Just To Get High (Extreme Language!)

Anthony had collapsed on the couch with a cold bottle of beer in his hand. He was determined not to sleep, he didn't want any nightmares tonight. But he couldn't live without sleep much longer and the inevitable happened. He dreamed he was running through a desert. Running for his life. Faceless people were running and screaming from the unknown enemies and bombs were blowing up in his face. Men were screaming in Arabic and other languages he wasn't sure about. Truthfully they sounded like a duck farting. This was one of the countless nightmares he had had during the war. But now they often occurred in his dreams though his war days were over for now. With a muffled scream Anthony rolled off the edge of the couch, still in an unconscious state. He clutched tightly to the empty bottle, muttering in his sleep.

The nightmare was ending. The man standing in front of him pulled the trigger and the bullet was heading toward the dead center of his forehead. He woke with a start as Evan slammed the door shut behind him. Turns out the tiny sonic boom was actually just Evan leaving with their laundry. He was covered in a cold sweat and the silk of his shirt was sticking to his back. Just a dream... he thought to himself over and over. He picked one hand up off the ground and found his knuckles white and tightly clenched around the bottle. But he wasn't wet only because of the sweat, he had peed himself in his sleep too. "I pissed myself... " and he vaguely recalled himself peeing into the fire of the dream. He ran his good hand across his mouth, there was dried drool crusted it around it.

But soon he had cleaned himself up, taking a shower, putting on his guyliner, etc. But he left the dark shadow because he hated the clean shaven look most men sported. Though he didn't like it, he searched through Evan's closet to find a fresh pair of clothes. Which reminded him, Where was Evan? it was getting late and Anthony was getting worried. Then a thought struck him. Evan had taken both of their clothes, Anthony's pants had the stolen cocaine in them... Evan wasn't back yet. He could be dead by now, if someone had found it. He could be in jail. Or he could be high. None of these things were good. Anthony's insides all seemed to be twisting and suddenly he was mad at Evan for risking so much. He knit his brow and the large veins poked out on his forehead. He slammed his fists violently against the wall, his bad hand searing with pain, which just enraged him more. "Holy... fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!" He pounded against the wall until both his knuckles were bruised and bloody. He kicked the wall then turned quickly away from it, trying to get his mind into focus.

Anthony grabbed his gun and stuffed it into the leather jacket he had found in Evan's closet. He fumbled around with the door for what seemed like forever, his hands were slippery with his own blood. Any minute could be the one that takes Evan's life and they were quickly ticking by. The door slammed behind him, he didn't care to lock it, and he strode down the street taking long stride. It was starting to rain heavily and Anthony pulled the soft leather collar around his neck as he headed towards the entrance of the cleaners. He asked around and everyone said he had gone to the boat dock, so Anthony followed suit without question, muttering curses the whole way. It took longer than he had expected, he got lost along the way and had too ask for directions.

He stepped onto the beach. The sand was wet beneath his boots from the rain that was falling around him. He saw the black bag that contained all their clothes, "... Shit." He followed Evan's tracks which were slowly fading away in the heavy rain and hesitated at the entrance to the old warehouse. He fumbled around in his pockets until he found the pistol. He stepped inside the door and side-stepped so that the shadow of the wall would mask his presence. He looked around the dingy warehouse until his eyes trailed over Evan. He was slumped over a low-to-the-ground table and his nose was pressed against the table. There was a loud nasally sound as Evan snorted more cocaine. Anthony scowled in disgust. He moved towards Evan, and, with the best of his two hands he slammed the hilt of the pistol onto Evan's skull. "You little fuck!" His veins were popping out of his face and neck again.

He bent down on his knees to examine his friend. "You really are in deep shit." His eyes moved to the table, his finger running across the edge of the table. He recognized it as the shape of France, and a wave of guilt hit him. Hard. "I'm sorry, Evan, I never should have brought this on you," his voice was ragged and his eyes were stinging with the threat of tears. He ran his finger through south France then rubbed his two fingers together, the white powder with his own blood made a pinkish glop. He rose to his feet, kicking the long table over with the toe of his boot so that the white powder would scatter onto the concrete floor. A wave of pain his foot and he fell onto his knees. He looked over to Evan and wet his lips, preparing to say something. He took the pistol from the resting position at his side and aimed it Evan, and cocked it, "What would you say if I accidentally pulled the trigger? Better yet... " His hand was shaking as he moved the gun to his own jugular vein, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. "We won't die. we'll become legends."

