Friday, January 13, 2017

Killer (Part 1: Reflections on the Epidemic)

"C'mon man wake up. Wake the fuck up!" White Mike yelled, reeling after his knuckles cracked from the aggressive slap he'd laid on Justin's face.

"We need to get him to the... to the hospital."

Tracey sobbed in between words, words which Mike's ears were deaf to. A thin TV static and slow motion cut scenes of whatever the hell this trauma was were the only sensory inputs he had now. Tracey continued sobbing as she prepped another shot. The necrotic pools of jet black makeup collecting under eyes and overflowing dripped down into her spoon. Fated to be melted away into an ocean of dope tinged with broken toys that once had dreams and lives.

That was the quickest that White Mike had ever come out of a nod. Blissful, closed-eye revelations of psychedelic wildflowers plummeted to the ground leaving a mixture of blood and squashed organ meat on the surface of "the real world."

"This is happening. This is actually fucking happening," Mike mouthed under his breath to no one in-particular. He scurried into the driver's seat, violently tore down the foil sun-shield (a guard against the elements and on-lookers alike) and took off.

Weaving in and out of traffic, he looked straight ahead as Tracey started chest compressions on Justin.

"So what's this shit called?" Mike asked Justin.

"Killer Klown... With a K."

"Well that's retarded,"

Mike paused to take the last hit off of the joint he'd shared with Justin.

"Who'd you cop that shit from? A Juggalo? "

"Hey man, the only word in there that I care about is Killer and this is certainly that."

Justin smiled revealing crooked, broken teeth then brushed his matted hair out of the way before lighting a cigarette.

The streets weren't always kind to people but they had their appeal. Privilege and any vestiges of the thin liberalism praised by most educated 20-somethings, comes here to die. The gutters breed a new era of nihilists not so much, repulsed by the absurd but fatally attracted to it. Mike may not have been one of them, but he understood.

"Yeah, well I guess we'll see about that."

"Fuck yeah we will. Hey, can you swing by Tracey's? I owe her a bag and well... I don't know things have kind of been picking up in that department?"

"What, you fuck her or something?"

"Well yeah. Shit yeah man but... I don't know. I'm not getting much younger and I'd rather hang around with someone who gets it. The whole fuck the world thing... What good is it to destroy things if you can't share it with anyone?"

"Huh, never considered that... Well congrats man. Just, you know, be careful."

"Hah, that shit's adorable... Be careful he says."

Mike chuckled and kept driving.

Justin's limp body hit the pavement as White Mike's beat-to-shit car came to a grinding halt.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." Tracey panted. No amount of Xanax and powder could keep this sort of anxiety at bay.

Mike was reacting differently (probably because he'd already witnessed one too many overdoses). Tracey was still holding on to something but a cold numbness (the kind of blank state of nirvana that every dope addict aspires to be one with) consumed Mike's emotions. All of the human emotions were gone. The only thing pumping through his meat-suit now, was survival.

"We've gotta go," He quietly whispered to Tracey.

When she refused to leave, White Mike sped off. Two years later, he found himself drunk in a dive bar in some hipster infected town a couple hours south of his old haunting grounds (yes there were plenty of people who drank at this bar ironically). He'd gotten a message earlier that day. Tracey was dead. After two years of sobriety she just...cracked. Mike could hear her fiancĂ©’s voice and feel the numbness he'd felt when Justin’s bruised up arm got stuck for the last time and that numbness helped, the shots of Crown helped but the realization that Mike was also running on borrowed time made it all a little worse.

"This one's for Tracey," Mike whispered knocking back a drink as kids in glasses took selfies.


"I hope it was Killer."

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