Znegative
Bluelight Crew
- Joined
- Apr 15, 2010
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Gave writing a short story a try... Suggestions/criticism appreciated!
by Znegative
I stepped over the shards of broken glass and splintered wood, stumbling through the front door of the clinic and out into the empty streets. In all my years living in New York, I had never seen such stillness on Broadway. It would be a first and a last.
In the distance I could hear the screams of men and women who weren't ready to face the facts. Who couldn't make peace with their imminent demise or their futures that would never be.
In under a minute the Earth's core would erupt, sending life as we'd known it hurling into the great unknown. We were all going to die.
With each scream I felt little compassion, yet I was not apathetic nor indifferent. The truth is I was bitter. These people had, within the last two hours after the warning, the opportunity to say "good bye",to say "I'm sorry", or even "fuck you, I quit." They could hold their loved ones one last time, and realize that unlike their fallen mothers and fathers, they would not die alone.
Perhaps my attitude was cruel, spiteful even. But had you spent the last two hours of your life as I had, fighting to keep order among a population who for the most part had lived their lives trying maintain a constant state of intoxication at the expense of the taxpayers hard-earned dollar, well you would've been pissed too.
My name is Dr. Clarence Edmundo, and I was the director of "Our Mother Mary's Methadone & Buprenorphine Maintenance Clinic".
Itwas exactly 10:15 this morning when our clinical psychiatrist on active duty, Dr.John Powlesbelly, came huffing and puffing into my office where I was reclining comfortably in my leather chair from Bergdorf Goodman, sipping loudly upon a macchiato. As he burst through my office door, I spewed the caffeinated beverage out of my mouth and nostrils, but before I could say a word, or raise a fist, John demanded that I turn on CNN. "It's important" he said in the breathy voice I had grown to loath. "Will FOX suffice?" I asked, though I had already pressed five on the remote control. I stared in disbelief, temporarily frozen as I took it all in. Horizontal stripes of color ran down the screen, and in a bold, white font, a flashing box of text heeded the warning:
"At 12:20 PM, Eastern time, the world will explode...And no, this is NOT a test."
As the paralysis began to fade, I let Dr.Powlesbelly help me to my feet. I headed to the door, but the swollen, ape-ish man blocked me from my one and only exit.
"You do not want to go out their Clarence! It's a madhouse. The patients ears rioting, trying to break down the doors to the medication rooms!"
I grabbed my cane and whacked the bumbling ignoramus on the temple. He promptly fell to the floor, knocked unconscious. I stepped over his large and repulsive body and walked through the door, made a left at the corridor, and then turned right towards the medication hall. I was stunned by the scene that was unfolding. The patients seemed to have joined forces in an attempt to break down the barrier that separated them from bottles upon bottles of liquid methadone. With their canes they repeatedly took turns giving cracks to the locked doors. In unison they chanted "We want meds, we want meds!" Through the windows I could see the nurses responsible for doling out the powerful opioid dolophine cower under their tiny desks. The head nurse, Anita Cruz grabbed a full bottle of liquid, cherry flavored methadose, and began chugging, finishing half a liter before dropping dead on the floor.
Meanwhile a group of strong Latin Men, clearly gang members, managed to bust down one of the electrically locked doors. As the patients flooded in, I heard a blood curdling scream. I knew at that moment, that although I had never cared for Nurse Pregens, this uprising had to be stopped. Order had to be restored. Without gaining attention I managed to run back to my office where I punched a code into my phone: 4,0,0,1. I then picked up the receiver and yelled "Code Blue! Initiate project Fantasm!"
I then curled into a ball underneath my desk for what felt like hours. It was only when I heard the march of the hospital's armed guards that I gained the courage to once again leave my comfort zone and head back to what had turned into a twisted modern day mead-hall ravaged by the freakish demon Grendel. The soldiers marched in, each equipped with gas masks and guns containing canisters of glass beads, each concealing deadly amounts of the synthetic opiate fentanyl, 100x stronger than morphine, generally used for the trauma ward, hospices and occasionally as chemical weaponry. I paused for a second and thought back to all those people killed in that Moscow theater..."So many dead," I thought and then after putting on my own gas mask, giving the guards the order to shoot on my command.
