wedged himself behind a dumpster that blocked at least some of the light wind, but San Francisco’s night mist permeated his clothes, saturated every breath he drew into his lungs, even soaked into the sleeping bag he’d been so lucky to find. The sleeping bag was red, with duckies and bunnies on it. He’d found it draped over a trashcan not too far from here.
He felt the cold, the dampness, but those were distant, just faint echoes of something that might concern him. Weather didn’t matter, because he had scored. Scored
big
. And it was good shit, too — he’d felt the horse kick in before he’d even pulled the syringe out of his arm.
This was his favorite sleeping spot, in the back doorway of some old furniture store on Fern Street, just off Van Ness. They called it a
street
, but it was an
alley
. No one really bothered him here.
A numbing warmth spread all over his body, even down to his toenails, man, even down to his
toenails
. So it was cold out, so what? Aggie was warm in the way he
needed
to be warm.
He heard a light thump, then a heavier rattle, like something had landed on the dumpster.
“Pierre, you retard, try to be quiet.”
“You sthut up.”
The first voice sounded raspy, like sandpaper on rough wood. The second rang deep. Deep and
slow
. The sounds echoed through Aggie’s head. He hoped these guys would just pass on by. Sleep was coming whether he wanted it or not.
Damn
, but this was some good shit.
“This him?” The sandpaper voice.
“Uh-huh,” said a third voice. This one sounded high-pitched. “We gotta clean him up, but for sure he’s a won’t-be.”
The sound of someone sniffing, and that sound was close. When Aggie heard it, he felt a cool trickle of air across his cheek. Was someone
smelling
him?
Aggie tried to open his eyes. They cracked, just a little. He saw a blurry image of a kid’s head, maybe a teenager?
The teenager smiled.
Aggie’s eyes slid shut, returning him to the delicious darkness. Had hedropped a tab? Maybe he had after he shot up, then forgot about it. Had to be something — horse had never made him hallucinate before. Well, maybe a little, but not like
that
. Had to be acid. Only acid could have made him see that teenager with big black eyes, skin as purple as grape juice, and a smiling mouth full of big fucking shark teeth.
Just say no to hallucinations
, thank you very much.
“I been watching him,” said the high-pitched voice.
“He looks sthick,” said the deep voice. Something about that voice, something wet and slurry. It reminded Aggie of Sylvester, the cat from Looney Toons, the way he’d spit and slobber while working out
suffering succotash
. The guy sounded like he had a tongue that just didn’t know its place.
“He’s not sick,” said high-pitch.
“He looks sthick. Thly, you think he’s sthick?”
“I dunno,” said the sandpaper voice.
High-pitch sounded offended. “He’s not sick. He’s just stoned. We can clean him up.”
“He better not be sick,” said sandpaper voice. “The last one you picked must have had the flu. I shit chocolate milk for a week.”
“I said I was sorry about that,” said high-pitch.
Sandpaper voice sighed. “Whatever. Pierre, pick him up. We need to get back.”
Aggie felt strong arms slide under him, lift him effortlessly.
“I’m staying out tonight,” said high-pitch. “We have lots of time before dawn. I got to do my thing.”
The sandpaper voice again. “Chomper, you need to come back with us.”
“No. The visions. I … I can
sense
him.”
“Yeah, so can we,” said sandpaper. “I told you not to talk about it. You want Firstborn to beat you again?”
“No. I don’t want that again. But those assholes
hurt
him, I can feel it.”
Him
. Whoever it was, he sounded important.
“I have someone watching over him,” sandpaper said. “You stay away, or you could bring the monster down on him.”
A pause. Aggie felt like he weighed all of five pounds. Maybe even
He felt the cold, the dampness, but those were distant, just faint echoes of something that might concern him. Weather didn’t matter, because he had scored. Scored
big
. And it was good shit, too — he’d felt the horse kick in before he’d even pulled the syringe out of his arm.
This was his favorite sleeping spot, in the back doorway of some old furniture store on Fern Street, just off Van Ness. They called it a
street
, but it was an
alley
. No one really bothered him here.
A numbing warmth spread all over his body, even down to his toenails, man, even down to his
toenails
. So it was cold out, so what? Aggie was warm in the way he
needed
to be warm.
He heard a light thump, then a heavier rattle, like something had landed on the dumpster.
“Pierre, you retard, try to be quiet.”
“You sthut up.”
The first voice sounded raspy, like sandpaper on rough wood. The second rang deep. Deep and
slow
. The sounds echoed through Aggie’s head. He hoped these guys would just pass on by. Sleep was coming whether he wanted it or not.
Damn
, but this was some good shit.
“This him?” The sandpaper voice.
“Uh-huh,” said a third voice. This one sounded high-pitched. “We gotta clean him up, but for sure he’s a won’t-be.”
The sound of someone sniffing, and that sound was close. When Aggie heard it, he felt a cool trickle of air across his cheek. Was someone
smelling
him?
Aggie tried to open his eyes. They cracked, just a little. He saw a blurry image of a kid’s head, maybe a teenager?
The teenager smiled.
Aggie’s eyes slid shut, returning him to the delicious darkness. Had hedropped a tab? Maybe he had after he shot up, then forgot about it. Had to be something — horse had never made him hallucinate before. Well, maybe a little, but not like
that
. Had to be acid. Only acid could have made him see that teenager with big black eyes, skin as purple as grape juice, and a smiling mouth full of big fucking shark teeth.
Just say no to hallucinations
, thank you very much.
“I been watching him,” said the high-pitched voice.
“He looks sthick,” said the deep voice. Something about that voice, something wet and slurry. It reminded Aggie of Sylvester, the cat from Looney Toons, the way he’d spit and slobber while working out
suffering succotash
. The guy sounded like he had a tongue that just didn’t know its place.
“He’s not sick,” said high-pitch.
“He looks sthick. Thly, you think he’s sthick?”
“I dunno,” said the sandpaper voice.
High-pitch sounded offended. “He’s not sick. He’s just stoned. We can clean him up.”
“He better not be sick,” said sandpaper voice. “The last one you picked must have had the flu. I shit chocolate milk for a week.”
“I said I was sorry about that,” said high-pitch.
Sandpaper voice sighed. “Whatever. Pierre, pick him up. We need to get back.”
Aggie felt strong arms slide under him, lift him effortlessly.
“I’m staying out tonight,” said high-pitch. “We have lots of time before dawn. I got to do my thing.”
The sandpaper voice again. “Chomper, you need to come back with us.”
“No. The visions. I … I can
sense
him.”
“Yeah, so can we,” said sandpaper. “I told you not to talk about it. You want Firstborn to beat you again?”
“No. I don’t want that again. But those assholes
hurt
him, I can feel it.”
Him
. Whoever it was, he sounded important.
“I have someone watching over him,” sandpaper said. “You stay away, or you could bring the monster down on him.”
A pause. Aggie felt like he weighed all of five pounds. Maybe even
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