I woke up early, too fucking early. It was my fault though, all on me. I’d been shooting up a cocktail of dilaudid (in its glorious liquid form) and some sort of new Asian meth (straight from the lab, very pure) that had been going around. I was fresh out of the dilaudid, and I was feeling it. My opiate connection was dry and using meth this strong without anything else to take the edge off was just begging for the gods of amphetamine psychosis to take the reigns for an afternoon (maybe even for a day or two).
“I need to go to a methadone clinic.” I always told myself that, day after day to no avail.
You see I was in a real box of shit. You’ve all heard the story before (or maybe not, oh well); a young, and rather gifted LSD chemist gets busted at the peak of his career, but since the whole snitching option was off the table, (as this particular chemist happened to be what you would call a free agent and had no one to answer to but himself) and being sent to federal pound-me in-the-ass prison didn’t sound any better. Uncle Sam decides to grant the little nerd a new lease on life…for a price that is. To make a long story short, I now work as an informant for a covert police task force. My primary job was to infiltrate a ring of underground chemists using funds from their wide array of high quality, illicit drugs to fund various terrorist and anti-state/nation activates. I’m not sure what to make of it all.
I’m drug tested every Friday and if I have but one dirty drop, I take a bullet to the head…police work has changed quite a bit ever since the great revolt of 2024, it’s different now, a lot of things are different now, but that’s the least of my worries, (by using a tid-bit of bleach one can alter the ph content of their urine thus throwing any standard U.A. test out of whack). It’s the least of all of our worries. The whole thing about the law always being one step ahead of you, it’s complete and utter bullshit. Jesse James, Bonnie and Clyde, John Dillinger they all got to live their lives before the lawman caught up to them and list goes on and on and on...They (knuckle dragging cops that is), like to put on the God-persona, but the cracks in their logic can be seen from miles away, especially if you have firsthand experience working within the system. There are monsters out there that would make the most street-wise, hard-handed, all American boy in blue shit himself where he stood.
When you hang around dope fiends long enough you eventually have to get your hands on a shiny new habit (I never fucked with the hard stuff during my chemistry career but it’s quite a different story now), it’s an unwritten rule one which I all too happily obliged to…So anyway, as I’m dealing with the fallout from that disaster, I meet someone.
Courtney Anderson, if she didn’t have blue-streaked, 90’s grunge music video worthy hair and the sweetest, perkiest rack I’d ever laid eyes on (good form, perfect symmetry, As we spoke back and forth, my mind was consumed with fleeting, animalistic thoughts of sex. Stroking her aforementioned breasts, working my way down, peeling her pussy apart layer by layer on a quest for the be all end all, the omniscient clitoris…I tried my best not to draw any attention to my hard on, shifting around in my seat as she spoke), she could have passed for the bastard son of Hunter S. Thompson. She even called herself a journalist. Go figure.
I met Courtney while trying to score some pot; waking up in a thick sheet of sweat, joints on fire, stomach torn to absolute shit. I was dopesick and while Mary Jane wouldn’t take it all away she could certainly help. My instincts kicked in. I dialed the number of my weed guy and he’s out, bummer, but he at least has the decency to refer me to someone who might be holding…might be holding.
“Great,” I muttered under my breath as the nasally voice of my weed guy blabbered on about some new Japanese cartoon he was wasting his life watching. I hung up after I’d had all I could stand of this, dialed the number he’d given me, (the sweat from my palms made my burning, crackling fingers slide off of the padded dial buttons). I was greeted by a faint breath on the other end, it’s amazing how we can communicate from so many miles away…sometimes I think we lose track of the simple things.
“4th and Valley, five minuets.”
There was a click followed by a dial tone. I threw on the contents of my clothes pile on the floor of the right corner of my bedroom, an unwashed Alice in Chains T- shirt and pair of ratty, bleached-out jeans. The shirt won’t hide my track marks but it will do in a pinch. Before I know it I’m hailing a cab to 4th and Valley.
“I’m on the verge of something big…Something real, real big.” It was 9:00 am. Courtney was knocking back rum and cokes like it was her job. She’d insisted that we grab a drink together after we do the deal, to keep things inconspicuous…whatever that means. But having nothing better to do, I reluctantly decided to brave the road with this blue-haired stranger. I couldn’t tell if her shaking was related to D.T.’s (which at the rate she was drinking would certainly be gone soon) or the speed that I’d traded her for some pot, either way she was shaking and it was quite unsettling to me. I sat quietly nursing a beer as words fell from her manic lips in sharp bursts of verbal shrapnel.
“I’m a journalist you see. Yes, that’s right a journalist…Freelance mostly but you don’t wana hear about all of that. Anyway, I’m working on the story of the century man. Story of the fucking century!"