As the guards approached the frenzied mob, a man stepped out and jeered, "Whatcha gonna do? Shoot us?" The sneer on his pox scarred face enraged me and I gave the guards the signal, and with that they opened fire. Through my mask I watched as the canisters we're unloaded. The tiny glass beads shot out in every direction, exploding on impact. Within seconds the insidious gas began to fill up the halls. Fentanyl is a highly lipid soluble opioid with a short duration of effect, it's mean half-life being only half an hour. However, due to its ability to rapidly cross the blood brain barrier, it hits within seconds. I watched the crowd, and to my dismay only three of the smaller patients fell to the floor, while the rest still stood, un-phased. The pox scarred man inhaled deeply, cracked his neck, his knuckles and then proclaimed "Gee, thanks for the head rush guys, but I'm thinking you've got more than that to offer". Behind him, men and woman cheered, raising their canes and walkers in the air, hooting and hollering like a gang of baboons.
"My God," I thought..."There tolerance, it's too high!"
With only one option left, I once again sped back to my office. I fumbled through my drawers looking for my keys, finding them strangely stashed in my nearly empty bottle of Temazepam. I popped a 30mg capsule and then looked at the key I thought I'd never need. In a trance I sat there until I felt a subtle sense of tranquility come over me as the benzodiazepine began to take effect. I then got up and felt around the floor under my desk until I found the secret latch which I pulled up, revealing the special hollowed out space where every methadone clinic kept its darkest secret.
I pulled out an iron suitcase and unlocked it. Opening the container, I stared down at the bizarre weapon and felt a queasiness shoot through my body and shivered.
In August, 1931, a Professor at Yale university named Alan Nalonus, came home one day to find his home ransacked. Everything was strewn about.. All his gold trinkets, money, and stamp collection were gone. Upon entering his bathroom, he found the medicine cabinet's door swung open, and on the floor lay two empty bottles which had contained codeine and Laudanum for his painful hemorrhoid's. Overall the professor was rather upset by the ransacking, and went down stairs to call the Sargent and report the break in. But as he walked down the stairs he froze, for what he saw was so horrible, so cruel and so senseless that it would, in time be the catalyst for what would become a turning point in the history of opiate addiction.
Pinned to the wall with a five inch steel screw, was his pet hamster, Mr.Big-Belly Fluffykins. Professor Nalonus slowly walked up to his furry companion and touched his soft coat and stared into the dead animal's vacant eyes. With tears running down his face, the brilliant Professor gripped the screw and pulled it from the wall, freeing Mr.Big-Belly Fluffykins as well a some of his entrails which dripped to the floor. Nalonus held the cold little body to his chest, cradling it like a child and let out a mournful scream, which was reportedly heard by pedestrians as far as two miles away.
He returned to work after two weeks of funeral arrangements and a lengthy period of mourning. His heart was broke, but in Fluffykins death, Nalonus had finally found a purpose and an unstoppable sense of motivation. It's said that he walked into his office on August 15th, and didn't leave once, not even to use the bathroom, or to grab some food, until the 30th, when he stumbled out of his office, pale and emaciated, holding what looked like a Gatling Gun in his hands. He stood there, swaying back and forth for about ten seconds, and before his co-workers could call for help, he dropped to the floor dead.
After the body was removed, several other scientists took the strange weapon, and 300 pages of notes and diagrams written within the 15 days leading up to his death. After extensive analysis they discovered the purpose of the invention. It was so brilliant, and so twisted, that the FDA disregarded the tests and clinical studies usually necessary for such things, and approved the apparatus within minutes of seeing it.
So what was the purpose of the awkward device I held in my hands? It was a semi-automatic weapon loaded with darts containing every junkies worst nightmare... The opiate antagonist Naloxone AKA NARCANE!
I lifted the heavy weapon with all my strength and trudged back to the rioting crowds. The patients were too busy chugging down methadone and swallowing the glass beads containing fentanyl to even notice me. I raised the gun, and hissed ,"Time to clean out the junk!"
I pressed down on the trigger and opened fire, shooting the old and the young without prejudice or care. Immediately the hordes fell to the floor, and there muscles began to jerk and then convulse violently. Vomit, mucous and shit flooded the floors and sprayed the walls, and through this chaos I managed to dodge the filthy fluids and burst through the front door, and out into the open streets.
There were thirty seconds left until I would die, and as I sat down upon the concrete sidewalk I looked back on my career, and the years I spent dedicated to helping others. I raised the bottle of methadone that I had managed to wrestle from the grip of a convulsing addict and gulped down what must have been at least half a gram, thinking, "What a fucking waste of time."
