Free Black Hole by Bucky Sinister Page B

knocked out? Dying? Fuck. Pockets . . . hands . . . tugging. The donuts scattered on Capp Street, stepped on, soaking in drunks’ piss. A jelly hemorrhages. Timberland comes closer to the face. The whole scene is a shrinking tunnel, getting smaller, until it’s completely black.
    I’m hitting the marble. Liza sits across from me. No wig, no ear. Smeared makeup like signal smoke. Orange-peel burn scars.
    You okay? She says with a smirk and a giggle. Don’t forget to breathe.
    Yeah . . . fuck, had a really intense moment there. I thought I was dreaming. It was like I was back in 1990.
    Trippy. How many hits do you get off this thing?
    Don’t know. Story is, never runs out.
    Bullshit. What is it then?
    I don’t know, some kind of experimental drug . . .
    It’s not a drug.
    Why?
    Drugs run out. It’s what they do.
    You have a point.
    Take coke. It’s this thing that makes your life okay, no matter who you are, but the only catch is when this little pile of powder runs out, everything’s fucked. You’re living in an hourglass, and this magic sand is draining out this hole in your face. Worse. Your friend’s face. Fuck your friend. She’s the reason the pile is getting smaller and your life won’t be okay anymore.
    Yes, I see . . .
    BUT YOU KNOW, FUCK EVERYONE, BECAUSE YOU CAN JUST GET MORE.
    Hey, Liza . . .
    I’m sorry. God. Look, if you take away the drugs that run out, then you take away getting more, and getting the money for more. And that’s a drug addict’s life. You can’t just make a drug they don’t have to get the money for or have to look for even when they have the money. That’s part of the whole deal.
    I don’t think . . .
    No you don’t. Obviously. Do you think I would have worked at the Market Street Cinema all those years if I didn’t need the money?
    Of course not.
    Well it’s not that simple, asshole. I wanted to do that shit to myself, to lapdance guys who look like my dad, to blow them in the back for a tip, to catch weird shit all the time from wherever the fuck in the world they came from. I wanted to let Japanese perverts on business trips shit on me. Literally. The drugs? They were a good fucking excuse. Because if I had been doing that for any other reason, you would’ve said I had a problem. That something was wrong with me. But you and every other junkie with a cock still wants to fuck me because I’m something you can save or some shit, save me with your magic cock.
    It’s not like that . . .
    Oh, now you want to mansplain to me what shit is like? Fuck you, Chuck. You act like some nice sensitive guy, but you’re a horrible piece of man shit like the others. Fuck ’em and leave ’em. Fuck ’em and fuck ’em.
    I should go . . .
    First good idea you’ve had all damn day.
    I get my shit. It’s like a scavenger hunt. Boxer briefs pants socks shirt jacket wallet keys phone stash.
    Leave me a bump.
    Fuck, really?
    Yes.
    I dump out a little coke for her right on the table.
    That good?
    Yes. Can you get me one of those marbles?
    Ha. I knew it.
    Shut up. Can you get me one or not?
    A thousand bucks.
    Jesus, Chuck.
    That’s how much it is.
    Ugh. okay. Fine. Get it. Call me when you get it.
    Will do.
    I leave.
    Chuck? she says.
    WHAT.
    It’s nice to have you back around.
    Yeah. Just like old times.
    Jill’s bar across from the hospital is a good place to drink in the morning. After the midnight-to-eight shift, all the nurses from the ER come over and tell stories, one-upping each other with who saw the worst shit.
    Hot nurses are an old joke of porn no one tells anymore. Are there still nurse porns being made? There’s the weird latex rubber outfits on Halloween. That’s about as close as it comes. But there are no hot nurses in the ER at General. But fuck it, they’re fun to drink with.
    There are black girls from Richmond, Filipinos from Daly City, a