Sixteen
It's been a few days since the wild heat has blown off. I'm glad. My blood is too thick for warm weather. The cold has come back, and I don't mind it, but it was a little too quick of a change for my usual tastes. Still, snow is something I've been ready to get used to. Which is how I spent this morning. I woke up in a very cold sweat, unsure of my surroundings at first, waiting for my brain to catch up with my body and say to itself, get up, you fool! There's a new day waiting to begin, if only you'll let it!
As soon as it did, I set out to the corner cafe to have a nice, long breakfast. I was hoping for the whole deal, and my stomach was, too, by the sound of it's growling. As I trucked through the thick, white frost I could hear something dragging behind me, and the rattling of chains. I became very worried, deciding not to look back, and just walk faster in hope that whatever it was, it would fall behind and grow tired of trying to catch up to me.
There was no way to cope with it, it kept up with a fast pace and some vicious urgency that could not be ignored. I had finally had enough, "OK, goddamnit!" I shouted, spinning around to face this demon, but was only slapped in the face with speechlessness. I realized I had knocked his beer can right out of his hand, and it had spilled and began to turn the snow a very ugly color.
"Goddamn you," a familiar voice grumbled in a very disappointed tone, "Watch what you're doing..." He tugged on one of the chains that was draped around his body, and pulled another can off of a six-pack that was entangled inside it. By the time he snapped it open, my brain came-to, and I realized that I was fucked.
I stood staring at my attorney, who was drinking a beer with some glazed, drug-addled expression. He looked like a prisoner in some fucked-up war story who had tried to escape but only got lost in the chains. After staring for another long moment, I tugged at one of them.
"You fucking whore," I muttered, "Where the fuck have you been and what the hell is this shit?"
He shrugged. It was obvious this man was out of his mind. It was possible that someone finally found us and that I'd find myself in a heap of metal as well. He finished his beer and threw the empty bottle on the ground beside the one I knocked over earlier, then looked at me with very stern, intense eyes.
"I've come to offer you legal advice," he said quietly. "You appear to need a lot of it." He smiled, looking down at my wounded leg (which was healing well, but I still had a small limp and couldn't hold my weight on it for long). I tried to cover it up with the newspaper I picked up in the lobby of my apartment building, but he'd already seen it in it's entirety.
"You bastard, it took you fucking long enough." I snorted, then turned back in the direction I was first headed. "Come on, you fiend, I'm going to breakfast."
I could hear his chains dragging through the snow behind me the rest of the distance, accompanied by a faint chuckle that he seemed to spit out every time I limped. We seated ourselves inside and ordered a cup of black coffee each. He shuffled in his thralldom, then settled with part of it resting over one fat leg. Hanging off the end was a familiar-looking shaving kit.
He leaned in close, "As your attorney, " he said, "I advise you to take a hit out of that little brown bottle in my shaving kit."
I would have normally asked questions, but this sounded all too familiar. Of course, I unzipped it and reached inside, there it was. I held it in one had, staring at it for a second. Looped around the cap, just as I remembered, was a little white tag that read "Drink Me."
"Remember man," he said sternly, pointing a finger in my face. "Just a little bit."
I nodded and dipped the head of a paper match into it, then licked the end. He snatched it out of my hands right after that. "Remember what happened last time," he repeated, as if I didn't. It began to set in quickly, only a few seconds and it was working strong.
I remembered this feeling. The same feeling mescaline gives you when you're about an hour into it. A strange grasp on reality and an increased perception of truth. I felt like a warrior. If you combined mescaline with a drug like methedrine, this would be that drug. I was no longer hungry, and my skin was pouring with sweat. I glanced around the cafe viciously before grabbing the sleeve of my attorney's acapulco shirt.
