Binge Marathon Sundays 5/4c
Alright everyone, I know you’ve been waiting eagerly for the latest electrifying details from the Schrader bedroom of excruciating long-term healing from a catastrophic injury. Well, put that Hungry Man dinner aside and turn away from the LOLcats, because… we had a bit of excitement this week. It feels like after months — years practically — of total isolation, I’ve now become a regular social butterfly. That’s right, last week was just a taste. It all blew up this week, and now I’ve got visitors left, right, and center. We’ve had family over for dinner… twice in the past week. I know, I’m blowing your minds here. And… my buddy from APD? He’s practically living here now he visits so often. Course, it’s the same few visitors, but I’m thinking any day now Shania Twain will saunter on in, and then we’ll really be cooking.
Alright, maybe it’s not as exciting as cute kittens saying shit in broken English. (I know I’m behind the times, but seriously… this is a thing? Bless you crazy internet losers.) But wheels are turning. Remember my karaoke-loving meth kingpin? Seemed pretty much case closed — big-time drugland wheeler-dealer shot in the face and good ‘ole Hank Schrader late to the party. I’d made peace with it. Day late and a dollar short — just how it goes. Not to get all head-shrinker, let’s join hands and sing kumbaya about it, but I was feeling like maybe I’d gotten some closure on the whole thing. It’s been a hell of a year, and now it was like closing the book — the fruity, vegan-recipe filled meth cookbook — on the whole thing.
I mean, it was hard to believe that this was the guy — just based on the freaking nerdy Captain Koo-Koo Bananas of him. I admit, if I’d run into this guy on the street, I’d have a hard time seeing past all his Howdy-Doody aw-shucksness to the supposed dark meth underbelly. Going through the loopy bastard’s life’s work — the whole thing’s left me more sad than anything else. He could have been curing cancer, but no… he’s supplying the dregs of humanity with crystal meth. He even made it a festive blue. That’s some deeply dysfunctional shit right there.
So there I was, all set to throw in the towel, and then my brother-in-law busts out some wisdom at dinner the other night. Well, maybe it was just drunken rambling. I’m pretty sure he cleaned us out of wine over the course of the evening. But drunk or no, I think he may have been on to something. It seems like maybe… my drug kingpin is still out there.
I mean, it makes a certain amount of sense. It’s hard to believe that Mr. Rogers here really had the killer instinct to run a sprawling meth empire. I know people often have hidden depths and all that bullshit, but seriously… this guy was one crunchy, earnest as shit, free spirit. The more I look at this diary of his, the less I see secret ruthless depths and the more I see kooky lapdog in over his head.
So it’s back to the grind for me. It’s been a little while since I’ve done actual casework, but it feels pretty good. Of course, I’m staying inside. I’m not trusting my reflexes right now to save me from yet another shootout with some insane douchebucket hitman. I mean, really… how effed up is it that I now have “avoid asshole hitmen” as a real, actual daily task on my to-do list? Therefore, I’m going to be devoting my brain to this more than my body. Yeah, yeah… keep laughing.