Cigarettes & Mirrors - Chapter Four

I turn into the parking garage with a squeal of the tires, and park my truck in the usual spot. I turn the truck off, and sit for a moment as I pull the next cigarette out and light it. I procured two US Army surplus grenades from the Russians, for the low, low price of $2000. Un fucking believable. One grenade is a standard Model 308-1 napalm grenade, and the other is an M15 White Phosphorous grenade. Nasty stuff. Ought to burn that cocksuckers house right to the ground, and take everyone in the house with it. The city could do with a few less cocksucking wannabe gangbanger types. I see another shadow out of the corner of my eye, and whip my head around to look. I don’t see anything. Fuck. I need something to clear out these god damned drugs addling my head. These shadows are starting to wig me out.

If the grenades in my truck were to detonate right now, the truck and my body would be turned into a melted pile of slag and ash. Thermite can melt through an engine block, and white phosphorous burns through skin like it was a match against paper. Burns right to the bone. I grin as I drag on my cigarette, thinking of the destruction, and hop out of the truck, locking it. It’s a risk to keep the materiel in the truck, but it’s a bigger risk trying to carry the shit down the street. People might get the wrong idea seeing a shifty looking bald headed dude in an army jacket carrying a few grenades. I look at the teenager manning the parking booth absentmindedly. Still stuck into his phone. Fucking kids. Go do something. Smoke a joint with your friends, sell Ecstasy, go get laid, spray some better graffiti than that Asian kid. Fucking something.

I walk out of the parking deck and glance at the clock outside the club next to the parking garage. 3:30. I’m going to wait until the middle of the night to make my move against the house. Less chance of anyone seeing me, more chance of Antonio and his dime store wannabe hoods partying inside and burning alive in the ruins of the house. I grin again and feel a shiver of anticipation go up my spine. It’s time someone taught that cunt and his merry band of cunts a lesson. I throw open the door of my apartment building and climb the worn out stairwell with a resigned sigh. The familiar stench of cabbage and rotten ass still hangs heavy in the air. I cough and stub my cigarette out against the wall as I reach my apartment door, unlocking it and stepping inside. I need a fucking drink. My mouth is dryer than the fucking Sahara right now. Common side effect of the methylphenidate analogue.

I step into my kitchen, momentarily dazzled by the intense white glow of the fluorescent lighting and pull my dented fridge door open. Nothing. Shit, I drank the last cider earlier. Fuck me. My vision suddenly swims and flashes, and I nearly collapse, but thankfully the counter is there to keep me upright. Holy shit. My vision is crackling like snow, coming and going in waves of rippling intensity. My vision grays out at the edges and then surges back into ultra-high definition. My eyes are numb. What the fuck? My vision is flashing like distortions on a broken computer monitor. I can feel my heart speeding up, beads of sweat popping out of my forehead. I sneeze suddenly and a mist of blood sprays onto my formerly white cabinets. I’m coming down from the drugs. Or am I fucking overdosing? I shudder as I can feel the muscles in my back tighten and release simultaneously, causing me to shiver repeatedly. But it’s nothing close to cold in here. I sneeze again, causing another red mist to blow forward from my mouth and nostrils. I hang my head over the sink as I shudder again, back muscles tightening, and a deluge of blood starts flowing from my nose like someone turned on a faucet. I’m starting to really wig out. I can see shadows in my peripheral vision as blood pours down my face and into the drain of the sink. It's filling the bottom of the stainless steel basin. My back is arching involuntarily as my muscles continue to freak the fuck out.

