ex-boyfriends, with their nonstop waxing and bulimia, most of these trifling faggots he wouldnât wish on his most hated enemy.
No, the issue was money. As in, he spent it all on drugs and therefore had none. That was what got him, eventually.
At the absolute height of his game, Dos floated untouchable through space and time, his habit and his career tracking parallel, neither affecting the other in the slightest. He had a long good run: as a youngster Dos had fast-tracked it through Brooklyn Tech. By night, he mainlined and freebased it through as much junk as his body could handle. Somehow his sense of how much was too much was very finely honed, and Dos Mac made sure to stay on the right side of that line.
For all his scag consumption, Dos had always been a bit of a health nut, with an emphasis on the nut. No alcohol, no over-the-counter painkillers ⦠plus, a strictly meat-, gluten-, and dairy-free diet. Even in these current conditions. And trust, this regime is not easy to maintain in the best of circumstances. Try keeping it up in a husk of a town like this one.
After his creation of the missile guidance system (originally conceived as an attempt to increase efficiency in the NYC subway), and Macâs subsequent courtship by the government, his stint in naval intelligence made maintaining his smack hobby a touch trickier. The pop drug-testing, the security screening. Heâs positive that brass willfully ignored some serious red flags. And although folks can get used to anything, it wasnât exactly comfortable, smuggling clean urine around the academy grounds, plastic test tube shoved up his ass.
Yeah, it was trickier in the navy; that is, until he got deployed to the Motherland. That depopulated hole, where the poppy fields grow wild and unchecked. Manna, in unending supply. Dos even toyed with the notion of investing in the thriving export operation, whose participants and actors were countless within the ranks of the military and private contractors. It seemed safe enough, but in the end, Dos, content in his role as a user, wanted only to get high and play with his models. He was no businessman and certainly not an enthusiastic risk-taker.
Now Dos Mac catches himself itching his arm, in anticipation. For a dude of extreme caution and calculation, what heâs contemplating would have to count as one of the most reckless acts heâs ever undertaken.
Heâll have to go Out.
Itâs just that way, thatâs just the way it is. Damn.
How long, how long since heâs been outside? He glances at his monitors again, anxiously, as if they might hold some crucial information. Weeks? A month? If anything has changed it will have been for the worse, that much is for sure. Fucked up as it all is.
Tells himself: one last time. Itâs been a stressful year, to say the least. Isnât a man entitled to a little relaxation, having survived what some might describe as an apocalypse? And having bounced back in fine style to boot â¦
Even so, heâll have to go Out.
Where will he even begin? Itâs sure to have all been shaken up. Have to start locally, hope itâs easier than anticipated. Maybe heâll luck out. Heâd never bought in Chinatown, but seeing as everything else has been turned on its head, Dos sees no reason why the drug market will be any different. Then heâll turn to spots he knew well and see what that might render.
Heâll need goods to barter with. Thatâs the way folks do now.
Dos dusts off a largish nylon sports bag, which bears the faded word Modellâs . Tosses his desk drawers, not knowing what heâs looking for. What do people need anymore?
Keys to the big lockerâbeside the hydroponic lighting, useless now as the plants have been dry and lifeless for ages (how did he allow that to happen?), here is his stock of premium items with which to barter: his seitan jerky, a couple cases of Fiji water, four Zippos, lighter
No, the issue was money. As in, he spent it all on drugs and therefore had none. That was what got him, eventually.
At the absolute height of his game, Dos floated untouchable through space and time, his habit and his career tracking parallel, neither affecting the other in the slightest. He had a long good run: as a youngster Dos had fast-tracked it through Brooklyn Tech. By night, he mainlined and freebased it through as much junk as his body could handle. Somehow his sense of how much was too much was very finely honed, and Dos Mac made sure to stay on the right side of that line.
For all his scag consumption, Dos had always been a bit of a health nut, with an emphasis on the nut. No alcohol, no over-the-counter painkillers ⦠plus, a strictly meat-, gluten-, and dairy-free diet. Even in these current conditions. And trust, this regime is not easy to maintain in the best of circumstances. Try keeping it up in a husk of a town like this one.
After his creation of the missile guidance system (originally conceived as an attempt to increase efficiency in the NYC subway), and Macâs subsequent courtship by the government, his stint in naval intelligence made maintaining his smack hobby a touch trickier. The pop drug-testing, the security screening. Heâs positive that brass willfully ignored some serious red flags. And although folks can get used to anything, it wasnât exactly comfortable, smuggling clean urine around the academy grounds, plastic test tube shoved up his ass.
Yeah, it was trickier in the navy; that is, until he got deployed to the Motherland. That depopulated hole, where the poppy fields grow wild and unchecked. Manna, in unending supply. Dos even toyed with the notion of investing in the thriving export operation, whose participants and actors were countless within the ranks of the military and private contractors. It seemed safe enough, but in the end, Dos, content in his role as a user, wanted only to get high and play with his models. He was no businessman and certainly not an enthusiastic risk-taker.
Now Dos Mac catches himself itching his arm, in anticipation. For a dude of extreme caution and calculation, what heâs contemplating would have to count as one of the most reckless acts heâs ever undertaken.
Heâll have to go Out.
Itâs just that way, thatâs just the way it is. Damn.
How long, how long since heâs been outside? He glances at his monitors again, anxiously, as if they might hold some crucial information. Weeks? A month? If anything has changed it will have been for the worse, that much is for sure. Fucked up as it all is.
Tells himself: one last time. Itâs been a stressful year, to say the least. Isnât a man entitled to a little relaxation, having survived what some might describe as an apocalypse? And having bounced back in fine style to boot â¦
Even so, heâll have to go Out.
Where will he even begin? Itâs sure to have all been shaken up. Have to start locally, hope itâs easier than anticipated. Maybe heâll luck out. Heâd never bought in Chinatown, but seeing as everything else has been turned on its head, Dos sees no reason why the drug market will be any different. Then heâll turn to spots he knew well and see what that might render.
Heâll need goods to barter with. Thatâs the way folks do now.
Dos dusts off a largish nylon sports bag, which bears the faded word Modellâs . Tosses his desk drawers, not knowing what heâs looking for. What do people need anymore?
Keys to the big lockerâbeside the hydroponic lighting, useless now as the plants have been dry and lifeless for ages (how did he allow that to happen?), here is his stock of premium items with which to barter: his seitan jerky, a couple cases of Fiji water, four Zippos, lighter
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