SLC Punk!

The thing about me and Bob,

and pretty much all of us, was...

we hated rednecks

more than anything else, period.

Because rednecks for us

were America incarnate.

And America? Huh.

Well, f*** America!

So, hey,

what do you wanna do now?

Let's score. I gotta get some pelt

tonight or my balls are gonna drop oft.

I hear that.

Come on, cowboy!

Come on!

What can I say? We weren't much more

than a couple of young punks.

Good morning, Bob.

Rise and shine.

It's a beautitul f***ing day.

All right.

Two more hours.

But that's it.

To be an anarchist in Salt Lake City

was certainly no easy task...

especially in 1985.

And having no money, no job...

no plans for the future...

the true anarchist position was,

in itself, a strenuous job.

And our tribe was small.

I mean, at the center was me, Stevo...

and Bob, my roommate...

Heroin Bob.

Oh, Bob didn't really do heroin.

In fact, he hated needles.

Bob's irrational fear of needles...

was in contrast to everything

you'd think about the guy.

I mean, to look at him, you'd think

he was a madman, which he was.

But he was also one

of the most uptight guys I've ever met.

He didn't do anything

about the cut on his hand... nothing.

I mean, absolutely nothing.

He just wrapped it up...

in a dirty old T-shirt,

and he left it like that for weeks.

Is he gonna be okay?

Oh, yeah. He'll be tine.

I'm sure. Thank you, though.

Hi, how are we doing?

Okay. Can I take a look at that?

Okay. All right.

Oh, what the heck did we do here?

I think that wound's

the most intected thing I've ever seen.

I hate doctors, man.

I hate 'em.

Well, you're lucky those boys

brought you here.

Okay? Because without me

you'd be dead.

Patty, we need

a gram ot amoxicillin.

That's a nasty cut you've got there.

How did you manage that?

I fell ott my bike.

Oh, sweetheart, I'm sorry.

Does it still hurt?

- That's a nice kid.

- Yeah, sad, really.

- How's that?

- Kids.

There's not much future

tor 'em, hmm?

We all die, Stevo.

That's true.

Very true, Mike.

No, no! No, I'm tine! I'm tine!

Get that f***ing needle

away trom me, man!

No, I don't do needles!

Get ott me! Get otf!

Goddamn it! No! No!

You pack of murderers! No!

No needles!

Help me! Help me!

No, no, please!

So Heroin Bob was named as such

'cause he was afraid of needles.

But not just needles.

The guy was afraid of drugs too.

We couldn't even get him

to take a damn aspirin.

He drank, and he smoked cigarettes

but that's it. He'd say...

You know that sh*t you guys do?

You're f***ing yourselves up, man.

F***ing acid. Acid.

It never leaves your body.

It's in your tuckin'

spinal cord torever.

Let me tell you something

about the nature of chemicals, man.

You know that dude Napoleon?

He was banished to an island

when the French got sick of him.

That's right. He supposedly died

ot stomach problems, right?

Wrong. He was actually poisoned

over a long period ot time.

Murdered by arsenic,

a preservative.

- And you know how?

- No idea.

- His hair.

- His hair?

His f***in' hair.

It was arsenic.

You could tell how long

he was being poisoned...

by following the traces

of poison up his hair.

Dude, dude, dude, it you do

enough hits of it, you're dead.

- It really makes you think, doesn't it?

- Think what?

That chemistry's the wrong

f***ing major tor a guy like you.

- It's the wrong major, Bob.

- You should lay oft the acid anyways!

- You heard about Sean, right?

- No, what happened to Sean?

You know he was selling acid, right?

No, man. I told you $25, man.

$25. It's inflation.

Sh*t's getting expensive, man.

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