Tweek.

“I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion” Jack Kerouac.

He took the strip of aluminum foil and folded a crease down the middle. Pinching a few small rocks out of the Chinese rice paper - sprinkled the yellow substance onto the crease. With sweaty brown hands trembling as if it were his last, Oscar lit the bottom of the foil strip with his lighter. He jury rigged a straw from an empty ink pen tube - placed in mouth, grimaced downward eyes intent - the heat melted the small yellowish rocks into a liquid of Mercury like jelly. The thick gray smoke - smell of burnt metal - snaked up into the pen - deep inhale to charred lungs. Oscar tilted the strip with care, letting the heavy metal fluid run down the course of the strip - sucking the fumes as he went. His face lit up like a pinball machine with esoteric results.
"Orale." He exhaled - passing the strip to me.

I sat poised on the edge of the rickety brown chair and followed his lead. The meth entered my lungs - like a 240 volt circuit the rush sped up my spine through the back brain and tingled my forehead. Lay back and listened down into myself. Outside in the early afternoon Mexican street, cars honked and kids shouted in play. The avocado painted room in which we sat was sparsely furnished - smell of dust, soiled socks, and dried semen.

Tongue clicking against grinding teeth, my mouth tasted of aluminum - I exhaled and wondered how much of this shit had we done. I was covered in a fine film of sweat - fingers twitching and twiddling uncontrollably when I passed back the strip to Oscar - my eyes bounced around like the Cookie Monsters.

He sat across from me - black straight hair hung limp over his brown eyes, thin face and his slight but muscular copper frame was shirtless from the heat.

"She cooks it herself." He said and, yes, Esperanza did a good job. The piece that she brought was a good size and got it free on account that she liked me. I knew the score - get us hooked and we will be loyal customers. It's working, I smiled to myself.

The worst porn in the world flickered on his small television set as Oscar rocked back and forth eyes diluted and red transfixed on the outdated imagery of some bouffanted skank getting pounded in the butt by an equally gelled and blow dried stud. I blearily glance out the window - the trees and bushes take on Disney cartoon shapes - Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Goofy - we both sat there in silence save for the wackawacka wairn nairn music from the 80's porn. Oscar slid a thin hand down his ravaged face.

We did another hit. Then another. And then some more.

Last night when we started these shenanigans, Oscar joked philosophically, "Why do we always do this shit at night?"

Why not indeed?

Oscar phased out into Tweekerland and I went into the other room and lay down. Hyperventilating on the bed - I heard fucking sounds (The sounds of fucking, you understand.) inside the walls, I always do. Take all this dick, bitch! Bed against wall - thumpthumpthumpthump. My teeth ground and my tongue clicked as I twitched like a short circuited robot on the bed clothes clung to my wet body like a used condom.

I thought, So this is what it has come to.