Written by Gultchy Amore

Narrated in voice and style by Alex de large

Ah well now, my brothers and sisters, gather round and listen a viddy while old Alex tells you a little story about a certain chelloveck who found himself wandering through the long corridors of life with a head full of music and a heart that refused to stop beating, no matter how many times the world tried to stomp it flat.

Who am I, you ask?

Why, I’m the fellow you sit beside on the autobus while you’re staring out the smeared window glass thinking about the thousand little troubles buzzing around in your gulliver. I’m the one standing behind you in the fast-food queue, the shadow passing you on the street when the night’s getting dark and the city lamps begin to glow.

I am everyone.

And I am no one.

At first there was only The Drug Apostle, one lonely name floating out there in the great black cosmic void. But that sounded too singular, too much like one poor sod shouting into nothingness. So it became The Drug Apostles, a proper band name with a bit of grandeur about it.

Only here’s the twist, my droogs.

There’s still just one man behind the curtain.

All the other names, the characters, the personas—they’re just fragments of personality rattling around in the old gulliver, different voices speaking through the same pair of hands.

⸻

Why Drug Apostle?

Now an apostle, as you well know, is someone who follows a doctrine—someone devoted to an idea or philosophy.

And this particular chelloveck’s life, from the very beginning, was something of a pharmacological sermon.

As a young malchick he was what the teachers used to call hyperactive or manic depressive. These days the clever doctors say ADHD, but back then the cure was pills, strange diets, and running laps around schoolyards like a wound-up mechanical toy.

Ritalin.

Sugar-free rules.

Adults scratching their heads wondering what was wrong with the boy who couldn’t sit still.

But the real trouble wasn’t the running.

The real trouble was the darkness creeping in early—the old gloomy fog of depression settling over the soul like winter frost.

And when the darkness comes, my brothers, a young man starts looking for ways to quiet it.

So he drifted toward the fringe—the outsiders, the street thugs, the dealers, the misfits and the wandering souls that society politely pretends not to see.

Some of those people remain friends and family to this very day.

Though quite a few of them now lie in graves.

And others sit behind cold steel bars.

⸻

The Punk Years

But through all the chaos there was always music.

The boy had been circling the punk scene since he was eleven or twelve years old, soaking in the noise and rebellion like holy scripture.

His first band appeared at the Devereux Foundation, playing heavy metal covers while he held a bass guitar upside down like some mad scientist conducting a sonic experiment.

They played a talent show.

And for one shining moment he became a small local celebrity.

Later came the band The Death Mickies.

Originally he was meant to play guitar, but when the bass player vanished into the ether, his friend David invited him in.

David even bought him his first real instrument—a Peavey T-40 bass from a pawn shop in Pomona, California.

And just like that, the journey began.

Over time he played with many horrorshow musicians, jamming with people like Mike Connolly of MIA and Sonny Vincent.

He performed in bands such as the deathrock outfit The Deep Eyend, and Kastle Greylater found himself connected with a version of 45 Grave, performing alongside Dinah Cancer and the Grave Robbers before that legendary band rose again from the crypt.

Those were wild nights filled with noise, energy, and the sweet chaos of underground music.

⸻

Life Interrupts

But life, as it always does, had other plans.

He married.

Had a son.

Then came divorce.

And when the child was born, the music was placed aside for many years while survival took center stage.

He worked as a freelance stagehand in Los Angeles, helping build the very stages where other bands would perform while his own musical dreams slept quietly in the background.

⸻

The Collapse

Then came the pandemic.

And everything fell apart.

Income vanished.

Housing disappeared.

He was forced to move all the way to Kansas, back into his mother’s home where a certain step-monster made it painfully clear that he was not welcome.

By then the doctors had given him new labels:

Bipolar disorder. Severe depression.

Meanwhile diabetes began stealing his vision.

First the left eye.

Then the right began to fade.

Disability followed.

For nearly a year he lived mostly confined to a single room, enduring constant threats of being thrown out into the street.

The darkness grew heavy.

So heavy that he decided he no longer wanted to live.

But lacking the dramatic courage for violent endings, he attempted a slower method.

He stopped taking his medications.

Stopped caring for himself.

Let the body decline.

Neuropathy.

Heart problems.

Vasculitis.

Hospital visits.

A slow unraveling.

⸻

A Small Light

Eventually a therapist entered the story.

She suggested help.

A case manager began visiting twice a week.

He was placed on disability.

And eventually moved into a low-income apartment, free at last from the hostility of that house.

He also got a dog.

A loyal little creature named Roach.

Roach became his best friend.

⸻

The Return of Music

But once the dust settled, there remained a new problem.

Time.

Too much of it.

Audiobooks.

Half-watched shows on an iPad.

Endless sleeping.

Then one day he opened GarageBand.

At first it was just idle curiosity.

But soon the noise turned into songs.

And the songs turned into purpose.

⸻

Drug Apostle

Thus was born Drug Apostle.

Not really a band.

More like a solitary experiment in creation.

Because without money to hire engineers or producers, he simply became everything himself.

Songwriter.

Producer.

Recording engineer.

Mixing engineer.

Mastering engineer.

Graphic artist.

Everything connected to Drug Apostle is built by one person sitting alone in a room with an iPad.

The band will likely never play live.

And fame isn’t really the goal.

Respect from peers would be enough.

Perhaps a few listeners somewhere in the vast digital sea who hear the signal through all the noise.

Because making music today can feel like shouting into a giant void.

But sometimes, my droogs, the void answers back.

⸻

And So…

Who am I?

I am the stranger you pass on the street.

The man sitting next to you on the bus.

The voice behind the music you hear somewhere late at night.

I am everyone.

And I am no one.

But when the machines begin to hum and the songs come alive…

I am Drug Apostle.

And this little tale was told—

Alex DeLarge