Some uncountable years ago, a mass suicide took place in Creekwell City. Almost fifty men and women marched towards St. Mark’s Square not from a specific destination, but it was said that they seemed to have flooded from all around. No one knew the score until all at once, as if ordered by some invisible force; they showered themselves with kerosene and set themselves on fire. Citizens in Creekwell were shocked, not because these people burnt themselves alive, but because of the unknown reason behind them doing such deed. On the night of the mass suicide that took place in Creekwell city, my dear mother all drugged up gave a silence hum as she pushed me out of her vagina, and into this world. This scene (as described by my father a few years later) took place in an alleyway a four blocks from St. Mark’s Square; my mother had her back against a cold dumpster with dopy eyes, for she was on a massive amount of Benzedrine. My father, who was a pusher, stood next to Butch The Butcher as he held me upside down like I was some sort of dead fish fresh out of water. Father lifted a red hot branding iron and stuck it in the sole of my back with a hiss, I was told I did not cry, but merely opened my eyes and glared onto the world. That was when the smell of burning flesh rolled like a sinister fog though-out the city; the agonizing stench was so intense that everyone who was still alive in the city got sick, some even chocked on their own vomit. While high on a mixture of half-assed government issued junk and C, my father freaked out, snatched me and my mother, broke into an old station wagon, and drove out of the city without looking back. At dawn my parents and I reached Engenton, a town near the yellow valleys of the dead lands. My father had nothing on him except for some change, and a few caps of illegally acquired government junk. My mother lay in the back seat, blacked out with her infant child, a few hours of age asleep on her chest. For the first few months in Engenton, we slept in the stolen car, and ate dumpster food. Dad, having no work experience except dealing junk strived to keep the family together, to keep us alive.
There’s always a way to push junk, even in the smallest of towns. For the first few years of being in Engenton, while working several odd jobs, my father tried to find a way to get back to his old business. Our break came when the department of transportation made a sudden change of plan when they decided that the B-train, coming all the way from Creekwell would pass right through Engenton instead of about ten miles away from it; this was our first break. The second break came when my father was able to buy an old shop in the market area for a very low price. The plan was set, my father decided to turn the old shop into a meat joint, and called upon Butch The Butcher to use the new railway to send him slaughtered cattle with caps of illegal junk stuffed inside of them. The money came in, the old station wagon turned into a convertible, and the future looked bright. People wanted more junk; they always did because the government shit was never enough.
My father gave me my first fix on my first day of school; he taught me how to prepare the stuff, and how to inject it. I remember how I felt when I took my first shot of M. That sheer fright followed by the sensation of my skin loosening, as if it were a rubber suit. I took one cap a day, then two, and before long, I developed a habit. I was never the sociable type, so I spent my days reading old books and listening to old records, that was when I realized my love for writing, and decided I wanted to make a career out of it. My father wouldn’t have it, he was furious and ordered me to get my shit together, and help him in the family business. Meanwhile, my mother began to disappear into a thin shell of vivid darkness. She was doing all kinds of shit, pumping five to seven caps a day. A spark of madness developed behind her eyes, always screaming nonsense, and not eating for days. It was like a disease spreading its claws, first snatching away my mother, and then my father. He lost his mind when the government opened up more junk offices, and increased the bouts from seven to fourteen caps a week. The town’s people pulled away from the junk my father sold, and went back to the government shit, which wasn’t better at all, but it was much cheaper. His behavior became much more abusive towards me and my mother, that’s when I bailed, that’s when I ran away back to Creekwell City, not knowing what the fuck would come of it. After a short period of being in the city, I received a phone call from a guy who worked for my father, informing me that both my parents were shot dead when the coppers made a bust on our house. A few days after that, I received a few of my parents’ belongings, my father’s colt revolver, and the ashes of my parents, which I scattered by the peer at the Creekwell marina. My parents’ death did not affect me at the time; the last mental image I had for them voided me of all sentiment. I was doing four caps a day, and struggled with supporting my habit, that’s when I met a one-legged pusher named Bobby Braxton, who got me into the business of acquiring and selling junk. At the time, I was living in a studio apartment downtown; Bobby would deliver the day’s stock every morning, and would pass by in the evening to shoot in my apartment. One night he brought a friend over, a tall fellow, a bit flat faced. He looked like one of those rapists you see on the news with wide eyes always staring at other people’s genitals. Bobby introduced me to his friend as he walked inside my place.
“This eere’s my bud,” Bobby said “Name’s Steve Miller.”