The Book of Gouval: Ghetto Magik: The Books of Gouval, #5

By Lord Gouval

The first of a new series in The Book of Gouval Saga—Ghetto Magik renders a young Mike Vinn growing up in a small Californian town—which he quickly turns on its head with the help of his friends James and Doug—along with Sheriff Harold, District Attorney Jefferie, Principal Bobo, and the mysterious Alfonso—who seems all too willing to fund Gouval Inc.—Mike's skateboard company. A tale of depravity, longing, success and excess—Ghetto Magik further extends Lord Gouval's reputation for dexterity in storytelling.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gouval Inc. Press
• Release date: Feb 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201525279

Book preview

You can get high off marshmallows? This dweeby, dumb cherub looking kid asked James and I—sitting on the curb just inside Ghetto Magik’s gate—the name we gave to an abandoned subdivision project we’d recently taken over, in the summer of 2008, just before our freshman year of high school.

"You can get high as hell off marshmallows man. The problem is, they’re really expensive at Shell *snuff* so you gotta give us.. well how much you got?" James asked—that trout snout of his seemingly always flooded with snot. There was a Shell station just down the pebble path leading to Ghetto.

Like.. 40 bucks? I don’t know where James met that kid, though he seemed to be a reliable source of money—so long he never went grocery shopping with his mother and glanced at the price of a Jet-Puffed bag.

That’ll do *snatch* alright uh.. meet us at that church on Silver Rapids.. we can’t smoke here man.. you know Sheriff Harold? He chased us all the way up Heart-Vixen yesterday—shaking a fist and saying he’d be passing a law to make smoking marshmallows illegal. James pocketed the twenties. I were doing my best to not laugh.

We’re gonna smoke at a church??! He seemed more flabbergasted about that than the notion of getting high on marshmallows. I assumed he still believed in santa.

Na man na, we know a guy who lives around there. We’ll walk to his house.. just meet us. James said. I couldn’t take it anymore and started skating towards the gate, laughing into my elbow. The dork started up along Ghetto. The only way you could reach Silver Rapids without using the highway were by jumping the green-gate at Ghetto’s leftmost end. That were a long walk for that pudgy fucker. We’d have bought the weed and made it back before he realized he were lost in that suburb.

Told you man. Forty fuckin’ bucks just like that. *Snuff* Ay it’s Doug. James slapped the bills around, then waved at Doug as he pushed up. I were calling E, our current preferred dealer.

You need? He, and most dealers I interacted with always answered a call like that. ‘You need?’

Yeah uh.. ay you got any money? I asked after giving Doug dap. He pulled out a twenty dollar bill. Sixty bucks worth. I said, knowing he’d hook it up. James explained our hustle on that dweeb kid. Doug thought he were joking at first. ‘Nobody could be that stupid.’ ‘He seriously gave us forty dollars to buy marshmallows.’ Doug shrugged, as forty dollars were forty dollars.

Where you at? He asked while likely pulling out the bud from under his bed, along with the digital scale. E lived with his mother—who happened to be a CO. Not quite a cop, though still—he had to be careful. It were easier for him to drive up to Ghetto and make a quick transaction, rather than risk his mom walking in—finding three fourteen year olds in her house. That could only mean one of two things: Her son were a pervert or a drug dealer.

Just outside Ghetto. I said, and that street were fairly barren—as were the whole town. To my right were a dentist’s office, and to my left a preschool. Shell were about forty yards past the preschool. 

You said sixty right?.. aight I’ll meet you guys there. He snuffed, then hung up. James were peeking over the chain-link fence—making sure that kid were really heading towards the suburb which would eventually lead to Silver Rapids—if you knew how to get there in the first place—and he’d likely never left his house before.

He gone yet? I asked while pocketing my phone. James were six feet tall, and could see over the hill to the gate’s left better.

Pretty much. What’re we gonna do about food though? James asked. We always forgot to save some money for at least a big bag of chips.

I checked the time. Janice would probably make us some chicken tenders or something. Janice worked at The Vista Grille—the local golf course’s clubhouse, which were just a bit past Shell down the highway. Nobody but old people ate their breakfast there, and the restaurant closed at two on weekdays. Janice and Amber would still turn the deep-fryer on for us and make some tenders and onion rings, if the manager were gone.

Is she working today? Doug asked. I called the bar.

Vista Grille, Janice speaking. She chimed in her friendly bartender voice.

Hey it’s Mike, is Big Bird gone? Their manager looked like Big Bird—some mean tall dyke with a dick bigger than her own shoved up her ass.

