psycosynthesis
Bluelighter
I'm trying for a cyberpunk sort of feel here, any feedback will be appreciated 
Saturday night. Amon leans against the bar, nursing a beer like a newborn. This is a place of cacophony, of chaos. A hundred dramas are played out in its shadowy corners. A hundred transactions, bargains and truces are struck and broken within minutes. Emancipated strippers, illuminated by strobe and UV lights, clutch poles that are their last remaining bastion of hope, eager to please clientele more interested in wasting their credits on the various intoxicants available both over the counter and from one of the many merchants lounging on couches and leaning against walls. There is a dancefloor sparsely populated by those wasted enough to convince their burnt out bodies to move spasmodically in a parody of euphoria. They are watched jealously by those unable or unwilling to attain such a level of lubrication. Hollow eyes refuse to settle, they scan the room for connections, accomplices and rivals. Pills are swallowed, disposable hypoderms are briefly pressed against necks and then wedged between cushions as their wielders sink into seats in sublime stupor.
Amon shifts his weight. The ground is viscous under his feet. Spilled beer, blood and bodily fluid have formed a carpet over the floorboards. He looks down, sees this sticky mess crawling over and up his shoe, patterns emerging from the filth. The trips Cerl have given him seem to be taking effect. This is good. It means an enjoyable night, as well as not having to kill Cerl. The last gear Cerl fobbed off as psychotropic, a dirty brown powder, left him writhing in bed, fighting violent spasms; regurgitating and shitting himself with alarming regularity. No hallucinations to speak of, just pure physical discomfort. Unlike some, Amon wasn’t of a masochistic demeanour and did not find the experience enjoyable on any level. Once recovered, a pistol lodged underneath Cerl’s chin and a few choice words resulted in a refund well beyond the original price as well as several small microdots, which were swallowed immediately. Cerl was one of the only dealers left who would sell to him, although if he sold Amon anything like that disgusting powder again, Amon would simply have to deal with the inconvenience of a lack of drugs while Cerl’s body wound up floating in the bay. This would probably occur after spoon-feeding Cerl enough of the same powdered crap to put him in an extremely uncomfortable place before his engagement with the murky, polluted waters of Port Philip Bay. After all, vengeance was Amon’s livelihood. He just usually preferred to dispense it for others.
Amon sips his beer and looks up. Music emanates from large speakers suspended from the roof of the establishment. Intensely coloured hieroglyphics stream from them, pulsating in perfect synchronisation. Bass vibrates the building and his soul. He nods his head in time with the music as the vibrations increase. The bar has become a swirling mass of colour. He watches detachedly while a puddle of spilt liquor slowly crawls towards him and eventually begins to envelop his glass. He reaches into one of many pockets of his black overcoat and produces a pouch of tobacco. He finishes his beer in a gulp, ignoring the spill that has wrapped around his drink and which has now changed colour from clear to a vibrant purple, and begins to roll a cigarette. The acid is now slowly building up to a crescendo. His entire being seemed to vibrate. Warm rushes of euphoria leap from his feet to the crown of his head and back again. The cigarette is proving exceptionally difficult to roll, as it seems that the tobacco wants to crawl out of its paper prison. Amon curses at it and concentrates, eventually becoming successful. He lights it and inhales deeply, his temporarily nicotine-starved cells crying out in thanks. He signals the bartender and points to a beer tap, having temporarily lost the ability to communicate verbally. He is sure that anything he would say would emerge from his lips as wasted gibberish, and at this point in time his assumption is valid.
After a brief bout of confusion concerning the bartender and the correct type of tender to exchange for beer (Amon had tried to pay with a crumpled bit of tissue), Amon’s legs started to feel rather weak. The thought that he should perhaps have consumed only one of the microdots briefly enters his his and is summarily dismissed as nonsense. He staggers to a couch, spilling beer on an unprotesting unmoving form staring at the ceiling, checks his potential place of repose for protruding hypoderms and collapses into it, next to a woman who appeared to be quite comatose.
An undiscernible amount of time passes. Amon is quite preoccupied studying the fractal patterns which have emerged from the roof and has long since forgotten the concept of time anyway. The music has increased in intensity. Decay drenched 303 synth lines loop around the bar and around Amon’s skull, driven by pounding bass. The fractals pulsate in time, dripping and twisting with each note.
Amon’s conscience starts to twist and writhe with the music, with the visuals. This is the bit he loathes about acid. Screams arise. Faces forgotten. Faces obliterated by bullets. His ego struggles to reaffirm itself. Struggles to return the memories, the faces, the screams to the vaults of his subconscious from where they were interred.
A note:
Fucking acid. It’s all fun and games until you start to examine yourself, start to consider the forces of cosmic karma and the repercussions of your actions.
