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Fayner Posts: For an internet porno writer guy, being friends with a guy like Trent Tesoro is like winning the Grand Rapids Senior Citizen Bingo Championship over that damn Bernice Willard and her seven-year streak and her peanut butter squares at the Church bake sale and her "everybody loves me" swagger.

Well, it would be equal to that if I hadn’t just made it up.

Seriously, Trent was one angry tornado of multiple drug insanity when he lived upstairs. And I was there for all of it.

But out of compassion I never spoke of his mayhem on this site, although many times when the sun was coming up and I was staring at a blank page I questioned whether I should tell the things I witnessed first-hand from Senor Tesoro and his out-of-control habits.

But I never went further than relaying the story Trent passed on to me about how he pulled out of his old girlfriend’s cunt and shot a load into the air and then right into his eager mouth. I considered my refusal to gossip about a man deep in the grasp of abuse a display of friendship, and I am quite proud of myself for the humanity I displayed despite the insanity.

Then this past June I read an interview Trent did with in which he merrily disclosed some of the heavy drama which transpired those months he lived upstairs from me. Trent spoke of the time he tried to kill himself by taking everything out of the fridge—a bottle of vodka and a half eaten sandwich (remember, he was a cokehead)—and crawling inside. Taylor and his then-girlfriend Kate Kaptive found him soon after, and the crying got me up there where I saw him packed inside and laughed at his pathetic attempt at suicide. That was followed by Trent locking himself in the closet to hang himself ’cause he was too emotional from too many drugs and too little common sense. When I finally ripped the door open Trent kicked a crate he was standing on. If it wasn’t for the feeble light fixture and the string he had around his neck it could have been ugly. After laughing at him I left him sitting on the dirty floor of his closet to sulk with the girls. I’m not sure he recapped this part of the melee, but I do know that Taylor brought it up months later while chatting with Luke on the set of Spunk in the Trunk and I remember thinking I blew a golden opportunity to construct some great items by choosing to refrain from making them public.

But now pretty much it’s all  public domain, and I now wish to share the events which took place later that night just ’cause Trent burned me by picking another web site to recount the spectacle that was his existence instead of mine.

Taylor told Kate to come down to my place while she talked to Trent alone. Being a long-time heroin addict and all-around narcotic fan, Kate was even more of a debacle than Trent, and I found it as good a time as any to converse with the tiny whore about her dismal life and the future she’ll have packed with despair and handfuls of mystery pills if she kept it up. Not being on heroin for a couple of weeks, Kate became snappish with my calling her a junkie over and over again, as I’m told by those rehabilitated from heroin that once you’re hooked on junk you’re hooked for life, whether you do it or not. No escape.

Kate tells me her dad also became addicted to smack, and during our heart-to-heart I also referred to him as a junkie. Kate thanked me for my bluntness and lack of compassion, a thing she said she needed to counterattack all the people who treated her with kid gloves and benign babble in hopes that love would wake her from the lurid coma like some drug-addled version of Sleeping Beauty. People hooked lined and sinkered in damaging drugs need what is called "tough love." Believe me, I know, and that’s what I gave Kate.

She left, and Taylor came back down. Moments later I heard screaming outside, followed by a huge bang on my door. I got up and opened the door, only to find Trent rapt in fury and screaming "You called my girlfriend a Junkie I’ll fucking kill you!" while wielding a broken beer bottle towards me.

"But she is a junkie," I calmly stated, certain he wouldn’t attack me ’cause I could see he was easily being restrained by a 90 pound chick on nine xanax.

"I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!"

I shut the door laughing. Later he came down to ask me for some cocaine.

Again, I shut the door laughing.

I am so glad Trent got out of LA for a while and cleaned up, but not nearly as glad from him double-crossing me and giving that killer gossip to one of my rivals which led to me getting to write all of this about him right now.

Love ya, Trent, but payback is a bitch.

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