"I need to go outside," I mumbled, my voice fierce and full of emotion, "Roll around in the snow for a bit, you know." I tugged harder. I was becoming very irritated, and as I stood to rush out, I nearly hit the waitress, who was just coming back with our coffee. I could hear my attorney apologizing to her behind me, and when I turned to look at him, he was handing her cash and patting her on the shoulder.
"COME ON, you pig!" I shouted, rushing out of the door, no longer feeling the usual pain in my leg, but instead muscle contractions that made me shake as I nearly fell out of the front door.
The man was laughing at me. "Look at you, you're a mess," he said, lighting a cigarette as he followed me outside. "That stuff really gets on top of you."
I remember slumping to the ground, trying to pull the dirtied snow that was crushed to the ground closer to me, lower my body temperature. Looking around me ferociously, even growling at the passer-bys who all recoiled in horror. I could feel it. The Fear. The conscious paranoia that something bad was going to happen, and it was going to happen soon. I reached up and grabbed onto the chains of the man before me.
"Just drag me home, man, I'll be fine down here." The expression on his face was one between amusement and utter disgust. He pulled me up by the collar of my jacket and I gagged a bit, clawing at my neck. "Fine, fine. I'm ok up here, too."
We walked, which was a feat for a man on Adrenochrome with a wounded leg and a limp. My mind was racing, and I thought, for a moment, of how I acquired this bullet-hole. "Constable--" I said, I kept repeating it, too. "Constable, constable---fucking PIG."
The rest of the walk was very hazy, but as we entered the apartment complex, I can remember the story my attorney was telling me. He was describing a bad experience he had during his last use of peyote. Some wild, crazy adventure where he thought it was all over for him. He stopped, mid-sentence, as we entered the lobby.
"Which is yours?" he asked, looking around, unimpressed by the entire scene. "Finish the story--" I mumbled, "--second floor-- finish the story." He ignored me, and pulled me along with him toward the stairs. A concept unknown to me in my current state. My legs felt like wax, and I tripped and shook as he dragged me along.
When we got inside my room, I fell on the floor, and curled up against the side of the stripped couch. "What happened?" I asked him, "Where did we just come from? What about the cactus? I remember a cactus."
He gave me a grave expression, "Get some rest," he said, "You've a hell of a day ahead of you."
[ooc: tl;dr, more misadventures under the cut.]
As soon as it did, I set out to the corner cafe to have a nice, long breakfast. I was hoping for the whole deal, and my stomach was, too, by the sound of it's growling. As I trucked through the thick, white frost I could hear something dragging behind me, and the rattling of chains. I became very worried, deciding not to look back, and just walk faster in hope that whatever it was, it would fall behind and grow tired of trying to catch up to me.
There was no way to cope with it, it kept up with a fast pace and some vicious urgency that could not be ignored. I had finally had enough, "OK, goddamnit!" I shouted, spinning around to face this demon, but was only slapped in the face with speechlessness. I realized I had knocked his beer can right out of his hand, and it had spilled and began to turn the snow a very ugly color.
"Goddamn you," a familiar voice grumbled in a very disappointed tone, "Watch what you're doing..." He tugged on one of the chains that was draped around his body, and pulled another can off of a six-pack that was entangled inside it. By the time he snapped it open, my brain came-to, and I realized that I was fucked.
I stood staring at my attorney, who was drinking a beer with some glazed, drug-addled expression. He looked like a prisoner in some fucked-up war story who had tried to escape but only got lost in the chains. After staring for another long moment, I tugged at one of them.
"You fucking whore," I muttered, "Where the fuck have you been and what the hell is this shit?"
He shrugged. It was obvious this man was out of his mind. It was possible that someone finally found us and that I'd find myself in a heap of metal as well. He finished his beer and threw the empty bottle on the ground beside the one I knocked over earlier, then looked at me with very stern, intense eyes.
"I've come to offer you legal advice," he said quietly. "You appear to need a lot of it." He smiled, looking down at my wounded leg (which was healing well, but I still had a small limp and couldn't hold my weight on it for long). I tried to cover it up with the newspaper I picked up in the lobby of my apartment building, but he'd already seen it in it's entirety.