When faced with such a disconcerting self-confrontation, the best thing to do would be to delve into the emotions, the regret. Wade your way through the psychedelic mire and come to some sort of agreement, make some sort of peace with yourself, arrive at a point of solace where you can accept your past actions, if not forgive them. However, regret is antithetical to Amon’s line of employment. Being a bounty hunter, if he spent every acid trip he had feeling sorrow for the people he has killed in order to keep himself clothed, fed and sheltered, he would have long since dissolved into a psychic mess, and probably turned one of his guns upon himself.
Instead, Amon rises from the cocoon of the couch and slowly walks towards the exit of the club, weaving a path through the dancers and dealers. He swallows a strong sedative as he does, gauging the time it will take to take effect against the time it will take him to catch a taxi home. He does not wish to find himself unconscious in a nearby gutter, free game for the cities various scavengers, madmen and roaming homosexuals.
Fortunately, there is a row of taxis waiting outside, eagre to swindle drugged and confused clubbers out of a few extra dollars by taking the longest possible route home. It seems that taxi drivers develop a certain instinctual knowledge of just when a club will disgorge it’s clientele out into the streets. Amon hails the closest one and folds into the back seat, mumbling his address and laying his head against the headrest. His eyes half open, he watches the districts neon lights dance across the glass. Pixelated, fragmented. He is having trouble discerning where the lights end and the glass begins, it has become an abstract electric portrait.
The lights slowly recede and give way to darkness, smog and an old, faded billboards as the taxi winds it's way through West Melbournes main roads. A few hundred years of heavy industry has essentially transformed it into a living, breathing entity of smog, out of which buildings occaisonally poke their heads. High-beam headlights also sometimes pierce the feuge (spelling?). As would be expected, life expectancy rates here are significantly lower than in the other areas of Melbourne. Not that anyone really cares anyway. There's always plenty more truck drivers, mechanics, security guards and hookers (mainly for the former three's benefit) to replace them. Once they reach their later teen years that is.
The taxi pulls up at the front of Amon's apartment block, and he is jerked from his reverie. He ventures into his pocket and retrieves a few crumpled notes and some loose change. He flings it over the seat, and gracefully exits the taxi, almost breaking a few limbs. He swears as he trys to fit his key into the keyhole, which isn't being very co-operative and staying in the one place as good and loyal keyholes should. After much deliberatoin and persuasion of the keyhole, he enters and walks down the hall to his prison cell of an apartment. Another elusive keyhole incident occurs, after which Amon eventually manouvers his way inside. He takes off his overcoat, flings it over his computer chair and sits on the side of the bed. He feels the first waves of the sedative start to take hold, his limbs tingle. He lays back and is enveloped by darkness and warmth as the fractals finally recede.
Saturday night. Amon leans against the bar, nursing a beer like a newborn. This is a place of cacophony, of chaos. A hundred dramas are played out in its shadowy corners. A hundred transactions, bargains and truces are struck and broken within minutes. Emancipated strippers, illuminated by strobe and UV lights, clutch poles that are their last remaining bastion of hope, eager to please clientele more interested in wasting their credits on the various intoxicants available both over the counter and from one of the many merchants lounging on couches and leaning against walls. There is a dancefloor sparsely populated by those wasted enough to convince their burnt out bodies to move spasmodically in a parody of euphoria. They are watched jealously by those unable or unwilling to attain such a level of lubrication. Hollow eyes refuse to settle, they scan the room for connections, accomplices and rivals. Pills are swallowed, disposable hypoderms are briefly pressed against necks and then wedged between cushions as their wielders sink into seats in sublime stupor.
Amon shifts his weight. The ground is viscous under his feet. Spilled beer, blood and bodily fluid have formed a carpet over the floorboards. He looks down, sees this sticky mess crawling over and up his shoe, patterns emerging from the filth. The trips Cerl have given him seem to be taking effect. This is good. It means an enjoyable night, as well as not having to kill Cerl. The last gear Cerl fobbed off as psychotropic, a dirty brown powder, left him writhing in bed, fighting violent spasms; regurgitating and shitting himself with alarming regularity. No hallucinations to speak of, just pure physical discomfort. Unlike some, Amon wasn’t of a masochistic demeanour and did not find the experience enjoyable on any level. Once recovered, a pistol lodged underneath Cerl’s chin and a few choice words resulted in a refund well beyond the original price as well as several small microdots, which were swallowed immediately. Cerl was one of the only dealers left who would sell to him, although if he sold Amon anything like that disgusting powder again, Amon would simply have to deal with the inconvenience of a lack of drugs while Cerl’s body wound up floating in the bay. This would probably occur after spoon-feeding Cerl enough of the same powdered crap to put him in an extremely uncomfortable place before his engagement with the murky, polluted waters of Port Philip Bay. After all, vengeance was Amon’s livelihood. He just usually preferred to dispense it for others.
