Fluid Karma

I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Tommy’s Subaru Baja, the stupidest car I’ve ever seen, traveling 120 miles per hour, putting as much space as possible between us and Venus, the DIY venue hosting the noise show where we caught the Fear. We hate noise music, noise shows even more. Everyone there was poisonous, half the crowd were no-future yokel punk kids, intent on taking enough whippets to become medically retarded as fast as possible; a scary people, demon-possessed and edgy from amphetamine abuse, eager to harm and with nothing to lose. The other half, already retarded art sluts–  children dressed as prostitutes, college girls making up for lost time, senior prom lost to pandemic isolation, prematurely menopausal from a cocktail of SSRIs and Vyvanse that they have been taking from before they had breasts. We went to Venus because Tommy, who at this point I had grown to resent in earnest, was holding out some futile hope of finding Pure pussy, and in our delusional state of late-stage touch starvation, cocaine abuse and porn sickness we foolishly thought that there might be someone there we could have saved. Immediately we knew we had made a terrible mistake, the speed had heightened our senses and we could smell the evil in the room. We had to make a break for it. In the parking lot an autogynephile with autism voice stopped us, cawing at me to smoke weed with her in her car. My voice caught in my throat. I had been spotted, she had singled me out, she somehow knew what I was, her powers of neurodivergence had seen through my disguise, she had smelled weakness. She made me sick, her pallid, ham-like flesh straining against her dayglo fishnets, the beer on her breath. I wanted to scream, make clear that I’m not like her, banish her back into the darkness. I sprinted, bruising my shoulder against the car door, retching from fear and adrenaline. 

Recalling the events of the night has re-awakened my suppressed nausea. I roll down the window and hear birds, it’s almost morning. Turning onto highway 195 towards Cranston, Tommy demands that I give him the Fluid Karma. I open the bottle too eagerly and spill half of its contents in my lap. The fumes sting my nostrils and my head starts to spin. As I hold the poppers under Tommy’s nose he accelerates, white knuckling the steering wheel, screaming that he’s in a spaceship. With every bump in the road I am lifted out of my seat. I can feel my stomach behind my eyes. This goes on for some time until we are well outside the Providence city limits. Tommy finally slows and we turn off the highway and into a Wendy’s drive through. It’s at this point we remember that Divya is still in the truck bed. Divya is this acid victim by way of internet use goth girl who I lost my virginity to my freshman year of college before I dropped out and became a Nite Person. She approached me in the cafeteria and told me to come back to her dorm room, high on the confidence of being away from her conservative Brahmin parents for the first time since she went to boarding school with nuns, drunk on the freedom to cuss and record pornography of herself, she asked me to whisper the N-word into her ear. 

Divya is still alive. She jumps out of the truck, cackling in her over-eager close-to-the-edge LARPy way, talking about how epic that was, her accent not entirely concealed. Tommy orders a 4 for 4, scarfs it down between drags of his cigarette before burping and grabbing his stomach in pain because he has undiagnosed celiac disease. The food and the coke made him nauseous so he takes another whiff of the poppers and peels into the parking lot of a big box store to do enough doughnuts to make himself vomit. Tommy’s anorexic in a really guerilla kind of way, asymmetrical warfare, he has a real ‘can do’ attitude about it that I admire. 

Tommy is my co-dependent, my work husband. We nest together in a studio apartment in a Bad Neighborhood. Others rarely cross the threshold and we have no neighbors. If one of us died the other would be the only one to know. We spend nearly every waking moment together, though we long since rid ourselves of the need to speak to each other. Over the last two years we have developed a system. It works. During lockdown we started cooking our own DMT in gasoline and got rid of our trash can. Tommy was selling weed and EBT rich. They got rid of the Wholefoods cop so we would walk out with rotisserie chickens and Pellegrinos that we would scarf in his car, throwing the bottles out the window. We started taking cocaine much more seriously. I spent my stimulus check on a gaming rig whose rainbow LEDs served as the only light in the house after we shot out all the overheads with my pellet gun. I erected my goon chamber; a gaming chair with speakers built into the headrest, three curved monitors with refresh rates that might as well have been infinite– my pensive, a 360 degree crystal ball– a bev fridge stocked with Fireball and Colt 45 under the desk, my sniffer in the top drawer, perfectly within arms reach to prolong the sesh. This technology might as well be magic, millennia ahead of what put a man on the moon, the same setup they use to carry out drone strikes and now it’s mine to abuse my mind and body for days at a time. This was when I got really into poppers, draping a soaked rag over my face while annihilating my nerve endings with my Hitachi, surrounded by pornography playing in 4K at 2x speed made me feel one with the video-flesh, the screen was a window to infinity and my body was reality. When you’re taking that much cocaine, your powers of digital necromancy are heightened, like the navigators in Dune doing mental math at light-speed, making space travel possible. During this time I started to try and convince myself that the directives in the sissy hypno i was mainlining into my amygdala were directed at me personally. I tried to eliminate my inner monologue, thinking in the female speak-and-spell voice that told me I needed to train my ass to be better bred by blacks. 

My sessions didn't bother Tommy all that much. Sometimes he would watch, sometimes not, most of the time he was out making deliveries or eating out of styrofoam boxes in his car before purging in Shell station bathrooms. I let him fuck me a few times when he was paying rent but it was never more than routine. Tommy was prison gay. He’s a chaser in an abstract sense, he likes porn about transsexuals, but only the ones with breast implants and flaccid cocks, 2013 shemales, X-Videos dolls, but i put this down to porn-sickness more than pathology, Tommy hasn’t fucked in years. He’s not an incel like I am, he’s just never had an iphone and doesn’t have any friends except for me, if you can call us friends. We started living together when my SJW girlfriend kicked me out for being addicted to meet and fuck games and wearing her underwear. 

The three of us are back at the apartment. Bathed in the purple glow of Roku City. Tommy has his fingers inside Divya. Her exaggerated moans are making my poppers headache worse. My temple is pulsing, I’m feeling edgy and irritable. A feeling of disgust and pity is rising inside me. I don’t want her in here. In my sanctum, the boys only zone. I don’t like thinking about her, I don’t like remembering faking my first orgasm after calling her an ape. She asks if we both want to fuck her. I tell her that I’m busy, focusing on picking specks of k out of the cracks in my phone screen and that my penis has atrophied from injecting estrogen into my body for the last 18 months. As Tommy takes her on the couch I crawl into my sleeping bag, chewing on melatonin gummies. We have a long day tomorrow and the sun is rising.