"You bastard, it took you fucking long enough." I snorted, then turned back in the direction I was first headed. "Come on, you fiend, I'm going to breakfast."
I could hear his chains dragging through the snow behind me the rest of the distance, accompanied by a faint chuckle that he seemed to spit out every time I limped. We seated ourselves inside and ordered a cup of black coffee each. He shuffled in his thralldom, then settled with part of it resting over one fat leg. Hanging off the end was a familiar-looking shaving kit.
He leaned in close, "As your attorney, " he said, "I advise you to take a hit out of that little brown bottle in my shaving kit."
I would have normally asked questions, but this sounded all too familiar. Of course, I unzipped it and reached inside, there it was. I held it in one had, staring at it for a second. Looped around the cap, just as I remembered, was a little white tag that read "Drink Me."
"Remember man," he said sternly, pointing a finger in my face. "Just a little bit."
I nodded and dipped the head of a paper match into it, then licked the end. He snatched it out of my hands right after that. "Remember what happened last time," he repeated, as if I didn't. It began to set in quickly, only a few seconds and it was working strong.
I remembered this feeling. The same feeling mescaline gives you when you're about an hour into it. A strange grasp on reality and an increased perception of truth. I felt like a warrior. If you combined mescaline with a drug like methedrine, this would be that drug. I was no longer hungry, and my skin was pouring with sweat. I glanced around the cafe viciously before grabbing the sleeve of my attorney's acapulco shirt.
"I need to go outside," I mumbled, my voice fierce and full of emotion, "Roll around in the snow for a bit, you know." I tugged harder. I was becoming very irritated, and as I stood to rush out, I nearly hit the waitress, who was just coming back with our coffee. I could hear my attorney apologizing to her behind me, and when I turned to look at him, he was handing her cash and patting her on the shoulder.
"COME ON, you pig!" I shouted, rushing out of the door, no longer feeling the usual pain in my leg, but instead muscle contractions that made me shake as I nearly fell out of the front door.
The man was laughing at me. "Look at you, you're a mess," he said, lighting a cigarette as he followed me outside. "That stuff really gets on top of you."
I remember slumping to the ground, trying to pull the dirtied snow that was crushed to the ground closer to me, lower my body temperature. Looking around me ferociously, even growling at the passer-bys who all recoiled in horror. I could feel it. The Fear. The conscious paranoia that something bad was going to happen, and it was going to happen soon. I reached up and grabbed onto the chains of the man before me.
"Just drag me home, man, I'll be fine down here." The expression on his face was one between amusement and utter disgust. He pulled me up by the collar of my jacket and I gagged a bit, clawing at my neck. "Fine, fine. I'm ok up here, too."
We walked, which was a feat for a man on Adrenochrome with a wounded leg and a limp. My mind was racing, and I thought, for a moment, of how I acquired this bullet-hole. "Constable--" I said, I kept repeating it, too. "Constable, constable---fucking PIG."
The rest of the walk was very hazy, but as we entered the apartment complex, I can remember the story my attorney was telling me. He was describing a bad experience he had during his last use of peyote. Some wild, crazy adventure where he thought it was all over for him. He stopped, mid-sentence, as we entered the lobby.
"Which is yours?" he asked, looking around, unimpressed by the entire scene. "Finish the story--" I mumbled, "--second floor-- finish the story." He ignored me, and pulled me along with him toward the stairs. A concept unknown to me in my current state. My legs felt like wax, and I tripped and shook as he dragged me along.
When we got inside my room, I fell on the floor, and curled up against the side of the stripped couch. "What happened?" I asked him, "Where did we just come from? What about the cactus? I remember a cactus."
He gave me a grave expression, "Get some rest," he said, "You've a hell of a day ahead of you."
[ooc: tl;dr, more misadventures under the cut.]