Most think it happens in back alleys, but we know better than to stalk the same corners that authorities roam; the pigs seek their prey in alleyways, but we have already fled. Their dogs sniff our scent, a black tar aroma injected into the veins of city air. I never have to run, but I know of the others who do. Hollowed eyes, stiffened gaits, dopey grins dotted by empty black spaces where teeth might have been before. Faces who might mirror my own future. They suck up my money like it’s a golden cure. I only reciprocate their medication.
They push. I fall. Every day, I itch at the blackened tracks and scabs underneath my suit jacket at meetings, on the train, in a grocery store. Then it’s back to darkened basements where the grubby worms and I exchange brown paper bags for green paper bills. I know what to call the worms, but I don’t know their names. They don’t look at me. They look at walls, the floor; they look at the words that fall slow in colorful blossoms from my mouth.
Soon I find that nirvana in my own arm. Spittle might fall on my perfectly pressed white shirt while I tie off yet again. Another day alone, in my solitary success, but that dark lady keeps me company. She hooks me in with euphoria then casts me off when she’s spent. I never thought myself the masochist type until she showed me how pain could be pleasure. We get off on each other.
I wake up alone with another bruised blood vessel to discover.