Good at Last

The security guard had exforces and bitter about the discharge scrawled all over him. His overweight frame seemed to consume his desk, chewing up the chipboard and formaica in rolls of fat. The tips of his fingers we're yellowed from a cigaret addiction crafted to a point two tugs from heart failure, and they drummed a death march on the counter top as he looked everywhere but at me. He coughed once before he spoke, a hard echo; a sound like an acid heads dream or a bursting eardrum; "I'm sorry, I don't understand you." And why should he? After that night, I didnt understand me either. It was Evan. It was always Evan. Every social event he would just waltz in like the Queen of fucking everything, pushing his thick blond curls from his face and smiling like a movie star. His slender hands would dive into pockets stuffed with zipper bags full of dirty yellow whizz and crystal White MDMA, sticky marijuana and caustic cocaine. The man was a walking Pez dispenser of narcotics. This particular night I was sat with Jennifer in the Mothers Ruin; the sort of modern bar that works hard to cultivate a seedy rock attitude. Jennifer was an eighteen year old relapse fuck I had shamelessly frequented over the past three years, plying her attachment for profit when there was no one else. We were busy with our usual foreplay of self pitty, rejection, and faux hostility when Evan stumbled in carrying a suit case. His entrance was a releaf from the guilt and disappointment I always got with Jen, so I pounced a question on him with a nod to the case "where you going?" He was already chewing his own lip involenteraly, and his answer fell out of his mouth in a hurry to be there, "nowhere man, just fucking nowhere." Now, this kind of misery was unlike Evan, and I'd never know a man to be down when he was up, so I tried some ill fitting simpathy and pushed a little harder, "what's with the case then?" His eyes rolled to the shabby, brown leather suitcase in his hand as if by mistake, where they shook from side to side for a second before he carried on, "oh, I've decided to kill myself, you know, for awhile. Travel. This is full of the reaper. You know, the reaper; bones and a cloak." This response was more in with my expectations; Evan was the kind of post university waister who had read Burrows and Leary and thought each line bought him closer to... Whatever. Before I had a chance to quiz him more, the statutory heavily tattooed, anarexic, pierced bar girl wandered up and pointed to the door, "he is out of his tree so he is out of this pub", she spoke with the authority of the bruiser bar keep leaning against the beer tap behind her, so I said, "this place is a shit hole anyway." and gathered Jennifer and Evan out on to the street. We moved through the city centre and reached Jenifers place above the coffee shop. She had set up there last year since she decided she was to cool to live with her parents and the rest of us had used it as a convenient hub ever since. Once inside Evan dumped the case on the sofa and fell into a distant misery next to it, whilst Jennifer started to dig around in the kitchen for clean glasses and something to drink. I was left in the armchair opposite the couch clearing the tray with the edge of a credit card and staring at the suitcase, trying to see through it; that's always been my problem, curiosity. I didn't have to wait long, as when Evan resurfaced from where ever he was he caught my eye, "you wanna meet death?" How do you answer a question like that? I nodded. He swung the case up on the coffee table and undid the fastenings with a dramatic click before pausing, looking up at me and grinning ruthlessly. "Michael, meet Death." he said and spun the case round to face me, flipping the lid open to reveal the contence. In the centre of the case was a petrified human hand, stuck in place with four strips of blue electrical tape. It held a wrap of Aztec patterned fabric that had been rolled around something cylindrical. I looked up at a Evan in shock who was still grinning like the devil, and he motioned for me to take out the object. I slid it from the solid grip of the hand and unravelled it in my sweating palms. Inside were, in fact, two things; a small glass vaporiser and a stoppered vial of a thin, yellow, crystallised substance I didn't recognise. I held it up to the light, and squinted at it, not wanting to admit my ignorance to Evan, who was, at least, finally enjoying himself. "what is it?" I asked eventually. "That," said Evan, still loving the drama, "is DMT." and it all made sense. I'd heard of this stuff before. It was a natural triptomine made from the bark of the Acer tree, and, allegedly, was the last neural chemical released into the brain before death. This was the stuff of OBE's, tunnels of light, and visions of hell. The stuff was apparently so powerfull that you had to take it turns; your co-psychonaught would catch the pipe as you went under and punch you in the chest if you forgot to exhale. Of course, I did it. My last memory was lying on the sofa with the glass pipe in my mouth and Evans grinning face saying "I'll miss you", as he kicked the heal of the lighter under the bowl and I took a long breath. What happened seconds later you wouldn't believe, or would render ridiculous anyhow. Perhaps my imagination was overactive - probably no one would care as we'd gotten off on these crazy chemicals reserved only for the dying or the insane, but It's best kept to myself anyway. I, and I alone know why I came back laughing. All of that was twenty-four hours before me and the security guard had our little meeting in the foyer of my office. Him looking nervous and pressing the panic switch, me bollock naked and still smiling. - P. Peasey

Location:Denbigh St,Bristol,United Kingdom