Life was a crazy rollercoaster and Jimmy-Jamz just wanted to ride it. No, perhaps that's too simplistic. He wanted to kick everyone else off, and wrap himself up in the rollercoaster until he became the rollercoaster, until he was the one hurtling and careening all over the tracks, barely holding on, and screaming in an adrenaline infused fury. That's why, when some old skeez said, "hey buddy, wanna buy this new drug?" Jimmy-Jamz punched him in the mouth and took all he had for free. "Life's fucking for free, man, you can't charge for things in life, you've got the wrong fuckin' headspace," said Jimmy as he walked away, flicking his cigarette stub on the crumpled whimpering heap that used to be a man.
Of course Jimmy smashed every last pill, because designer drugs are obviously named so since they're watered down for pussies and wankers and little teenybopper kids. He figured that he'd have to take at least 10 times the regular dose just to get one hit, but even the drug at the concentration appeared to have no effect. Jimmy reckoned he could still punch a bastard out in one hit. He tested the theory just to make sure, and sure enough he could. It was at that point he smashed down the rest of the bag and gave it 30 minutes. Still nothing happened. He decided to go back to that geezer and get a violent refund, but by the time he wandered back in the club the guy was gone. The puddle of muck he'd left was smeared in the direction of the rear fire exit, so Jimmy followed it. He pushed through from the buzzing hum of the club out into the cold and suddenly silent seeming alleyway. He took a deep breath and looked for more evidence. A trail of blood, tears and snot droplets were leading along the side of the building where they suddenly stopped. Perhaps he'd gotten in a car, thought Jimmy. He crossed the alley looking for any other evidence. When he turned back he noticed a ladder part way up the wall. Could that bastard have dragged himself up there after getting the beating of his life?
Jimmy was on the roof in no time flat, and sure enough there was the geezer, hovering shakily by the edge muttering to himself. "Oi what are you doin' dickhead?" Jimmy yelled as he approached. "Those drugs didn't do shit, I have half a mind to-" the geezer wheeled round and seeing Jimmy's face again gave him a shock that made him weak in the knees. He teetered backwards, waving his arms about as if flapping in circles. Fear and panic contorted his face into a look of horror. Jimmy instinctively reacted, grabbing the guys shirt front, sending them both over the edge. The geezer hit the pavement first, with a wet thud and no further noises. Jimmy landed softly like a ninja nearby, soundless and without a single twinged muscle. "Weird," said Jimmy, as he looked up at the rooftop they'd fallen from, "that was at least eight metres."
Soon Jimmy hit the road. His career, which until now had consisted of petty thuggery, took off in strange new directions. He started jumping off houses for a couple of bucks, but within 6 months he was in Vegas, jumping off the tallest building, landing on one of those giant oversized walk-on keyboards on a fake beach, surrounded by cheering bikini girls. Fireworks were going off as he landed lightly on middle C without a scratch. He was being interviewed extensively by attractive news anchors for his unique witticisms: "what's your message to kids that wanna be like you?", "well, if you wake up one day and realize you're just a dildo designed to frig pigs, don't try to be something you're not, just frig those pigs as best you can. If you wake up one day and realize you're a fuckin' star, then you can try to be like me, but it takes a lot of hard beatings, and lot of hard drugs to make it."