(no subject)
Amon leans against the bar, nursing a beer like a newborn. This is a place of cacophony, of chaos. A hundred dramas are played out in its shadowy corners. A hundred transactions, bargains and truces are struck and broken within minutes. Emancipated strippers, illuminated by strobe and UV lights, clutch poles that are their last remaining bastion of hope, eager to please clientele more interested in wasting their credits on the various intoxicants available both over the counter and from one of the many disreputable merchants lounging on couches and leaning against walls. There is a dancefloor sparsely populated by those wasted enough to convince their wasted bodies to move in a parody of euphoria. They are watched jealously by those unable or unwilling to attain such a level of lubrication. Hollow eyes refuse to settle, they scan the room for connections and rivals. Pills are swallowed; disposable hypoderms are briefly pressed against necks and then wedged between cushions as their wielders sink into seats in sublime stupor.
Amon shifts his weight. The ground is viscous under his feet. Spilled beer, blood and bodily fluid have formed a carpet over the floorboards. He looks down, sees this sticky mess crawling over and up his shoe, patterns emerging from the filth. The trips Cerl have given him seem to be taking effect. This is good. It means an enjoyable night, as well as not having to kill Cerl. The last gear Cerl fobbed off as psychotropic, a dirty brown powder, left him writhing in bed, fighting violent spasms; regurgitating and shitting himself. No hallucinations to speak of, just pure physical discomfort. Amon wasn’t of a masochistic demeanour, unlike some, and did not find the experience enjoyable on any level. Once recovered, a pistol lodged underneath Cerl’s chin and a few choice words resulted in a refund well beyond the original price as well as several small microdots, which were swallowed immediately. Cerl was one of the only dealers left who would sell to him, though if he was sold anything like that disgusting powder again, he would have to deal with the inconvenience that would result in his rather messy demise. Which would probably occur after spoon-feeding him enough of the same crap to put him in an extremely uncomfortable place before his death. After all, vengeance was Amon’s livelihood.
Amon sips his beer and looks up. Music emanates from large speakers suspended from the roof of the establishment. Intensely coloured hieroglyphics stream from them, pulsating in perfect synchronisation. Bass vibrates the building and his soul. He nods his head in time with the music as the vibrations increase. The bar has become a swirling mass of colour. He watches detachedly while a puddle of spilt liquor slowly crawls towards him and eventually begins to envelop his glass. He reaches into one of many pockets of his black overcoat and produces a pouch of tobacco. He finishes his beer in a gulp, ignoring the spill that has wrapped around his drink and which has now changed colour from clear to a vibrant purple, and begins to roll a cigarette. The acid is now slowly building up to a crescendo. His entire being seemed to vibrate. Warm rushes of euphoria leapt from his feet to the crown of his head and back again. The cigarette is proving exceptionally difficult to roll, as it seems that the tobacco wants to crawl out of its paper prison. Amon curses at it and concentrates, eventually becoming successful. He lights it and inhales deeply, pleasing his nicotine receptors. He signals the bartender and points to a beer tap, having temporarily lost the ability to communicate verbally. He is sure that anything he would say would emerge from his lips as wasted gibberish, and at this point in time his assumption is valid.
After a brief bout of confusion concerning the bartender and the correct type of tender to exchange for beer (Amon had tried to pay with a crumpled bit of tissue), Amon’s legs started to feel rather weak. The thought that he should perhaps have consumed only one of the microdots briefly entered his head and was summarily dismissed as nonsense. He staggered to a couch, spilling beer on an unprotesting unmoving form staring at the ceiling, checked his potential place of repose for protruding hypoderms and collapsed into it, next to a woman who appeared to be quite comatose.