I sneeze again, and the torrent of blood suddenly stops. That's fucking weird. My arms are shaking, and now I’m soaked in a cold sweat. I twist and pop my back, shuddering as my muscles release the tension and finally settle into their normal routine. I turn the faucet on and wash the puddle of bright red blood down the drain. Jesus Christ that was some powerful shit. I stumble into my bathroom and flip the light switch on, my eyes twitching and wanting to shut as the fluorescent tube above the mirror sends a million needles into my optic nerve. I cough and look at my reflection in the mirror. Now I really look like some sort of addict. I’m chalk white, my face smeared with very bright red blood. I grab a rag and rub my face clean, scrubbing hard until my skin stings. My face, now devoid of blood but still chalk white, jumps out of the mirror at me. Like a ghost. I’m normally pale, but not this pale. I reach into my medicine cabinet and pull a bottle of Xanax out, popping a 2mg bar into my mouth. I chew the bitter pill and rinse it down with a swig of water from the faucet. I stand at the mirror, watching myself in it. My mouth is already dry even after that swig of water. I need to fucking calm down. Waiting for the chemical to enter my bloodstream and relax me. My arms are shaking as I grip the side of the sink, staring intently at my reflection. It does not change. It does not blink. It does not move. I only stare back at my real self from the mirror.

I stumble out of the bathroom a few minutes later and collapse onto the couch, shuddering involuntarily every few minutes. I stare blankly into the wall for what seems like hours as I feel the chemical bliss finally enter my bloodstream, releasing my tension and bringing me into a state of tranquility once again. I sit up and look at my phone. It’s not even 4:00 yet. My entire psychotic break occurred in less than twenty minutes. Interesting. I pull the slightly crumpled pack of Marlboros out of my jacket and shakily light one, drawing and exhaling quickly until I can feel the nicotine hit me like a punch. I shudder as I can feel the nicotine and Xanax wrapping me in a cocoon of lucidity and calm. I slump back on the couch, drawing on the cigarette. I find myself staring off into space as I drag on the cigarette, letting it dangle in midair, before the ash dropping onto my other hand snaps me back into the present. 

Focus, you fucking asshole. 

I wipe the ash off my hand and my pants and stub the cigarette out, standing up, trying not to fall over. I can feel the weakness in my legs, threatening to tip me over back onto the couch. After a few minutes of standing there my leg strength starts to return. I am steadier on my feet, finally. I gotta go to the store and buy something to drink.

I walk out of the apartment, patting my pockets to make sure I still have everything. I almost fall down the stairs stepping down them. The fat fuck that owns this building needs to fix them but he’s too busy getting his dick sucked by some 11-year-old prostitute to worry about it. Sick fuck. I step onto the sidewalk, smiling at the crimson blood stain in the middle of the street. The corpse isn’t there anymore but the memory still is. A light note of thunder rumbles in from the distance. I look up to the sky. It’s the color of a dead TV screen from years past. It’s going to rain soon, I can smell it in the air, mixed with the grease of the McDonalds down the street and the pall of that Asian dude’s death. I light another cigarette and drag on it, and walk down the block on my way to the corner market, my thoughts still not quite in order. I’m not quite in a state of euphoria yet, but the 2mg of Xanax have me in a cocoon of just…calmness. My muscles are loose.

I step into the doorway of the corner market, as it begins to rain, slowly at first. I take a drag of my cigarette, and the heavens soon open up into a torrential downpour. It’s amusing to watch the ignorant masses of this city react to storms. As in most big cities, people don’t know how to fucking drive in the rain or in the snow. A prime example is the Honda Civic that just smashed into the side of the building across the street, obviously going too fast. I can feel the impact in my bones, can feel the crunch of the distorting metal, and see the drivers head whip forward into the steering wheel as all the glass shatters. The airbag does not deploy but the woman’s head keeps going. I watch her neck break like a twig. Oops. Her head is resting against the horn, making it blare with a solid whine. Reminds me of Grand Theft Auto. I laugh, before I take a final drag of my cigarette and whip the butt into the gutter. The one-eyed clerk is at the window by the counter, staring at the wreck. He does not notice me. Suits me just as well. Another rumble of thunder, closer now, erupts overhead making the building vibrate slightly. The open door lets the breeze come in, mixing the fresh rain scent with the Indian food smell that is always hanging around like it was a crack addict, desperate for a rock. I don’t know how these people can stand that smell. I’m standing in front of the cooler trying to decide what beer I want, when I hear a greasy voice behind me, tinged with malice.

“Hey, pendejo.”

Fuck me.