin. She picks at her flesh to try and remove them but only develops sores on her flesh like leprosy. 
She is the incarnation of a meth addict. Infested with a fate she cannot shake. The shadow of her death walks with her, slowly picking pieces of flesh from her slithery and sore riddled skin.
The mirror lies to her; the truth lies to her; inevitability lies to her. The sun and the moon lie to her lest they burn her flesh. In truth, she just refuses to believe them. The smell of a dead dog is her landscape. Having criminals and child molesters soothe her need is the demonic fact of her life. 
This is how she rules her oubliette. She sees nothing wrong with providing victims for her shit bucket followers if they return the favor.
Meth is her god. She worships it on her scabby knees and scabby arms, whispering her absolution from her scabby lungs. Meth courses through her blood and into her organs, rotting them from the inside out. One day she will not wake. One day the soul she sold to the sadist long ago will come due. Like little white worms, it will wiggle through her blood and infest her organs one last time. There is always a consequence, and she doesn’t know this yet. Only when her soul is falling toward hell, and her body lay lifeless will she realize what the mirror was showing her all along.
Those she leaves behind will praise her on the altar of addiction. The demon of meth awaits in the shadow ahead of them, meat cleaver in hand, ready to chop up their souls as promised by her for her hell in her basement world of meth.
Her green shit and piss bucket will await another to vomit their lives away. The dog piss and feces throne will pass on to the next track mark who awaits their chemical damnation.
Long Live The Fighters!

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