AT THE END OF THE WORLD

My Tweaker Days

THERE WERE THREE OF THEM. They shoved us into the hallway, and Casey snorted, unimpressed, until Uncle Sam started frisking him. "Hey, hey," he hissed, shoving at a camo-clad clown, a whip stroke of a blade hissing by. His hands ripped away from Case's sweatshirt coldly. "I don't know you like that, bro."

An arm draped over my shoulders so fucking heavily I couldn't do anything but follow him inside Sarah's cracked apartment door. Ronald Reagan. A flashlight flicked on George Bush. My head was so foggy. What was going on? Who...

"Cállate," Bush snapped brusquely. They didn't manhandle anybody. They kept us at knifepoint, swerving in moonlit darkness. Light fluttered around in a watery blur. Bush rifling in a dark refrigerator, Uncle Sam poking around a cluttered counter, Reagan holding a machete to my throat oh-so-calmly.

Casey lazily spun. "Okaaay. So..."

Reagan kicked the door closed without looking away; flashes of light struck his garish mask, split blinks of exposure across beady holes and a glint of bemusement. It's The Purge, Morty.

"Hey, guys!"

My heart skidded. No.

"Did I hear a door open?"

Sarah was climbing upstairs.

"Hey, Sarah!" I held his gravelly gaze, calling quietly. Everybody stiffened as Sarah paused. Code. Um. "Hey, can you bring another nug of weed up?" Lighter? Bat? Bong? Anything?

"Oh, yeah, hold on!"

"Okay, okay," I start in a hushed voice... immediately. "Okay, don't hurt anybody. What do you want? ¿Qué quieres?"

"I know what estos pendejos want," Casey snorted.

Bush lifted an arm—a knife—under Casey's chin. "Hm?"

"Oh, you're not Sarah's Grindr hook-up?" He quirked a brow. Then ensured silent glaring only a homoerotic assumption could incite in cis men. Great. Testosterone. Stupidity. Just what I needed. "No? If I'm wrong, I'm wrong, but you don't have to be ashamed eit—"

"Casey!" My jaw clenched. "Don't—"

"Casey," Bush scoffed, backed up. "Yeah, Casey." His Bush skin whisked up over his head, his sweaty hair, and a grin was visible in a ghostly flashlight-flare. "Casey motherfucking Kelly, I knew you looked familiar, cabrón!" He laughed. "No fucking way, it's you!"

And Casey did a double-take: "No shit, J.C.?" He shook his head in disbelief and brought him in on a bro-hug, laughing lowly. "Man, I ain't seen you since... Cincinasty, 2016? Shit."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, Cincinasty," J.C. snickered. "We did okay, yeah?"

"Hell yeah. I had a real good run in Cincinnati. Huh." Casey laughed again. "Nah. For real, man, where you been? What are you doing in New York?"

Before I could completely comprehend his laidback reaction, Sarah yelled. Sarah, coming upstairs, finding an unmasked Latino along with Ronald Reagan and Uncle Sam, armed, holding us at half-mast knifepoint.

"Wait, Sar—"

They rushed forward, gripping a weed tray in both hands, fingers curled, bringing it up to swing it down on a muddy mass of shadows—J.C. jolted, and Casey stepped between, staggering as he caught Sarah's wrist. "Hey, hey, Sarah, J.C. is with me. They're all with me. It's all good, okay?"

I eyed Reagan. His silhouette had gorged in lumps; a mask shucked up as I stroked a single finger down a shadowy blade, feigning dry wonder. "Is it? Good? Reagan needs 'a get his small-dick energy out of my face before I—"

"Kir."

J.C. nodded. "Casey's good people, Derrick. Everybody's okay."

Derrick. He cleared his throat; lowered his weapon slowly. "Thanks," I coughed, shrugging by, sidestepping him to blindly search Sarah's kitchen counter—always an endless supply of half-smoked spliffs. There was an ashtray... here?

Aha. Yeah.

My high had worn down, and I wasn't ready. "Hey, Case, you got my lighter?"

"Yeah, yeah, sorry, Kir," he said, patting himself down. Yep. He shelled my Bic from his jacket pocket, pressed my palm; I lit a half-spliff and inhaled shakily, offering him a quick hit. Then Casey passed back and had J.C. and Uncle Sam under his arms, grabbing at Derrick. "Okay, yeah. Let's..."

They all left. Honestly, I remember it being so quiet I questioned whether Casey just... left with them.

Sarah huddled in—shared a spliff down to nail-pinching roach, dropped it in a sink. "What's going on? Casey knew 'em? Is Case P&Ping again?"

I wanted to scream. Yes. Casey knows J.C., I guess. Casey was snorting shit in your bathroom. So was I. What's going on? I don't know. I don't know if I care.

But when Casey led Derrick, J.C., and an unmasked, unnamed Uncle Sam back in, I... relaxed. "J.C. is cool," he said, clapping a palm against his shoulder: universal acceptance of a Cool Dude. Okay. "Fuck, I knew him back in 2016. We go back. My Tweaker Days, huh?"

"Errrybody was tweakin'," J.C. snickered, and as Derrick and Uncle Sam helped put plywood back up, Casey pulled aside Sarah, who'd... called upon John. "Hey, yeah, I know 'em. They're okay. I told 'em you'd be cool with 'em staying..."

"No, no, absolutely not," John hissed, unimpressed, waving a hand wildly. "No, you can't just let anybody in, Casey. We don't know what is going on. We don't know who... who..." Derrick shouldered by gruffly.

"Man, I already said I know J.C. Don't be a dick, John."

But John crossed his arms curtly. "No, you don't know—

"No, but okay, what if..." Sarah whispered, pulling John away. "Would you be okay if Cas—"

"They can't stay, Sarah. No. End. Of. Discussion."

But Sarah kept going, and I winced, averting any accidental eavesdropping. "So... uh..." I sidled up by Derrick dizzily. I'd pulled from my own stash—my nearly-empty pack of Marlboros. "You from Cincinasty?"

"The Bronx," he lulled as I lit my joint: a flicker of a meek grin, almost... boyishly guilty. Remember, if Casey hadn't been here, hadn't known J.C., Derrick would have probably killed you, Kira.

"Have you been... How... is it?" How long had I been inside Sarah's? It looked bad. Fire down Flushing. A smoky vein of a bloody city. "How bad is New York?"

It would only get... worse, I knew.

"Oh, it's wild," Derrick rasped. "It was always wild, but New York City's rabid now, baby."

Baby. Ooh. Okay.

"What were you gonna do if you... or if J.C. hadn't known... Casey?"

His lips quirked. "Who are you again? Casey said... Kir?"