Anthony knew that. Of course legends died. He must have been confusing them with vampires, like Dracula. But still, his mind was also fogged up, though not as much as Evan's, from everything that was happening. He noted that he would have to clean Evan's face and hair before they left. Unless he wanted them both to go to jail. "FUCK!" he screamed as the gun fired, and he ducked away as little pieces of glass and wood shattered around them, some embedding deep into his skin. Once the passing threat was clearly over, he regained his anger at Evan and himself.

His head snapped backwards as the fist pounded against his nose and he was pretty sure that he got whiplash. But besides that, he felt something crack beneath the powerful blow and he was sure that his already crooked nose was twisted beyond help. But he allowed Evan to wipe away some of the blood, he sniffed repeatedly, trying to stop the heavy flow. He tasted blood and had to start swallowing. He wiped his bloody hands on his black pants and kept swallowing blood. Sooner or later he was going to get sick off all the blood. More of his lips were sticky with blood as he tried to lick the blood off. "Thank you," he said sarcastically, his mouth now shining with blood and blood climbing the cracks between his teeth.

This is Anthony's boiling point. Underneath the dried blood his knuckles were white. This is Anthony's tightly clenched knuckles. He pried the gun from Evan's hand and tossed it into the nearby corner, letting it rattle around on the ground. Then without warning he twisted his body around, violently bringing his elbow to Evan's Adam's apple. After that he brought his fist around to smack him in the eye. He was in the mood to destroy something beautiful. Keeping eye contact, he kneed Evan where it counts. Then, he quickly brought his boot up to meet Evan's gut with full force. "Do not fuck with me," he said, breathing heavily, "and do not fuck with my cocaine."
This is Anthony's smirking revenge.

Anthony turned away from Evan, trying to calm himself. To be a little rational. Breathe in. Breathe out. He waited until his breathing went back to normal, his heart stopped racing and all of the adrenaline left his body. He told himself to calm down, and slowly he did. He remembered all those times that he had been high or drunk and it had gotten out of control. He had no one to help him cope. He couldn't tell anyone about it. How could he? He sure couldn't tell his parents. But he remembered all those times he had struggled with the invisible pain that sometimes wraps itself around you, engulfs your mind in misery until you give up. Or until the hangover begins

His mind snapped back to reality. Here was Evan suffering as he wallowed around in his own sorrow. He mentally slapped himself. He sat down on the floor with a grunt, his legs stretched out in front of him. You're getting too old for this, ye old fuckwad, he thought, but then he took it back, realizing it wasn't true. He placed a firm hand on Evan's chest to stop the writhing and gently lifted Evan's head so that it was resting in his lap. He made sure the both of them were comfortable but kept the firm grip on Evan's chest so he wouldn't role away, or more likely, a nervous hand wouldn't come and smack him in the face. He ran a gentle hand through Evan's hair and wiped away the white powder off of his battered face, trying to soothe him. He spoke quiet and soothing words as he told Evan stories, whether they were peaceful, funny, or even embarrassing at his own expense.

Anthony racked his brain for more stories but all the memories that he thought of seemed to be bad ones. After several seconds a smile lit his face as he remembered what he guessed some might call a good memory. He chuckled. "One night I went out drinking. Big surprise, eh? he said, making his voice what he thought sounded close enough to soothing, "And so that night, I had a dream I pissed in the fridge. So long story short, the next day I woke up and found urine in my refrigerator," he said, scowling at his own mistake.

Anthony looked down at Evan, did he really think it was his fault? Of course it's my fault. It's my cocaine. I'm the one who made him look like this, he thought sourly. He looked up at the far off wall, "No brother. It is my fault. I'm the one who got us into this mess. But it's okay because I'll get us out," he told the wall so hopefully Evan wouldn't notice that his eyes were stinging with tears. "But we've got to get out of here before someone finds us."

With that he set gently down onto the concrete floor, stirring up more cocaine. He jumped up onto his own feet, and bent over Evan. Now how am I going to get him home? he asked himself, but he couldn't think of anything. He squat down on his heels and grabbed Evan around the waist, then he stood slowly so that he was leaning over him but still had a firm hold on him. It was tedious work but slowly he dragged Evan over to the nearby wall and set him in a sitting position so that he was leaning against it. "Well, that'll do for now. I think."

