Barenazocine

Sitting in a motel in Aliquippa, Mr. Samuel and Mr. Costas had done nothing in particular for a few hours. They were still coming down. Down from the ethereal and into a burnt out and tired reality of Western PA where the air was soupy in the morning and roasted in the afternoon. Either way, your pants showed sweat streaks if you sat down for too long when you were outside. Mr. Costas lay on the linoleum in the bathroom and licked his upper lip continuously to make sure it was clean. Mr. Samuel sat on the tan AC unit strapped into the wall like all old hotel rooms and felt the fan blow cool air up his backside. They were coming down off their cannakitonhexanol high.

“Wanna’ get some food? Like, at Citgo?”

“I mean, is there a vending machine outside? I don’t feel like leaving the area.”

“You mean, like, buy some Snickers?”

“Yea, like Snickers and Middleswarth.”

Mr. Costas, who had suggested Citgo, frowned, which, like most scruffy Italians, made his jaw and upper lip look like a squashed kiwi.

The trip had not gone to plan. They had left their apartments a few days earlier to go on a trip of sartorial transcendence. So far the only transcendence that they had discovered was that they enjoyed not leaving their motel rooms. They were going to find a place where they could escape the pools of self-reflection but they hadn’t been too successful. They dressed exactly the same so escaping those pools was harder than expected.

“Actually let’s just take this.”

“What is it?”

“Some methylenediemmexypyrovalerone that Dorsett sold me. It’s supposed to be pretty interesting. I mean, we’ve got time before we have to get across the state.”

“Can we get food first?

Mr. Samuel ignored Mr. Costas and pulled out a Ziploc. Mr. Costas sat up and gave Mr. Samuel a glare from across the hotel room. Mr. Samuel wore a nubby silk tie that was the color of a deer that had been blown apart by a semi, which had been traveling at 127 kmph at 6 o’clock in the morn, and then sat in the humid PA sun for 6 hours – all dark red with flecks of orange. Mr. Costas considered yanking on that tie and pulling it so tight that Mr. Samuel’s face turned as purple as the tie that Mr. Costas had forgotten at home.

“Or if you don’t want that, I have some methoxelardinine or… errr….. I think this stuff is called barenazocine. It’s supposed to be old man swag inducing. But not in an annoying Ditka sort of way. Like a subdued, I-am-coolier-than-thou kinda’ way.”

“Fuck, I just want to get some food.”

“Nah, dude. Just smoke this and you’ll be fine.”

Mr. Costas, wanting to make Mr. Samuel happy, did just that.

Mr. Costas doesn’t remember much after that.

He does remember taking the nubby silk tie that was the color of a deer that had been blown apart by a semi, which had been traveling at 127 kmph at 6 o’clock in the morn, and then sat in the humid PA sun for 6 hours – all dark red with flecks of orange – and yanking it tight against Mr. Samuel’s neck until Mr. Samuel’s head looked like an Airhead (it didn’t look purple like the tie Mr. Costas had left at home at all).

He doesn’t remember taking a razor to Mr. Samuel’s face, peeling back the first layer, pulling out pieces of flesh like a firefighter pulling pork at a PA pig roast, and nibbling on them like a gerbil until a hotel maid found him.