Past Is Prophecy
An Against the Grain Adventure. Part 3.
3
There were no words to describe exactly how strung out and horrible Steven felt. Well, that’s not strictly true. It can’t be. Some intellectuals, adorned with doctorates, have guessed there are one million words in the English language. Presumably, at least a few strung together could capture the misery of the drugs finally fleeing his system.
Steven considered that groggily as he leaned back against a park bench chugging and sucking on a bottle of water. He hadn’t slept in roughly thirty hours and between his last nap and now he’d ingested more than a few psychedelics. He’d danced for hours, fending off girls and at least one full-grown and penised pedophile at the party.
He’d had a great time, but just as his trip peaked, the music cut and the fluorescent lights came back on, exposing whiplashed drug addicts in harsh, artificial light. There was never any ceremony when this happened. Once the party was over, there was no negotiating it. Lights came on, sound systems unplugged and get the hell out.
He’d barely summoned the wherewithal to collect his cash from Paul before heading out the back door into the alley. Karl had headed out earlier with his anime girl, piling into his car to head up north and bang it out somewhere more private. Steven shook his head. People were weird and sex was gross. So many fluids. Strange fluids.
His park bench was conveniently and unsurprisingly located in a large park pierced by the river bisecting the city. He sat in a less traveled portion of park. After socializing all night, he hardly felt like risking accidental encounters of exchanged courtesies. His brain wanted to ooze out of his ears, both still humming with the pound of the bass.
The music worms its way inside you and refuses to leave for hours. Unrelated sounds, like the clash of dishes in a kitchen at a cafe, keep rhythm with a pounding head. The world continues to vibrate long after you’ve eaten your fill and tired of its unrelenting rhythm. Bit of a metaphor for life itself there, really. Maybe. Probably not. But maybe.
He brought the bottle to his mouth and emptied it before opening his eyes. Two men stood staring at him, smiling mouths half full of rotten teeth and the other half absent. They were identical in nearly every way. A close inspection showed one missed some of their right teeth, while the other some of the left. Nearly mirror exact, but not quite.
Steven sighed, “Don’t start, guys.” He had an idea what these hicks would say already. Something insane, no doubt. Insanity was earlier, now was time to sober up.
“That’s too bad,” the first said. “It’s already begun, Steve-o.”
“Beginnings won’t wait for no mood of no sort,” the second added.
Steven moaned. These two were some of the stranger locals in and around the sleepy town. One never found one without the other.
“Well, hell,” Ian said. “You look real poorly there, Steve-o. Ought not have partied so hard.”
“Sure does,” Athel said. “Truly poorly. Don't party so hard next time, Steve-o.”
“Guys, I’ve been frying all day,” Steven moaned. “Please go away.”
“I think Steve-o’s been working for Paul again,” Ian accused. “Got rhyme and time.”
“Rapists of a feather will rape together,” Athel riffed. “Artists will cover the crime.”
“Way to victim-blame, guys,” Steven moaned.
“Why, I don’t believe anyone has ever raped the willing,” Ian retorted.
“Surely can’t,” Athel supported. “You'll never be no victim.”
“I doubt that,” Steven sighed, his head caving in and suffocating from sheer stupidity. “Go away.”
“Come work for us,” Athel demanded. He did this at least once a week, promising the world in exchange for just a little time. “We won't try to rape your cute boy butt.”
“Not one bit,” Ian seconded. “We've never tried to rape you.”
“Quit saying ‘rape’ every sentence, you lunatics. Normal people don't do that. Besides, I don't want to cook speed. End up as aged as you two.”
“Whoa, now,” Athel declared, holding his open palms out to keep unwarranted accusations at bay. “We will never cook ‘speed’ sir.”
“That's right,” Ian backed up the statement. “We have never made ‘speed’ sir.”
“Whatever,” Steven said.
“Never made ‘whatever’ either. Goodness, what has become of the youth of America. We’ve only the finest methamphetamine in eight counties and thirty centuries.”
“And we are not going to stop, no sir. No way, not when our prime is in front of us yet.”
“Keep on never stopping somewhere else, guys,” Steven encouraged them to take their industry elsewhere, his voice drenched in the tone of a pleading supplication. “Unless you're handing out free samples, kindly fuck off, please.”
“Well, all right,” Ian pouted and tossed Steven a small baggy. It soared straight into Steven’s hand. A teener from the feel. Not enough to risk or make a decent sale, but it’d make a worthwhile enough coffee creamer in the morning. Better than vanilla.
“We'll see you around,” Athel promised over a shoulder as the pair turned to waddle away in search of a more willing conversational victim.
“You know, no one has described that boy,” Ian mused aloud as the two walked away. “Three chapters now. Not a single hair depicted. I have no clue what he looks like. Our storyteller must be real bad at that kind of thing.”
“I suspect we never will, either. No matter how many chapters we see. Too bad past is prophecy, eh?”
“Since when?” Identical twin laughter faded as the two wandered off.
Steven had no idea what was so funny. Those two had junked themselves stupid over the years. He assumed they’d made themselves stupid. He hadn’t known them when they were young. No one seemed to, in fact. They were about as much a fixture of the busy little town as the trash sucking mechanical goat making the park its home.
They kept the city moving, humming, positively thrumming, and bumming about with their product. Where they cooked it no one knew, but all agreed it was zoom juice. He considered a bump to get him to sundown, but thought better of it after recalling it was, in fact, the finest methamphetamine around. He wouldn’t sleep for a day if he did.
Sleeping rough was hard enough as it is. No need to hard mode it with meth. Still, he was looking forward to that coffee in the morning.