I remained silent, dead-eyed, sipping my drink. Couch logged from the grass, I’d smoked in Courtney’s death trap of a car on the way here, I couldn’t have said much even if I’d wanted too, even if my body was magically released from the grip of opiate withdrawals. It may have been rude but I was far too faded to notice let alone care.
“What do you know about Baxter Inc.?” she asked.
Who didn’t know about Baxter Inc. Herman Baxter had stumbled into some small town in the Midwest an absolute nobody, not a thing to his name accept the clothes on his back and within no more than a few months, singlehandedly built the largest pharmaceutical empire in the country. Apparently he’d worked as a chemical engineer for the military and eventually went on to study medicine practicing in some third world shithole for God only knows how many years…but there was so much legend surrounding the man it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.
“Yeah, I’ve uh, I’ve heard of it… in passing. Why?”
“That’s the story.”
“What Baxter Inc. is the story?”
“C’mon I know that you like the narcotics, think about it?”
“I’m…I’m really at a loss here.”
124 South 7th, I nodded and started walking back towards my place…hell of a way to start a morning.
I mopped around for a few hours, shat, showered and shaved in that order, found a secondhand dress shirt and tie in the back of my closet and off I went. I arrived at the address about half an hour later, paced around for a few minuets before knocking on the door and after about 15 seconds (give or take) was greeted by none other than my favorite journalist.
She was stripped down to a bra and panties. Her eyes the size of dinner plates, she grabbed me by the shaft of my fully erect penis (sorry can’t help it) and led me in. Plopping me down on a recliner and disappearing. Posters of fetuses and cut up abstract art (like Salvador Dali on ketamine) hung on the walls as a disjointed chorus of drum and bass washed over everything in the house...all the little things, the ant people shuffling around the dance floor, getting loaded, fucking, eating, shitting. Clothes, tossed in filthy piles, (presumably) drenched with sweat, semen and the thin mist of vaginal discharge covered the floor. The few guests that weren’t dancing or fucking on the shag carpet were fixing up on the many couches. I squirmed around, attempting to sit down and was promptly offered a rig and a blow-job (both from a smooth-faced, balding gentleman).
“Cover my face in sex,” he whispered.
I sat awkwardly, staring at the chubby, sweaty stranger (with his hand on my dick mind you) in front of me. I thought about it long and hard staring at the poor, sex-crazed sap in the sailor uniform, just as my junk-deprived hands began reaching for the liquid pleasure in front of me. Courtney swooped in and placed her very feminine hand on my shoulder, painted fingernails and all. At that very moment, the most massive sigh of relief imaginable escaped my lungs. I slumped down in the chair and sat there consumed by the vast expanse of bleeps and blops slowly engulfing the party.
I left the room, Courtney was gone and all the other party goers were dead. The gay sailor, the lecherous old man…they were all gone. Blood, guts and brain matter coated the walls. The disgusting shag carpet forever stained the most hideous shade of red imaginable. I started trembling then I started running. I ran until my heart pumped molten lava and then made it a few more paces before blacking out. I hid in a storm drain for two and a half days, living off of the last crumbs of my precious stock of methamphetamines and, after they ran out, whatever scraps of food I managed to steal on my rare, paranoia drenched trips to the surface. Suffering through withdraws, puking and shitting at the base of a nearby pond, I’d officially gone tribal Eventually I returned to the civilization I’d rejected and found out what had happened through the news, (Omni 1 your totalitarian shit-hole news station for the greater concentration camp area…or something like that).
Apparently, Courtney wasn’t a journalist (go figure) but she did do freelance work. She was a contract killer hired to infiltrate the infiltrators. The various gangs of independent chemists had enlisted her services in an effort to take out Baxter Inc. and end the War on Drugs. She’d stalked me for days, learning all about my connections to the secret police but that wasn’t all she’d been doing. The fat forty-something’s at that trippy, drugged out orgy in the house on South 7th street, those had all been Baxter Inc. executives and police officers, and city council members and various hookers they’d brought along for the ride. Now they were all dead. Rotting like sacks of garbage in the hot sun. I guess Courtney had taken a liking to me and decided to spare me for whatever reason, (I would’ve been perfectly fine with dying after the one two punch of a fat shot followed by…lip service, but I digress). So how does this end for me? Do the chemists and police know about my bad behavior as an unwitting double agent? Will I have drug lords putting a price on my head? Will I die in a prison work-camp? Will I ever see Courtney again or find out why she spared me? I don’t know, all I can say is that, this makes one hell of a story. Maybe I should clean up and look into applying for J school.