Lester Gartland was conscious.
He didn't like crack heads clouding his airways.
Only he was the one allowed to carry the mic.
Even if it was a cheap 100 baht one.
My diet pill trip started getting bad when Gartland turned on me.
Once I had wired him cash, he owned me.
He knew with his authority, he could get more.
He was worth more than $260.
And he knew it.
He'd make me feel guilty then let me up the price.
He already had me.
I promised him whores and a microphone.
The old Asian hands held you to it.
Even if it was bullshit.
My claim was rejected.
A police investigation for fraud.
Gartland emailed the law firm and told them I was a con man.
Takes one to know one, is all I can say.
And who hasn't fucked a ladyboy up the ass?
'See, see,' said Gartland, frothing at the mouth, 'he's a fucking faggot.'
Don't turn on Gartland, he has a long memory.
He'll always look down on us on the Moral Highground, king of his dung heap.
