L.A. Rotten Read Online Free Page B

L.A. Rotten
Book: L.A. Rotten Read Online Free
Author: Jeff Klima
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problems—hence the need for tidiness and biological know-how. I expertly draw the liquid up into the syringe and tip the needle to relocate air bubbles to the back of the chamber. Strictly speaking, a little bit of air isn’t going to hurt your veins, but erring on the side of caution keeps the threat of an embolism from fucking with your high. What isn’t needed materials-wise now gets put back in the box and slid out of my immediate area.
Good fucking riddance
. On the wall above my bed, the sun-worn lines of a crucifix are etched into the paint. Evidently, the former tenant was a God-fearing person, but as for me, this here ceremony is the only religion I’ve got anymore.
    Repetition has taught me where a vein is buried in the webbing between my big toe and his neighbor, and, also, where I’ve drilled before. Avoid hitting the same spots again and again, or you’ll get, yup, necrosis. I depress the plunger slightly once the nerves in my feet have tasted the needle’s presence, and then draw back upward, collecting my own blood into the chamber, integrating it with the skag. This tells me I’ve hit pay dirt (not that I worry). Next stop: morning. I depress the plunger fully, the second hand on some clock somewhere skips a tick, and I set the exhausted syringe on my nightstand. I will not use this syringe again. The horrors of dull, well-used, well-shared jailhouse needles stay with me always.
    At noon, I stumble out of bed to begin my day, none the worse for the wear. My cell phone has been mercifully unharassed by Harold, and my daily shit is a good one. My dealer on the outside, Tony, complains that heroin constipates him, but I’ve never had this problem. Showered, I don’t have to check my refrigerator to tell me that there is no breakfast—there seldom is. Not that I get hungry often; a day will often pass without me eating anything at all. Come to think of it, I don’t remember eating anything yesterday. It makes me curious about that shit I took. I stop on my way out the door to toss the parchment-colored envelope containing an angry missive from my landlord into the trash. The bin in my kitchen, empty except for two other unopened parchment envelopes, reminds me that I don’t need to buy new trash bags anytime soon.
    —
    Unfortunately, the bags of biohazard are just where I’ve left them, their orange biohazard stickers practically neon in the scorch of the midday sun. Shading my momentarily sensitive eyes beneath a pair of Wayfarers, I toss my milk crate on the seat beside me and blast the air conditioner. A construction crew jackhammers the asphalt across the street into fist-sized clumps of black rubble. The sound may explain the intermittent pulses of gunfire that populated my nightmares toward the end of my slumber. Nightmares always seem to come after I dose myself; these have so far been the most unpleasant aspect of my using experience. I head to the industrial park that is the physical home to Trauma-Gone; mercifully it is devoid of people when I arrive, and I park my work truck in front of the roll-up door to our warehouse space. Admittedly, my unexpected presence on the news has me wondering who has seen what of my existence. I know nothing good can come of it.
    Inside the tiny box that is our office, I immediately turn on the air conditioner as well. I don’t know how Harold can stand the roasting air that accumulates inside the office on hot days; you’d think he was part African instead of dumpy and Korean. It is far more his frugality than his tolerance of wicked temperatures that has our makeshift office storing heat like a convection oven, though. I won’t be on-site long enough to bask in the cooler climate, but something is better than nothing in this summer swelter. I bring the Minolta over to the one computer we have, sit down, and plug a USB cable into the side port of the digital camera. Harold, for his great many faults, has the redeeming feature of computer know-how. Our

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