She’s gone, you got any? We generally smoked them out when they raided the walk-in fridge to feed us.

It’s on the way.

I’ll get the deep-fryer going. Janice smiled, then put the phone back on the dock before walking up to the kitchen. Amber were already in there, asking the dishwasher to get another keg of Coors Light for her.

And we’re set. We should come up with a story for that kid, so he’ll give us money again.. like, I paused to chuckle, Like Sheriff Harold had been watching us the whole time, shoved us into his car and confiscated all our money. And next time—we’ll tell him you can get high off beef jerky chew. We were all laughing. James lifted up his knee to slap, knowing that dumb-dumb would buy whatever we sold. He must’ve been bored. Most kids were in that small town. Only boring people get bored.

Fuckin’ beef jerky chew.. we’ll tell him you gotta smoke like.. five cans to get a buzz, and that we’ll need like.. eighty bucks for all that—see if he can come up with it. James said, thinking we’d bleed that kid dry until his mom asked what all the money were for? ‘Mom.. I feel so guilty.. my friends they.. they taught me you could smoke marshmallows, beef jerky chew and gummy sharks to get high..’ ‘Oh sweetie, I doubt they’re actually your friends.’

We still need a more consistent source of revenue.. without doing much for it. Doug said. We couldn’t keep hustling that one kid forever. I stroked my soft chin, then slapped James’ arm. You know that old lady we’ve been fucking with? I bet we could fool her into giving us money. That whole summer, we’d been prank calling some old broad who’s number ended in 1234. She were either senile or ennui ridden, as she always answered and humored the insane shit we fought through laughter.

James pulled out his phone. Doug offered me a Red. I took it and sparked up while James rolled his finger around, waiting for her to pick up. Uh hello, mam?.. yes this is Nathanial Johnson from Whirlpool, and boy do we have a deal for you today—a stainless steel, double door fridge with a filtered water dispenser and bottom drawer freezer—our finest model yet, and we’re prepared to offer it to you for five thousand.. really?.. I mean uh.. yeah just.. I’ll tell you what—you leave the five thousand out on your front porch—in cash—and we’ll come by with your new fridge before.. five.. of course we’ll haul your old one out—free of charge.. thank you mam. We at Whirlpool pride ourselves on customer satisfaction.. uh what’s your address?.. perfect, we’ll be over within a couple hours. James cut the call, then finally laughed his ass off along with us. It were always a good time—making prank calls while waiting for a drug dealer.

Five fucking grand?? Where’s she live? I balked at having that much cash for bud, booze.. hell we could even afford pizza now.

Huckleberry. James pocketed his phone as we watched E drive up slow in his green Ranger. James and Doug handed me the money, since I’d made the call.

Here’s half an ounce—good Blue Dream too. E handed me a freezer bag half full of thick, chunky dark-green nugs. I gave him the money. He didn’t even bother to check if it were all there. He just gave me dap, checked around for witnesses, then backed out and turned towards the highway. James opened his black Jansport while Doug and I smelt the bud. There was no such thing as bammer shit in Calaveras. Everybody and their mother grew weed up there, and generally it were bomb. Dealers had to compete with dispensaries, after all, and both were getting their supply from the same sources—growers living up in the hills who’d been tinkering with strains for decades, and they were damn good at what they did. Admittedly it weren’t on the level of shit from Frisco or LA, though it were still quality weed.

Alright uh.. shit you carry this, and I’ll go get the five grand. James handed me his backpack. The straps were damp with sweat, though it were a hundred degrees out, and we were all sweaty. Huckleberry weren’t that far away. Once you crossed the highway from what we’ll call Ghetto Lane, you’d be on Vista Del Lago—the main throat of La Contenta—the golf course suburb we lived on. Huckleberry were about a hundred and fifty yards down that street on the right—and half the trip were downhill, the other up—the right turn being the middle of the uphill. Doug and I would be hopping over the rain ditch before La Contenta Plaza—which were a small strip of businesses containing Vizions—our local skate shop, Pizza Factory, an adoption agency, some financial advisor guy, a computer repair shop, and in a separate building next to Vista were a free clinic. If you walked down the hill next to Vizions and hopped another ditch, you’d be on the golf course’s practice area—behind the range nets.

Crossing Highway 26 were dicey. There wasn’t a crosswalk, so you just sprinted across once you saw a safe opening. Often if one didn’t come quick enough, we’d get reckless and just run in front of cars—hoping they’d slow down. They never did, though we were all fairly fast from skating and walking around everywhere.