Anthony took a half-step backwards to give Evan some room to breathe. He looked at Evan, who seemed to be okay for a second, actually, he looked more than okay. Didn't he? Anthony's emotions were all mixed together: love, hate, compassion, rage, sorrow. It was hard for him to tell one from the other. But there were pressing matters so he just pushed them all down. He craned his neck around to, again, take in the mess Evan had made of his cocaine... Stupid Evan. It was his fucking cocaine. He shook his head. No! he told himself. He had to stop thinking like that. It was his fault. His. Not Evan's. His. But he still had to do something about it, no matter whose fault it was. He turned his head again so that he could look out the door. It was still light outside, but it wouldn't be for long. Soon the sun would set and it would become dark. Soon the thugs would come out. The ones with guns. His eye caught something. A bucket. An old bucket someone probably used as a crapper or something. But it was still good enough to wash away the cocaine.

His attention was brought back to the present by Evan's shrill whisper, "No Evan, I don't think that would be a very good idea," he told him, the idea still forming in his head. "I think I'll go and-" he stopped short. He swung his head around just in the nick of time as Evan came stumbling towards him. He grabbed onto the front of his shirt to help him back onto his feet, a look of concern apparent on his face. He wrapped his other arm around Evan so that it was resting firmly on his shoulder to steady him. "Evan," he said firmly, "is this the first time you've ever snorted cocaine?" he said each word slowly, hoping that Evan would understand the importance in his question. Was Evan having some sort of reaction to the drug? Was that even possible?

Anthony felt Evan slip through his arms and onto the ground and he knew that his number one priority was to get them home. He crouched down beside Evan, his hands resting on his thighs. "How much did you take?" he asked, his voice filled with authority. But he didn't wait for an answer, he knew it must have been a lot. Most of it was not to be accounted for, which only means Evan snorted it or he ate it, which would have been a real dumb ass sort of thing to do. He was worried sick. Was Evan poisoned by the cocaine? His eyes flickered to the entrance, the sun would be setting soon. But before he left, he bent down on one knee, and, smoothing the hair out of Evan's eyes, he lightly kissed his forehead. He smiled sympathetically, "Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back, I promise," he said right before jumping quickly to his feet.

Anthony moved quickly to the bucket waiting for him at the entrance. It was large enough, it could hold approximately five gallons or so. But it had definitely been used before. As he bent down to pick it up, he noticed it used to be white but was now stained an olive green. And the smell was overwhelming, as if someone had shit in a pine tree and then vomited all over it. He picked it up and went outside to the beach. It was still raining heavily and the tides were high. He set down the bucket as he approached the garbage bag full of their clothes. And another idea was forming in his head now. He undid the draw string and threw their fresh clothes into a nearby bush, which hopefully wasn't a sticker bush that was going to rip their clothes to shreds. Doing that, he stuffed the wet bag into a front pocket on the leather jacket and scooped up the bucket into his hand. He was urged to take his boots off and wallow in the waves, letting them do their therapy, but he had an important task to fulfill and the heavy rain was soaking him head to toe. He began whistling a little tune that had gotten lodged into his head somehow and scooped up some water into the bucket.

He moved quickly to the entrance of the ware house now, motivated by the dry indoors. he stepped in and shook some of the loose drops from his hair. Some of the contents had sprayed as he walked and now the bottom of his pants were wet with it. He spilled a little onto the cocaine, but it was well enough hidden and it didn't take much. Still whistling he walked back to Evan slumped figure. Even after Anthony's attempts to wipe his face clean, the white powder was still obvious on his features. "Sorry Evan," he said scowling, before he splashed the majority of the cold water on the miserable figure.

Anthony took a handful of what was in the bucket into his own hands and splashed it upon his face, but it was just for precautionary reasons. He had just been in the pouring rain anyways. His hand searched around in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes, but looking outside once again, and he realized it would be pointless to smoke in the rain. "Shit... " he muttered darkly as he realized that only made him want to smoke more. He took the bag from his pocket and shook some of the rain off of it. "Unless you wanted the police to come and ask you what the mysteriously cocaine looking white powder on your face was, or, even better, some thug were to come, shoot you down, search your body for more of it, then realize you used it all, I'd suggest you keep your trap shut, he said, the anger that he couldn't smoke apparent. He continued to shake the bag free of drops until it was as dry as he could get it. The outside was wet, but the inside was dry. "Get up," he said simply.