United Crack Dealers of America Disclaimer: No actual crackheads or bygone Divas/R&B artists were harmed during the production of this story, though several midgets and a hooker named 'Candy' were. Kids, don't do drugs - so you don't act like everyone else does...

You wake up on the floor of your Government-issued apartment and look around at the deplorable mess with the nervousness of a cornered rodent. Loose papers and pornographic magazines are splayed across the floor alongside empty beer cans and a couple of broken crack pipes. You're still a little hazy from last night. You see, last night you passed out after smoking what you were told was crack, but what turned out to be little chinks of hard plastic. It burned the shit out of your throat and knocked you out cold from a severe lack of oxygen to your 'brain'(which produced its own mild buzz, though nothing tangible compared to your beloved crack). You almost consider smoking the rest of them but rethink this, keenly aware that you'll just be smoking plastic again. No matter how well it mimics the glorious crack rock in texture and appearance, it is not and never will be that coveted substance.

You look around the place as you rise slowly to your feet. God dammit to Hell. You need .some crack!! And all you have is plastic. Fucking plastic! You curse aloud when you realize that you will have to scrape melted plastic out of your lucky crack pipe before you can use it again. That crack dealer is going to pay when you find her. You'll make that ho sorry she ever thought to sell plastic to an experienced crack connoisseur such as yourself. The bitch.Your eyes keep wandering aimlessly back to the plastic bits, so uncannily bearing the resemblance of your precious rocks. Your precious, precious rocks. Crack cocaine is altogether precious to you. It is your precious and you love your precious dearly. You consider smoking the plastic again, but curse your stupidity. It's plastic you tell yourself over and over like it's your unholy mantra. It's plastic.

You need to get some crack. In a desperate move, you slide a hand into your back pocket only to find that you are not wearing anything and that this so called 'pocket' is in actuality ass crack, not to be confused with your sacred crack-cocaine. You sigh dispassionately. It looks like this will be the only crack you'll be able to lay your hands on, and this crack is shitty. You need some quality rocks. You find your clothes in a crumpled heap on the floor. They smell like shit, but then so does everything else in this festering dung-heap that the American tax-payer has provided you with. You put them on in a hurry, checking the pockets for money but finding nothing within but some sperm-laden tissues and your 'preferred customer' card to the local XXX Emporium (it entitles you to a 10% discount and a free strap-on dildo with every purchase of $100 or more). You need money to get crack. You need crack to be happy. How are you going to get money?

You glance over at a bag on the floor and your heart lightens. It looks like you have a little crack left from last night! But wait... What was it about that crack? It's plastic, you remind yourself. It's plastic. Double damn.