You got any papers? Doug spat back into the rain ditch after we’d crossed. I tapped the ash off my Red, then pulled out my Zags. We could blaze in the smoking area outside the bar. All the golf pros smoked weed, and most of the oldies were closet stoners. If there were too many unfriendlies around, we could hotbox Janice or Amber’s car.

We hopped the ditch and landed on the moist green grass. The parking lot looked empty enough. It generally were on a lazy Tuesday afternoon. They kept the bar open until seven on most summer days—just in case some stray golfer walked in asking for a beer. Generally Amber and Janice just bled the clock—smoking Marlboro Lights and tidying up the place.

Five fuckin’ grand.. how do you divide five thousand into three? Doug asked while we passed the tall, tattered nylon netting held up by silver poles. Neither of us were all that good at math.

We’ll just share it. I shrugged. We hung out everyday, always blazed and drank together. We could trust each other.

Good man, Doug patted my right arm. Would they buy us booze? If we paid them, they’d probably take it right out the liquor room. I said, then realized we’d be wasting money by not robbing that room. Big Bird were a lush herself, and just did whatever Sheriff Harold told her to. He owned the course and restaurant.

Alright so you distract them while I steal the booze. Doug had been thinking along my line, and accepted James’ pack—grimacing at the moist straps. I grabbed a stray golf towel to wipe my arms off.

Careful about that dishwasher. I said as we hit the pavement. The kitchen were right outside the booze stash. Doug felt he could take that skinny fucker. The dishwasher were in his early twenties, and seemed like a nice guy. I doubt he would’ve tattled upon catching Doug walking out with a sagging pack full of bottles he didn’t even own.

What if you need a key to open the door? Doug brought up they wouldn’t likely leave their holy grail in an unlocked room.

Either Janice or Amber has it nearby.. I wouldn’t doubt if they left it right by the register up there. I said. There were two registers—one between the kitchen and booze stash, and one behind the bar. I hoped they didn’t keep the keys in their pockets, though also doubted they’d stop us from robbing the manager they hated.

Or we could use this. Doug pulled out the slim-Jim we’d found outside the dentist’s office a couple weeks ago—a valuable tool when you’re prone to breaking into cars and cheaply locked doors lacking an alarm.

Put that away. I shoved it into the pack. Janice and Amber were waiting on the elevated smoker’s section—puffing from Lights and looking out to Beaver Creek, which ran along the first teebox, the ninth green, then curved around and up along the fairway. That creek stretched from the belly of Vista, all the way down to the eighteenth fairway’s mid. We called it Beaver Creek, as there was a colony who dwelled along the ninth fairway. They were always building dams, felling trees, causing floods. I thought they were cool.

Hi Mikey! Janice waved. I waved back, hoping they had the tenders and onion rings going.

Whatchu got? Amber poked a pack strap after we’d escalated the big concrete steps. Doug took it off, then pulled out the half. Their eyes bolted open, then glanced back at the bar. There was this one old guy who regulared damn near everyday—from morning until they closed. He dressed relatively nice, shaved often, owned well kempt grey hair, glasses, though he were all but glued to the leftmost end stool. He never said much, according to Janice, just ordered Coors Light.

Alright uh.. meet us by my car, and we’ll box up the food. Janice shoved her cig into a glass tray on the long concrete bench running along the edifice, then followed Amber inside. They could get away with anything around that old guy. They were likely his only friends. We were the liabilities. Doug walked in—saying he just had to take a leak. I skated around towards the parking lot. On the building’s side were a wine barrel with a couple chairs beside it—a more private smoking area, I guess. Janice’s car were a beat up black Accord. I kickflipped off the small two stair at the smooth path’s end, then pushed towards it—hoping Doug and James were successful in their missions.

Doug ran out the front door—grinning wide with the pack in his arms. Dude it were wide fucking open. I grabbed all this while they boxed up the food. Doug grinned while showing me the tops of Jameson, Jack and Bombay bottles. I yanked the half out, then said he couldn’t move that pack around much—as it’d be a hellacious maraca. Doug nodded as Amber and Janice walked out with the styrofoam boxes of tenders, onion rings, and possibly some fries. We did have a half to blaze, after all. I were awaiting a call from James, assuming he must’ve reached Huckleberry by then. James were a fast walker—an industrious sort who always seemed to be on a mission.

Doug and I stepped into the backseat—Doug keeping that pack as close to his chest he could, then slowly dropped it between his legs. I handed Amber the half while she opened the glovebox—pulling out Janice’s bright blue spoon pipe. I opened my grub box while accepting a call from James.

