The Evening Street : RADIODUST

8: Papa's Dogs - Teeth

TRIGGER WARNINGS APPLICABLE HERE:  Exploitation - SA - Drug Abuse

June 19th
Anthony laid back against his plush pink bed. His head rested against the pillows, blonde locks in disarray. To Anthony's left, Fat Nuggets was curled up beside his chest, showing off his rubabble pink fuzzy belly. Ever so often, Fat Nuggets nose would twitch, and he would quietly 'oink'.

Beside Anthony's right hand was an unopened ziplock bag filled with white, pure glittering PCP. Although tempting, Anthony was lost in his thoughts. His eyes stared blankly at the beige popcorn ceiling.

Tonight was one of those nights where Anthony's mind plummeted.

The pain began in the morning while Anthony walked to work. He had forgotten the time mid-way through his trip and panicked. He rushed to the theater, having failed to remember that his phone had the time. During rehearsal, Anthony had line problems. He unintentionally stammered through his words and sometimes forgot them. His scene partner would often ask him what was wrong. Normally, Anthony was a precise, alive and solid actor but the withdrawal was holding him back. His hands constantly trembled and a pain pinched his forehead.

Of course, Anthony passed it off as the cold.

"It's nothing", "Summertime sickness", "Got the sniffles", and "I caught a cold," were things that Anthony said to ease the theater group. Even though the crew (from what Anthony knew) bought his lie, any smarty pants could notice him slipping. Luckily no one judged him or publicly outed him. Trying to fix his reputation after being labeled drug-user was difficult.

Anthony had already made the same mistake before.

Another jolt of craving —you know you want it. C'mon it's right there. Take a hit— ran through Anthony, waking him up from his thoughts and back into the present. His hand grasped onto the bag —it would be so easy to feel good again— but Anthony bit his lip. He forced himself to let go and focused on the pain.

Madonna Maria. Anthony promised himself he would not suffer through another withdrawal doing this show; he had promised himself to limit the drug use. He needed his head in the game. Taking PCP or any pill, powder, or tainted-drink was going to ruin him. Still, Anthony took the drugs, dependent like the dopamine whore he was.

Why did I do that? Why couldn't I wait?

. Anthony regretted it. He wanted to throw up the poison and wash the toxin out of his veins. Too late now, he already dipped into ecstasy and now he's buried under the weight of the devil's exchange.

Anthony had been clean for four weeks from PCP. All those restless, sleepless nights thinking, craving about Angel dust were a living hell. Tremors, paranoia, fatigue and all the god-awful suffering finally quieted to a dull pain in the back of Angel's mind at the start of the third week. All that progress was ruined and it only took three, three small-ass milligrams of PCP powder to freak his body out. For the physical pain, emotional instability, and hallucinations that the drug gave him the next following days was not worth it at all. Anthony— Angel should have just taken Valentino's wrath sober or taken a weaker drug... not rocket fuel... not Valentino's new, redesigned and improved PCP.

That night on the 16th, Angel saw the white bag of dust beside Valentino's desk in the lobby and Valentino had noticed. Anthony at that time was there, trying to force himself to be Angel and keep up the stupid slut act. Anthony was compartmentalizing, separating Valentino's remarks, violence and threats into small little files in the very back of his mind. That night was fucking shit. Valentino was jealous, Dio sa perché*, and he vented all his hatred into Angel via : six clients at once, a quick porno film, and Valentino's own guilty pleasure.