Palazzo Apartments, #205. El Cerrito
Satisfied regulars describe LC’s weed as “dank” and “where are my keys.” Service is “butt-slow,” however; calling an hour ahead is recommended “so he can wake up and answer the door.” Also, closed from 5-8 on Tuesdays and Thursdays due to “finally having to pass Math 54 at Southwestern to get my AA so I can transfer to Long Beach State and get a job like playing volleyball or fuckin’ something.” Proprietor adds: “Maybe a ferret trainer. Do they have those?”
Jimmy the Fuckup
Outside an abandoned warehouse on the edge of town
Many conflicted customers offer praise for his “four hour long orgasm where you’re coming harder than a firehose”-quality Ecstasy, but advise against his “yellow-ass rocks.” “Don’t bother with the crack,” says one regular. “Get the Mitsus and I don’t give a fuck if you’re getting mauled by a bear, it’s gonna feel like God’s downy nutsack.”
By appointment only. (510) 230-5948
“Simply the best coke in town, this town, any town, you name a town,” according to one satisfied customer. His yay is described as “silky smooth” but with a drip that tastes “like the Tijuana River took a Carne Asada dump in a camping ground porta-potty” and “unimpressive.” A little on the pricey side, with a grammy going for Triple Twomps and a siggity for “more money than I make down at the Hyundai Dealership in a week.” Blowjobs are acceptable, but only if “you’re not a fag, because I’m not.”
Somewhere off San Pablo, Oakland
“My [fellow black person] Flint does one thing and he does it right: rocks.” His crack is “the toast of the town” and “of course it’s good, it’s crack.” More of a mobile caterer, Jonz shifts locations nightly. “Try parks and bus stops,” advises one customer. Caution: Jonz keeps his rocks in his cheek, and is known to have “all them kinds of Hepatitises.” So “make sure you already have Hepatitis” to avoid disappointment.
The alley behind Harry’s Bridal
If you’re looking for speed at decent prices, then Flaco can’t be beat, except by “six Haitians and this big Dominican bitch with a shovel.” Sporting “more tattoos than a prison,” this colorful character has established a successful business from the West Side alleyways. Describing his decor as a fusion of “what you want” and “I said what you want,” Flaco always welcomes customers with his signature butterfly knife swipe at the face. “After he stabs you, watch him turn around and hop over the ten foot straight brick wall,” comments one customer. Another concurs: “That little fucker runs like the wind, if the wind weighed ninety-two pounds and wore K-Swiss.”
He’ll find you
Not much is known about this dealer, but he can provide “anything chief, anything” for the right price. His familiar greeting of “Hey chief” welcomes you to his sprawling estate, where he conducts much of his big-ticket deals. “This is only for serious connoisseurs, chief” explains one business associate. But if you’re looking for “black tar, red rum, or white china, then go talk to our brown friend, chief.”
2100 Westbrook Ct. Suite 1001. San Francisco.
“I gotta go see the Doctor,” says one regular with a wink and an uncontrollable tremor. Be it Dilaudid, Oxy or Vike, The good Doctor Ted will write you up a prescription for “backitis” or “heart cancer.” Caveat Emptor – it comes at a price. “Sold my car, sold my car,” relates a loyal customer. “Anyone want to buy a baby?” cautions another. However, if you’ve got the means, The Doctor provides a “wonderful” and “[the sound of repeated lip smacking]” experience.