I got it!! Dude I got it!! He beamed while skating down Vista at warp speed. His box were to my right. I nodded at Doug. He fought the urge to grab one of those Jameson fifths and pound it in honor of our accomplishments. We’d be doing that later, over and over.

We’re in Janice’s car. Make haste. I cut the call, then accepted greens from Amber.

I scooted over while James quickly closed the door—so the hotbox wouldn’t leak out. He put the food on his lap, then accepted the second bowl we’d started.

We should just have.. what’s his name? Janice squinted at Amber. The dishwasher? Amber squinted back. Yeah him.. we should have him pour that old guy drinks, cause.. I’m not going back in there. Janice shook her head. That were some damn good blue dream, and the greasy food were weighing us down into the seats. Well we should just clockout and head to your place. No no.. no.. we just leave, then clockout.. later. Janice grinned while starting the car up. James nudged me while pointing his eyes at the backpack, as it were clearly more bloated than he last saw it. I showed him five spread fingers. He knew what that meant.

Dishy!.. well I don’t know your name.. anyway would you pour that old guy more Coors Light? Maybe talk to him a little?.. well we’re.. on another mission.. that still sounds more fun than washing dishes?.. thank you. Janice grinned while cutting the call. I assumed he’d said ‘you’re just smoking with those three fourteen year olds again.’

Dishy.. hehe.. we should’ve stolen some beer or something. Amber brought up. Janice backed up, parked outside the front door, then ran in. Doug were fighting laughter fits. I hit the pipe—getting good and stoned.

Is Dishy cool? I exhaled. He never says much.. he just.. washes dishes. Amber shrugged—hawking the front door. I passed Doug the pipe.

Janice ran out with a bussing bin full of bottles. If you’re gonna steal something—don’t go small. Take everything you can possibly carry. She tossed the smelly bin onto my lap, slammed the door then peeled out. Amber looked over the stock, then grabbed a fifth of Jose Silver. Doug were glad to have another source of glass clanking now. I pulled out a fifth of Jameson, James grabbed some Dewar’s, and Doug figured if he heard Bombay so often in rap songs, it must be good.

Why, oh why Janice.. do you have Dishy’s number? Amber asked after taking a long tequila hit. Janice were waiting for a chance to turn right onto 26.

So he can clockout for me whenever he leaves. Janice shrugged, then floored it onto the highway. Amber still had her suspicions.. were she fucking Dishy? Or had she just stared at the list of employee names and numbers on the bulletin board for so long she couldn’t help but memorize it? Though not his actual name?

Well at least Dishy’s good for something. Amber reached back and poured some tequila down my throat. Nothing better than getting drunk, especially with a shit ton of weed, some good friends, and two beautiful older women taking you to their.. wherever they lived. I assumed it were a house.

Both Janice and Amber lived in the apartments of La Contenta—just across from the eighteenth fairway. They could’ve walked to work, as the clubhouse weren’t a hundred yards away. It were the low-income housing area—in the middle of a large loop and surrounded by nice, cookie cutter dwellings.

Make sure.. make sure Dishy knows.. to clock.. *hiccup* to clockout for us. Amber were drunk by the time Janice parked in her garage. They both lived in the nicer apartments—the two story blue ones. I were fairly thrashed, to the point I didn’t even care about food. I just wanted more booze, and there was enough on my lap to kill a lesser being at least twice.

If he doesn’t want me to blame all that on him, he’ll do it. Janice gestured back at the booze bottles. I walked out with Doug—so his backpack noises would seem to be the bin clanking.

All the apartments either had a parking area, or a garage separate from the house itself. For the blue apartments—between the garage and house were a small, fenced off area, where most kept their trashcans, sometimes a grill, though generally it were a peaceful little smoking area—a cement bench near the door leading into the kitchen.

Benny—Janice’s cat met us at the door—a fat grey critter with blue eyes. He seemed stoic—a good Russian blue. Janice reached down to pet him. He arched his back and circled around while I drunkenly bumped into Amber. She laughed while grabbing the bin, then walked it to the white tile kitchen counter. Those blue apartments were damn good dwellings by any means. In that hall were a half-bath to the left, and past that a water closet for the washer and dryer. The kitchen were to the right, and down the hall were the living room—each featuring a fireplace.

Mike’s drunk. Amber giggled. After guzzling that tequila and Jameson, I were good and stumbling—requiring some outward sense of balance. Doug collapsed in the hall after downing half that Bombay bottle, and James were ick-facing over scotch. He switched to some Stoli.

I’m fine.. the cat helps.