Black Hole by Bucky Sinister

favorite characters in your favorite books that you read and you didn’t watch TV because TV is bullshit, and me, I went into neighborhoods I shouldn’t have been in and bought what I was pretty sure were drugs from people I didn’t know and I smoked them from pipes I made out of garbage, and I didn’t go to the dentist for the entirety of the ’90s, and I ate meat, smoked, and wore leather, and I flushed the toilet whenever I fucking felt like it, fuck the drought and fuck the bad karma . . .
    Chuck, bro, are you okay?
    He’s shaking me, a hand on each shoulder. I’m not wearing a shirt. Scratches like I fought a cat. Pants, no shoes. Barefoot on the sidewalk. The wind is cold; I’m covered in a thick sweat.
    Chuck, we have to get out of here.
    I know this guy. Can’t place it. He’s from another time, another life.
    I’m in front of Tartine. The phones are out. I’m being filmed with iPads and cell phones. Nannies are shielding kids from me. Someone’s yelling. Wait, it’s me. I’m not thinking. I’m yelling.
    Chuck, it’s me, Eric. You are fucked up.
    Eric’s an old roommate. He lived in the pantry of my house on Laguna Street for a hundred bucks a month. Ninety. Ninety-one. Something. What year is it?
    Eric tugs at me. I follow.
    I’m at Eric’s house. The walls are covered in rock posters and flyers. I’m sitting on a futon in the living room that’s probably his bedroom as well. He tries talking to me, but the words are coming out so slowly I can’t understand him. I’m falling in a remote hole.
    Time pauses and restarts. A fly stops in front of me, hovers like a helicopter. It backs up, goes forward. This isn’t good.
    Eric comes back. He has a briefcase with him that’s a stashbox. He opens it, rifles around, comes out with a tiny squeeze bottle. He tilts my head back and drops something liquid in my eye. It’s cold. Then I feel good. And my cock gets hard immediately. I need to fuck somebody. Right now.
    Ha, you like that, right?
    Remote . . .
    Oh shit, that’s what this crash is. I have some of that. Hold on.
    He rifles around some more. Finds a pill. He crushes it into a fine powder and holds it under my nose. I snort it like a drowning man grabbing for a rope.
    What the fuck, Chuck?
    What was that first shit you gave me?
    Some new shit I’m fucking with. It’s a failed antidepressant. It’s supposed to turn depression into happiness, but it just crosswires sadness with sexual arousal. Of course, it never got through clinical trials. But it’s the best ecstasy comedown cure ever. I’m running a weekend party the last week of every month. Sunday is comedown day. We show Hallmark commercials and montages from Old Yeller and shit, and everyone gets naked and fucks. Even the ugly old guys like me. You should come. You’re already halfway naked. Really though, what the fuck?
    Blacked out. Been taking a lot of shit. Speaking of which, I need to take a shit, a literal shit.
    Down the hall. And take a shower. You smell fucking horrible.
    The first shit blasts like a shotgun. Then nothing. Then it wells up again and blasts. Water and chunks. Then a stream of water, like a riot hose. Then nothing. I sit for a while.
    Rock hard. Stroke. Think of Liza. What she used to look like. The Catholic schoolgirl uniform she showed off to you before you fucked her way back when. The event that led to the fetish. You’re not interested in Catholic schoolgirls. You’ve been trying to fuck Liza again for years. Fuck her again. That’s your thing with the skirt. You’re chasing after her memory. Scars. Burns. No. Fuck. Think of that ass peeking from underneath the hem of the skirt. The first shaved pussy you’d ever seen. Only strippers and porn actresses had those then. It was the unshaven punk era. Shaven armpits were mainstream corporate bullshit. She’s standing over you wearing a