In Mexico the gimmick is to find a local junky with a government script whereby they are allowed a certain quantity every month. Our Man was old Ike who had spent his life in the States.
We are getting some cocaine on the Rx at this time. Shoot it in the mainline, son. You can smell it going in, clean and cold in your nose and throat then a rush of pure pleasure right through the brain lighting up those coke connections. Your head shatters in white explosions. Ten minutes later you want another shot - you will walk across town for another shot. But is you can't score for coke you eat, sleep and forget about it.
This is yen of the brain alone, a need without feeling and without body, earthbound ghost need, rancid ectoplasm swept out by an old junky coughing and spitting in the sick morning.
One morning you wake up and take a speed ball and feel bugs under your skin. Federale cops with black moustaches block the doors and lean through the windows snarling their lips back from blue and gold embossed badges. Junkies march through the room humming the funeral song - bear the body of Old Pete - stigmata of needle wounds glow with a soft blue flame. Purposeful schizophrenic detectives sniff at your crotch, goose your ass - "lookin' for it".
It's the coke horrors - sit back and play it cool and shoot in plenty of that free snow...