“Relax, Caish. Like I said, this one’s on me. My own supply of the finest heroin in town. Pure, safe, and warmer than Fentanyl. As much as you’d like.”
I walk around the bed and sit next to Golden, who had set up an administration station on my nightstand. Golden is already melting down a spoonful of carmel-colored syrup. A big spoon. Not a soup spoon; almost a serving spoon.
“Let’s get that jacket off.”
“I’m kind of chilly,” I say.
“We’ll put it back on after.” Golden helps my arm out of my jacket. I tie the rubber tube over my bicep. The syringe sucks up the liquid and finds its way into my arm. I hardly see it happen. Certainly don’t feel it. The warmth moves through my shoulder and I melt onto the bed.
“Give me a pinch more to go on,” I ask Golden through the clouds of bliss below.
“Ah, better not. You’re pretty high right now. Better safe than dead.”
But I insist, and won’t relent until Golden begrudgingly agrees.
“Just a pinch.” I feel a faint pinch in my thigh. I look down to see Golden pulling away the syringe and packing up.
I want to ask, “What about you?” but my mouth doesn’t move. My body is numb with warmth.
Golden stands up, takes my deadbolt key from the nightstand, and walks to the door. “Just relax, I’ll be back in a minute.” Golden pulls the door closed and latches the deadbolt.
Golden will be right back. I trust Golden with my life and know that Golden is always looking after my best interests. Golden is a gentle soul, and has no motive whatsoever to do me any harm. Golden only did what I asked.
Golden will be right back.
My soul is floating.
My mind is at peace.
My arms aren’t working.
Neither is my back. I try to roll off the bed. My legs swing off the side and my torso stays put. My arms are spread in front of me. I’m kneeling next to the bed with my face buried in its itchy nylon. I can move my neck enough to see one of my poems. I try to read it, but my vision is blurring and tunneling at the same time. My breathing is shallow. I can’t catch my breath.
From under the bed a tentacle twists around my leg. Hopelessness slides another up my back. Its beak clicks. It whispers but I can’t make out the words.
I need my phone. This isn’t right. I need to call Golden. I need help. 911. My heart hurts. My body is not responding. Not even my lungs.
My neck lets go and my face drops to the mattress. I can’t feel my body. It’s hard to hold onto thoughts. This can’t
Epilogue
Contemporary culture has eliminated the concept and public figure of the intellectual. A cretinous anti-intellectualism presides, cheer-led by hacks in the pay of multinational corporations who reassure their bored readers that there is no need to rouse themselves from their stupor. Zer0 Books knows that another kind of discourse - intellectual without being academic, popular without being populist - is not only possible: it is already flourishing. Zer0 is convinced that in the unthinking, blandly consensual culture in which we live, critical and engaged theoretical reflection is more important than ever before.
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