Methedonian Armegeddon
by Znegative
I stepped over the shards of broken glass and splintered wood, stumbling through the front door of the clinic and out into the empty streets. In all my years living in New York, I had never seen such stillness on Broadway. It would be a first and a last.
In the distance I could hear the screams of men and women who weren't ready to face the facts. Who couldn't make peace with their imminent demise or their futures that would never be.
In under a minute the Earth's core would erupt, sending life as we'd known it hurling into the great unknown. We were all going to die.
With each scream I felt little compassion, yet I was not apathetic nor indifferent. The truth is I was bitter. These people had, within the last two hours after the warning, the opportunity to say "good bye",to say "I'm sorry", or even "fuck you, I quit." They could hold their loved ones one last time, and realize that unlike their fallen mothers and fathers, they would not die alone.
Perhaps my attitude was cruel, spiteful even. But had you spent the last two hours of your life as I had, fighting to keep order among a population who for the most part had lived their lives trying maintain a constant state of intoxication at the expense of the taxpayers hard-earned dollar, well you would've been pissed too.
****
My name is Dr. Clarence Edmundo, and I was the director of "Our Mother Mary's Methadone & Buprenorphine Maintenance Clinic".
Itwas exactly 10:15 this morning when our clinical psychiatrist on active duty, Dr.John Powlesbelly, came huffing and puffing into my office where I was reclining comfortably in my leather chair from Bergdorf Goodman, sipping loudly upon a macchiato. As he burst through my office door, I spewed the caffeinated beverage out of my mouth and nostrils, but before I could say a word, or raise a fist, John demanded that I turn on CNN. "It's important" he said in the breathy voice I had grown to loath. "Will FOX suffice?" I asked, though I had already pressed five on the remote control. I stared in disbelief, temporarily frozen as I took it all in. Horizontal stripes of color ran down the screen, and in a bold, white font, a flashing box of text heeded the warning:
"At 12:20 PM, Eastern time, the world will explode...And no, this is NOT a test."
As the paralysis began to fade, I let Dr.Powlesbelly help me to my feet. I headed to the door, but the swollen, ape-ish man blocked me from my one and only exit.
"You do not want to go out their Clarence! It's a madhouse. The patients ears rioting, trying to break down the doors to the medication rooms!"
I grabbed my cane and whacked the bumbling ignoramus on the temple. He promptly fell to the floor, knocked unconscious. I stepped over his large and repulsive body and walked through the door, made a left at the corridor, and then turned right towards the medication hall. I was stunned by the scene that was unfolding. The patients seemed to have joined forces in an attempt to break down the barrier that separated them from bottles upon bottles of liquid methadone. With their canes they repeatedly took turns giving cracks to the locked doors. In unison they chanted "We want meds, we want meds!" Through the windows I could see the nurses responsible for doling out the powerful opioid dolophine cower under their tiny desks. The head nurse, Anita Cruz grabbed a full bottle of liquid, cherry flavored methadose, and began chugging, finishing half a liter before dropping dead on the floor.
Meanwhile a group of strong Latin Men, clearly gang members, managed to bust down one of the electrically locked doors. As the patients flooded in, I heard a blood curdling scream. I knew at that moment, that although I had never cared for Nurse Pregens, this uprising had to be stopped. Order had to be restored. Without gaining attention I managed to run back to my office where I punched a code into my phone: 4,0,0,1. I then picked up the receiver and yelled "Code Blue! Initiate project Fantasm!"
I then curled into a ball underneath my desk for what felt like hours. It was only when I heard the march of the hospital's armed guards that I gained the courage to once again leave my comfort zone and head back to what had turned into a twisted modern day mead-hall ravaged by the freakish demon Grendel. The soldiers marched in, each equipped with gas masks and guns containing canisters of glass beads, each concealing deadly amounts of the synthetic opiate fentanyl, 100x stronger than morphine, generally used for the trauma ward, hospices and occasionally as chemical weaponry. I paused for a second and thought back to all those people killed in that Moscow theater..."So many dead," I thought and then after putting on my own gas mask, giving the guards the order to shoot on my command.
