Once upon a time, in the mysterious land of Brooklyn, New York, Ruiz Duchamp was getting fucked up in Joey's house.
twinkly wind chime sound effects
“Ruiz. Your art. I'm telling you, it's not good.”
“Everyone's a fucking critic,” he said as he threw back his head and swallowed.
“Should you really be taking all of those together? Won't that like, kill you?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely. And what's it too you if I die? And my art is fantastic you prick.”
“It's a bunch of saw blades hanging from the ceiling, with letters that spell ‘this s art u fcuks.'”
Ruiz took a swig. “Indeed it is.” He took a puff. “But you're missing the point.”
“Which is?”
Ruiz chewed and swallowed. “That it's art and that you're a fuck.”
“Oh my god.”
“Listen, Joey. What was the last cool thing you made? That cheesy celery platter whatever. Cheese and celery don't even go together.” He sniffed and licked his fingers.
“Your dad seemed to like it.”
“My father is a self-righteous Critic. Just like you!” Ruiz stood up and walked over to Joey's sofa. He face-planted into a throw pillow. “Vve problmm wivv ur urt iz -“
“What?”
Ruiz lifted his face off the pillow. “The problem with your art, Joey, is that it all has to do something. It has to serve some purpose. Why can't it just exist, and in existing fulfill its purpose of being art. Art should evoke, not invoke. Art should make you feel like you just did a line, not help you draw one. And art should definitely not be food. That's dumb, Joey. It's just dumb.”
“If you didn't like my cheesy celery bites it, you didn't have to eat them.”
“But I did Joey! And they were gross.”
Joey took a sip of his coffee. “You're an asshole, Ruiz.”
“No, I'm a dick. There's a difference. And this dick has to take a piss. You got a bathroom in here?”
“Down the hall.”
Ruiz Duchamp rose from the couch and stumbled down the dimly lit hall. The morning light barely reached the shaded bathroom. Ruiz fished a bit of mushroom from between his molars. “Nobody gets it,” he mumbled as he closed the door behind him. “Nobody gets it.”
Ruiz's ears ached at the sound of urine meeting toilet water. The sound was deafening. Ruiz watched as the tornado in a bowl became a star-speckled, nebula smoothie. “Here we ffffucking gooo.”
Ruiz slammed open the bathroom window, and punched through the thin metal screen. He took a running dive through this new trans-dimensional portal and landed in the side yard. The bathroom was on the ground floor so Ruiz fell about 6 feet but probably cracked a rib. He slowly got up with a groan then took off running down the street.
Joey stood in the open bathroom door and took in the scene. There was large puddle of very dark pee next to the toilet, which he didn't even blink at, but he looked for a long time at the torn, slightly bloody, window screen. “Well. That's new.”
Molly walked down the stairs and over to Joey. “Hey. Don't let Ruiz come in this house anymore.”
“Yeah.”

“Cause yer friends don't dance and if they don't dance, then they're no friends o'mine.” Ruiz had slowed to a jog and also veered into the middle of the street. Lucky for him, Joey lived in a quiet neighborhood with little traffic. Unlucky for that little traffic, most of it was stuck behind Ruiz. Ruiz's painfully off-key singing was interspersed with many honks and shouts of profanity - and not all of it from himself.
Ruiz's trajectory eventually skewed enough that he drifted off the road and on to the side walk and into the yards and through a stranger's house.
Cops were called.

Ruiz arrived at the shop at exactly 11:46 am. and promptly sat down in the waiting area. The sign above the door swung lightly in the wind: “The Snipper of New York.” He made an appointment as soon as the first hair dresser was available. “She must be new,” he thought. He also pondered as to why she was so calm when her hair was on fire, but only briefly. Ruiz sat back down and waited quite patiently, given his current mental state. Mr. Pico Wilson walked into the main floor of the shop from a back room. He walked over to the front desk computer, not noticing his brother, now intensely fixated on a purple hula dancer hanging from the ceiling. Pico performed his usual check of customer numbers and current transactions. He finally checked the waitlist.
“What the motherfucking shit? Who the shit let Ruiz IN THE BUILDING?”
“I think that would be your new girl,” Ruiz said, still staring at the ceiling.
“GET OUT.” Pico screamed.
“Fuck you, Pico.”
“Are you drunk again?” Pico began reaching for the phone.
“Among other things.”
“I'm calling the police.”
“No. Shit. No. I can't get caught by those Stupid Cock-sucking Police again.”
Ruiz bolted out the door. The bell jingled as he left.

John Nelson, sat at his desk as his class worked on their projects. 1:24 pm. Nearly time to go home. Nelson got up to check on the student's progress. Jane was working on a very curvy vase for her mother. It seemed to being going along nicely. Steve was making a bowl for his girlfriend… at least it looked like a bowl. Ruiz was working on. Wait. The fuck
“Ruiz,” he whispered, “what the ever loving fuck are you doing here?”
“I thought I could learn a little bit about art from The Sculptor himself. Since I'm apparently so bad at it.”
“Ruiz, you can't be here. How many drugs are you even on right now?”
“Your mom.”
“What?”
“I'm on your mom.”
“God dammit Duchamp.”
“Wooooaaaahhh. John. I don't mean to freak you out. But there are like 12 of you right now.”
“What are you talking about Ruizzzzzz
ZZZZZ”

Oh fuck.

RUIZ.
you need to
GET OUT of herrrrrrrrrrr
EEee
eee
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fcuk
John Nelson's arms split in three.
Ruiz covered his eyes with his tentacles.

Ruizz

There were about
12 17 a fuckton of 40 copies of Mrrrrrrrrr Nelson now. Each one shatttered into clay, only to be replaced by one and a half more.
“I think I ought to leaf.”

“Ruiz. I'm telling you. You need to lay off the drugs.” Came a disembodied voice.

But I like them

“They're not good for you. You need help."
A phone erupted from his navel. “Please see a doctor,” it said.

I don't want to

“The drugs, they fuck you up.”
“THAT. IS. THE PURPOSE. OF THE DRUGS."
“I know. I get it. But get it somewhere else. Sorry.”
Ruiz was disappointed. He walked into his favourite room, passing the box of ecstacy pills saying ‘These are Ecstacy Pillz'. He looked passively beyond ‘here are the hypodermic needles'. He had one piece that he'd been saving for a particularly disappointing event. He closed the shower curtain, and breathed slowly. Everyone was a fucking idiot. Nobody got it. Nobody REALLY got it. As he turned the knob, liquid water sprayed across his scalp and flesh. His final thoughts were that it didn't matter. At least he got it. He really got it. And that was all he needed.
Nobody got it.
Ruiz Duchamp woke up on the bathroom floor, his clothes soaking wet. His head nearly imploded as he turned off the shower. “Fucking hell,” he said as he walked over, eyes half open, to his stash.
“Never again,” he said, as he dumped them all into the toilet.
Never again

Never again

Never again?

NE
VER
AGAIN?
never again
Never again.
Never Again
NEVER AGAIN
He leaned over the toilet.
‘that shower was pretty cool'
he puked a lot