A side venture. From the perspective of a DJ in Clairwood. Not worth the read, doesn’t contribute much to the story overall.
Nothing makes you feel more powerful than total mind control.
That’s what I do for a living, and the saying holds true: do what you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life. I control minds in more ways than one. Something about repetitive bass lines bumping at the same pace as a heart’s beat puts people in a trance. So does RC.
I’ve been producing Electronic Dance Music (EDM) that I play at a deafeningly loud volume at Clairwood’s most notoriously drug-laden nightclub, AfterLife, for four Years, if memory serves (it probably doesn’t, I take hella MXE). By night I fill these halls with music, and by day I fill the people filling these halls with their voluntary doses of mind control.
I sling RC: Research Chemicals. I have a source and pick them up once a week from said source, don’t ask who supplies. That’s a thing.
I keep Enzos (B’s and C’s) on deck for the trippers, a fresh supply of CD-P (uppers, nicknamed City) for the rollers and tweakers, a healthy stash of MXE (a synthetic dissociative, we just call it MXE) for me and the dissociables, and a Momaguin .44 in my back-pocket for the tricksters: the would-be robbers of my mind control drugs. Usually, I expect this as a likely outcome when I exchange City pills for bills; the tweakers always seem to be the ones to try jacking me, I’m guessing out of desperation or if I refused them a free sample. Strange how such a feel-good pill will drive an addict to crime.
I’ve only had to discharge the .44 to defend myself once. And it wasn’t when a tweaker was trying to hit a lick on my stash -they never have Revolvers to make their proposals more convincing, too poor. Would rather buy City than ammunition. Good for me.
I was almost raped during a deal. I say it was a deal, but it was never truly going to be one. The guy asked for City, so I made sure to stay strapped. It was a normal enough deal, he texted my Drone saying he was a friend of Kacy’s in need of a few tabs. I ran the number through my Drone, finding nothing out of the ordinary in the community reports for my, ahem, ride-sharing app. I told him where he could meet me. I pick better places now.
He clubbed me over the head; I was unsuspecting, looking into my satchel-o-fun. It was hidden in his back pocket; he blindsided me. I was dazed and dizzy -stars and such. It’s hazy, but I realized what he really wanted when he took his dick out.
I swear to you (to me?) I didn’t do it. It seemed automatic. Methodic; melodic. Someone did it for me, but it was my body that performed the action. Like mind control. He kicked and shit and pissed himself even though he was missing most of his head. I remember the smell most of all. I wish he would’ve just bought the pills and left.
Why do I feel this way, like it was my fault? I feel like it would’ve been better to let him have his way with me, that he could still have his life. Am I downplaying rape? No. But having someone’s blood on your hands sucks. And I wouldn’t have this memory of what fresh brain matter smelled like. Of what rapist brain matter smells like. I wouldn’t have been a killer, just a victim. I told no-one. I bury this part of my life from others, as Paul’s parents buried him.
I don’t know why I talk to you like this; obviously I was not going to sit there and let myself become another rape victim, another statistic. I look at it this way: dog eat dog. When it comes down to it, and I mean when it gets really bad, it’s you or me. I know who I’m picking. I thought I knew, at least.
They arrested me. Pinned the drugs on me. Lawyer got me off easy because it was my first offense. I think this is when they changed their minds. A handshake I was not privy to.
I wonder if the same due diligence would have been pursued if I had simply reported the rape. Likely not. Fuck this patriarchy bullshit.
But that was a while ago. It isn’t so bad, not like heartache. Just a sort of guilt that eventually stops weighing down on you, but it’s always there. It’ll always be there. We’ve become casual with each other.
A diet of MXE, coffee, and Mack’s fast food is what keeps me going. That, and my purple and gold, tetrahedral, quiet, hovering Drone. But mine wasn’t your average Drone. I have a ShortGaze S-model, Solid State Redundant Array, too-many-giga-hertz-too-repeat, way-too-much-RAM, what’s-that-how-many-cores-did-you-say, liquid-cooled, binary-emulating, quantum-CPU Drone, custom-modified by yours truly. This I use, my sweet, my amazing, this I use to craft my music. I sell mind control to pay for what I use to create mind control. I’m in control. Who minds?
I never knew I could savor a woman before tonight. She was of my same heart: passionate for creating EDM and passionate for consuming dissociative drugs.
Tonight, the seasonal eclipse of Saris, the planet that brings ours nightfall, was illuminating Colfax avenue. It was also the winter solstice, the longest day of winter. The halfway point.
AfterLife, off Colfax and Seventh, was crowded. I had sold to most of these people earlier today, so the audience was lively. In tune. I was the second act. The finisher. She was the first, an up-and-comer by the name of dotchimera. That was her DJ name. Mine was from my early clubbing days in high-school; I will ask her where she came up with hers.
We started doing this in high-school, this naming thing. Everyone had a club name, an alias. A pseudonym, so if anyone got pinched in a Raid none of the others could be implicated. It was more for the simple fun of deciding your own name than anything. Something a parent could never get right.
The hand-off is always awkward, when DJs swap shifts. Not necessarily for the clubbers, but more for the DJs. dotchimera was suave, a natural. She wanted to do a mash-up for her last 10 minutes. Her stuff versus mine. A friendly spin-off.