As the guards approached the frenzied mob, a man stepped out and jeered, "Whatcha gonna do? Shoot us?" The sneer on his pox scarred face enraged me and I gave the guards the signal, and with that they opened fire. Through my mask I watched as the canisters we're unloaded. The tiny glass beads shot out in every direction, exploding on impact. Within seconds the insidious gas began to fill up the halls. Fentanyl is a highly lipid soluble opioid with a short duration of effect, it's mean half-life being only half an hour. However, due to its ability to rapidly cross the blood brain barrier, it hits within seconds. I watched the crowd, and to my dismay only three of the smaller patients fell to the floor, while the rest still stood, un-phased. The pox scarred man inhaled deeply, cracked his neck, his knuckles and then proclaimed "Gee, thanks for the head rush guys, but I'm thinking you've got more than that to offer". Behind him, men and woman cheered, raising their canes and walkers in the air, hooting and hollering like a gang of baboons.
"My God," I thought..."There tolerance, it's too high!"
With only one option left, I once again sped back to my office. I fumbled through my drawers looking for my keys, finding them strangely stashed in my nearly empty bottle of Temazepam. I popped a 30mg capsule and then looked at the key I thought I'd never need. In a trance I sat there until I felt a subtle sense of tranquility come over me as the benzodiazepine began to take effect. I then got up and felt around the floor under my desk until I found the secret latch which I pulled up, revealing the special hollowed out space where every methadone clinic kept its darkest secret.
I pulled out an iron suitcase and unlocked it. Opening the container, I stared down at the bizarre weapon and felt a queasiness shoot through my body and shivered.
****
In August, 1931, a Professor at Yale university named Alan Nalonus, came home one day to find his home ransacked. Everything was strewn about.. All his gold trinkets, money, and stamp collection were gone. Upon entering his bathroom, he found the medicine cabinet's door swung open, and on the floor lay two empty bottles which had contained codeine and Laudanum for his painful hemorrhoid's. Overall the professor was rather upset by the ransacking, and went down stairs to call the Sargent and report the break in. But as he walked down the stairs he froze, for what he saw was so horrible, so cruel and so senseless that it would, in time be the catalyst for what would become a turning point in the history of opiate addiction.
Pinned to the wall with a five inch steel screw, was his pet hamster, Mr.Big-Belly Fluffykins. Professor Nalonus slowly walked up to his furry companion and touched his soft coat and stared into the dead animal's vacant eyes. With tears running down his face, the brilliant Professor gripped the screw and pulled it from the wall, freeing Mr.Big-Belly Fluffykins as well a some of his entrails which dripped to the floor. Nalonus held the cold little body to his chest, cradling it like a child and let out a mournful scream, which was reportedly heard by pedestrians as far as two miles away.
He returned to work after two weeks of funeral arrangements and a lengthy period of mourning. His heart was broke, but in Fluffykins death, Nalonus had finally found a purpose and an unstoppable sense of motivation. It's said that he walked into his office on August 15th, and didn't leave once, not even to use the bathroom, or to grab some food, until the 30th, when he stumbled out of his office, pale and emaciated, holding what looked like a Gatling Gun in his hands. He stood there, swaying back and forth for about ten seconds, and before his co-workers could call for help, he dropped to the floor dead.
After the body was removed, several other scientists took the strange weapon, and 300 pages of notes and diagrams written within the 15 days leading up to his death. After extensive analysis they discovered the purpose of the invention. It was so brilliant, and so twisted, that the FDA disregarded the tests and clinical studies usually necessary for such things, and approved the apparatus within minutes of seeing it.
****
So what was the purpose of the awkward device I held in my hands? It was a semi-automatic weapon loaded with darts containing every junkies worst nightmare... The opiate antagonist Naloxone AKA NARCANE!
I lifted the heavy weapon with all my strength and trudged back to the rioting crowds. The patients were too busy chugging down methadone and swallowing the glass beads containing fentanyl to even notice me. I raised the gun, and hissed ,"Time to clean out the junk!"
I pressed down on the trigger and opened fire, shooting the old and the young without prejudice or care. Immediately the hordes fell to the floor, and there muscles began to jerk and then convulse violently. Vomit, mucous and shit flooded the floors and sprayed the walls, and through this chaos I managed to dodge the filthy fluids and burst through the front door, and out into the open streets.
****
There were thirty seconds left until I would die, and as I sat down upon the concrete sidewalk I looked back on my career, and the years I spent dedicated to helping others. I raised the bottle of methadone that I had managed to wrestle from the grip of a convulsing addict and gulped down what must have been at least half a gram, thinking, "What a fucking waste of time."
