From TC 9:2 – “Two Suns in the Sunset” by Andrew Rivas

The whole fucking mess was Jonesy’s idea. Six weeks ago, he came to me with his bag filled with pills, higher than God, but still he convinced me in spite of his shot-blood eyes, slurred speech, smoke pouring out of his nose and mouth. Six weeks ago, he convinced me to take this fucking road trip, convinced me that we’d be famous, convinced me that I’d get my book published, convinced me that he could drive in spite of the light blue oxys, the white vikes, the also white Quaaludes. His rainbow-streaked bag of drugs. The hashish, the marijuana, the PCP, the uppers and downers which Jonesy used to call quicks and slows, the Ketamine, LSD, and Xanax, more painkillers which were always Jonesy’s weakness, the psilocybin mushrooms which were Marks’, and more psychedelics depressants stimulants than I could name if my life depended on it.
Which it might; I am not completely sure about that yet. Writing is hard in spite of the vikes, which dull the pain but can’t eclipse it completely, can’t block out the red spires of pain that muscle into my vision when I move even the slightest bit, which keep me trapped here in this metal cocoon encompassing.
I should rest. This is going to take a lot out of me.
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