Amon sips his beer and looks up. Music emanates from large speakers suspended from the roof of the establishment. Intensely coloured hieroglyphics stream from them, pulsating in perfect synchronisation. Bass vibrates the building and his soul. He nods his head in time with the music as the vibrations increase. The bar has become a swirling mass of colour. He watches detachedly while a puddle of spilt liquor slowly crawls towards him and eventually begins to envelop his glass. He reaches into one of many pockets of his black overcoat and produces a pouch of tobacco. He finishes his beer in a gulp, ignoring the spill that has wrapped around his drink and which has now changed colour from clear to a vibrant purple, and begins to roll a cigarette. The acid is now slowly building up to a crescendo. His entire being seemed to vibrate. Warm rushes of euphoria leap from his feet to the crown of his head and back again. The cigarette is proving exceptionally difficult to roll, as it seems that the tobacco wants to crawl out of its paper prison. Amon curses at it and concentrates, eventually becoming successful. He lights it and inhales deeply, his temporarily nicotine-starved cells crying out in thanks. He signals the bartender and points to a beer tap, having temporarily lost the ability to communicate verbally. He is sure that anything he would say would emerge from his lips as wasted gibberish, and at this point in time his assumption is valid.
After a brief bout of confusion concerning the bartender and the correct type of tender to exchange for beer (Amon had tried to pay with a crumpled bit of tissue), Amon’s legs started to feel rather weak. The thought that he should perhaps have consumed only one of the microdots briefly enters his his and is summarily dismissed as nonsense. He staggers to a couch, spilling beer on an unprotesting unmoving form staring at the ceiling, checks his potential place of repose for protruding hypoderms and collapses into it, next to a woman who appeared to be quite comatose.
An undiscernible amount of time passes. Amon is quite preoccupied studying the fractal patterns which have emerged from the roof and has long since forgotten the concept of time anyway. The music has increased in intensity. Decay drenched 303 synth lines loop around the bar and around Amon’s skull, driven by pounding bass. The fractals pulsate in time, dripping and twisting with each note.
Amon’s conscience starts to twist and writhe with the music, with the visuals. This is the bit he loathes about acid. Screams arise. Faces forgotten. Faces obliterated by bullets. His ego struggles to reaffirm itself. Struggles to return the memories, the faces, the screams to the vaults of his subconscious from where they were interred.
A note:
Fucking acid. It’s all fun and games until you start to examine yourself, start to consider the forces of cosmic karma and the repercussions of your actions.
When faced with such a disconcerting self-confrontation, the best thing to do would be to delve into the emotions, the regret. Wade your way through the psychedelic mire and come to some sort of agreement, make some sort of peace with yourself, arrive at a point of solace where you can accept your past actions, if not forgive them. However, regret is antithetical to Amon’s line of employment. Being a bounty hunter, if he spent every acid trip he had feeling sorrow for the people he has killed in order to keep himself clothed, fed and sheltered, he would have long since dissolved into a psychic mess, and probably turned one of his guns upon himself.
Instead, Amon rises from the cocoon of the couch and slowly walks towards the exit of the club, weaving a path through the dancers and dealers. He swallows a strong sedative as he does, gauging the time it will take to take effect against the time it will take him to catch a taxi home. He does not wish to find himself unconscious in a nearby gutter, free game for the cities various scavengers, madmen and roaming homosexuals.
Fortunately, there is a row of taxis waiting outside, eagre to swindle drugged and confused clubbers out of a few extra dollars by taking the longest possible route home. It seems that taxi drivers develop a certain instinctual knowledge of just when a club will disgorge it’s clientele out into the streets. Amon hails the closest one and folds into the back seat, mumbling his address and laying his head against the headrest. His eyes half open, he watches the districts neon lights dance across the glass. Pixelated, fragmented. He is having trouble discerning where the lights end and the glass begins, it has become an abstract electric portrait.
The lights slowly recede and give way to darkness, smog and an old, faded billboards as the taxi winds it's way through West Melbournes main roads. A few hundred years of heavy industry has essentially transformed it into a living, breathing entity of smog, out of which buildings occaisonally poke their heads. High-beam headlights also sometimes pierce the feuge (spelling?). As would be expected, life expectancy rates here are significantly lower than in the other areas of Melbourne. Not that anyone really cares anyway. There's always plenty more truck drivers, mechanics, security guards and hookers (mainly for the former three's benefit) to replace them. Once they reach their later teen years that is.
The taxi pulls up at the front of Amon's apartment block, and he is jerked from his reverie. He ventures into his pocket and retrieves a few crumpled notes and some loose change. He flings it over the seat, and gracefully exits the taxi, almost breaking a few limbs. He swears as he trys to fit his key into the keyhole, which isn't being very co-operative and staying in the one place as good and loyal keyholes should. After much deliberatoin and persuasion of the keyhole, he enters and walks down the hall to his prison cell of an apartment. Another elusive keyhole incident occurs, after which Amon eventually manouvers his way inside. He takes off his overcoat, flings it over his computer chair and sits on the side of the bed. He feels the first waves of the sedative start to take hold, his limbs tingle. He lays back and is enveloped by darkness and warmth as the fractals finally recede.
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