Stories of the Creepypasta's

Blue Kings

The term “synthetic drug” refers to a new type of drug on the market that has been created to skirt existing laws on illicit drugs. Thousands of psychoactive compounds are regulated by the law of the Federal Controlled Substances Act. However, in creating synthetic drugs, manufacturers alter the chemical structure of an illegal drug, modifying it to create an “analog” or derivative of that drug, to, essentially, make it quote unquote legal.

Synthetic drug manufacturers are devious in marketing their goods. This is known.

Furthermore, it’s also known that synthetic drugs induce a variety of side effects which can vary from person to person—often lack of pain response, hallucinations, and a severely hindered judgment.

I don’t know how much of those facts and statistics are relevant to me, and what happened to me, but… I need answers. Answers to dangerous questions. Questions I shouldn’t be asking.

I work nights.

I’ve only ever worked nights at Sunshine America—a dingy 24/7 gas station situated in the slums of downtown. And I don’t work there anymore.

I had a pretty fucked up experience there.

To set the stage, it was a typical April night; pitch black, as I rolled into the parking lot. And for the most part, but for some unexpected rain, everything went predictably. Counted my cash, double checked the lotto numbers, made coffee, and then bought myself a monster and a bag of corn nuts for the night and pulled out my laptop to start killing time.

I usually would free write during my shifts, and I’d text whoever was up. Eventually, my girlfriend went to bed and I had no one to text or talk to. I decided to hit up my buddy Mike—he worked nights too. We talked for a bit while I tried to fight off my writer’s block. I had a hell of a headache, though, which didn’t exactly summon inspiration.

At one point in the night, a truck rolled into the lot. I don’t remember seeing it come in. Rather, it was just there when I looked out the window. I seldom take notice of a car actually driving into the station, unless they have a shitty muffler or ridiculously loud bass. This car, though, was a shady looking one—the kind I’d expect to pre-pump and then skip out on paying.

It was a piece. An old, black pickup, victim to merciless rust. It had this huge dent on the driver’s side and a busted headlight. Looked like the asshole had driven into a tree. Didn’t have a license plate, either. I decided not to authorize him if he tried to pre-pay. Having no license plate was just cause enough.

And I went back to writing, and texting, and basically doing nothing. When I finally got up to start sweeping the place, I’d forgotten about the sketchy pick-up. That is, until I saw it—still sitting with its engine rumbling at pump 4.

In hindsight, the whole thing seemed really shady, but at the time, I was just confused. The guy had never gotten gas at all. Nor had he come in for smokes or a drink or anything. So, taking the bucket of washer fluid in hand—so it looked like I had some reason to go outside—I opened the door. And as soon as I did, the engine roared and rubber squealed.

I was baffled as the guy tore out of the parking lot. A cigarette flew out his window and exploded in orange sparks against the pavement. He was down the street in a matter of seconds. I went over to the cigarette butt and stomped it out. It wasn’t really anywhere near the gas pumps, but I felt a little paranoid anyway.

For a while, I thought about the truck. I asked Mike about it and he text back, suggesting that maybe the guy was scoping the place out with intent to rob it.

“Yeah, probably. I’ll tell my boss in the morning,” was my response. I’ve never been afraid of hold-ups. I’d gladly hand over however much cash I had in the drawer. Nothing worth getting shot over, and corporate can suck it.