Her own, original music was fluff. Typical rhythms, the predicted ‘drop’, the breakdown. But her remixes were dirty. She remixed an ancient song of mine, no doubt dredged from my FileShare, to start our mash-up. That was my cue.
I wear an elephant hat on stage to cover most of my face and what little hair I have, my head protruding from its open mouth; its trunk dangled beside my head. Black skinny jeans. Black combat boots. Black, baggy shirt. Face powdered white, ghostly white. Huge, black shades to cover the eyes, to cover the true identity. I am not one of you; I want them to feel it.
She was wearing neon yellow sunglasses, hair in a messy knot, lollipop in her mouth. White, baggy trip-pants. Tight, white tank-top. Bare feet. She did not disguise herself, her identity was laid bare.
dotchimera whispered something in my ear after our mash-up and slipped me a piece of paper (what kind of DJ keeps paper and pen?) before heading backstage. It was a request for MXE. Swoon. I’ll text her Drone when I’m through with the show.
The show went as usual. I took hella MXE after, in the bathroom. Almost too much; I didn’t want to K-hole while I was out and about. K-hole: When your mind separates from your body. It’s glorious. K comes from the name of the drug Ketamine, another dissociative.
I noticed a couple of suits on my walk to the parking lot. My hand gravitated toward my Revolver. They didn’t follow me. Coincidence.
We met at a Mack’s. She slipped me the cash, I, the substance.
“Wanna hit some of this shit with me?” she asked.
I was already feeling it, then. Like when you just wake up and you aren’t sure if you’re in a dream yet. This next dose might tip me over the edge, but I didn’t want to look like I couldn’t handle my shit.
“Bet. Been itchin’ to do some more,” I said, trying to be cool.
We got in my car — I still have this trust thing since I killed Paul, so I insisted we would put it under our tongues in my car, a pitiful excuse for a vehicle though it was.
She scooped a large dose from the stash I just provided her, the size of which surprised even me, and dumped it under her tongue. She took out a lollipop from one of her many pockets and began sucking on it. She looked good. Or was I tripping?
I took a modest scoop from my private selection and plopped it down right beneath my tongue. It tingled its familiar tingle and I shuttered from the bitter taste. That is probably gonna do it, I thought. Luckily nobody drove their own cars anymore: the Grid handled all of that automated shit.
“I like your name, dotchimera,” I said. She didn’t know me well enough, so maybe she couldn’t tell I was slurring a little. Things were coming to a point for me, reality was becoming difficult.
“Thanks. I like yours too, boolean gemini. Or is it six-oolean nine-emini?” she said, making a joke about the way I spelled 6oolean 9emini, my club name.
“Mine’s been my club name since I started going to AfterLife. What about dotchimera? Same story?” I asked her.
“No,” she answered.
She looked at me like she wouldn’t answer, so I stopped talking. Just let the MXE course my veins.
“So, are you, like, a butch or something?” she asked.
I wasn’t wearing my elephant hat. My head was half-shaved on one side, and the other was cropped close. Now you understand the disguise, she was one of the average bitches I have made it my purpose to avoid. I’ll bet daddy bought her set-up for her; her daddy’s money in my hands for her drugs.
“No,” I answered.
“Oh, I thought we were gonna have fun tonight,” she said, but I already felt betrayed.
I will admit that I found her attractive, but not in the usual ‘oh yeah she’s hot’ sense. Like the ‘I want to feel her lips’ sort of appeal. But I didn’t like her as a person. At all. I don’t know. I could just feel this bitch was crazy. I knew I shouldn’t proceed with her; she would bother me so much. She was just like Orson’s girlfriend.
But her lips felt like MXE when they met mine. Like love.
Not actual love, mind you. Like love, but not really. Like that lucid dream you can never have again.
I K-holed soon after and woke up alone in the Mack’s parking lot in my car. She had left a slip of paper with a heart drawn on it laying on my chest.
I guess we ended up taking more MXE because my stash was lighter when I checked it. No sweat. I had plenty of cash to replace it. It was almost pick-up time, according to my Drone.
I tell my car to take me home to shower and change before the pick-up. I see another suit in the car next to mine before I leave the parking lot. He never once looked my direction. I can’t tell if I’m paranoid or special. If they are watching me, is the reason benign or sinister? I don’t care to find out. I never found out.
A couple of suits were in the parking lot of the pick-up location, sitting in the same car reading newspapers, so cliché.
dotchimera was there instead of the source.
Why was she wearing black skinny jeans, combat boots, t-shirt and my elephant hat?
That bitch! She stole my hat!
I knew what she really wanted to steal when she pointed her Revolver in my face: my source, my identity, my livelihood.
My Revolver was in my satchel, even though I trusted this source. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have trusted either of these two people. Should’ve diversified my investments. The Saturian Intelligence Recon isn’t known for its loyalty to its drug-pushers. Maybe killing my would-be rapist put me on the radar. Too much heat, the S.I.R. wouldn’t want implications.
“Don’t even reach for it,” she says to me. She was talking about my Revolver.
She was threatening me. I was not in control.
Dog eat dog. Her or me. Who should I choose?
Back to the guide: https://medium.com/thisisnotabook/guide-4c99401b1ec8