II

Diego Marceau is a funny failure. He always deemed himself 'too intelligent for college', but I never believed that for a second. He just failed, and I know it. He knows it too, but I tend keep my comments about that to myself. I do always point out his scraggly black neckbeard and his fat jellyrolls – jokingly, of course. It's become a little thing between us over the past few months of deals.

Diego's couch is a bit too comfortable, a half-full sack of baby duckling feathers that's been worn down over the years. I sink down into the folds, sipping a room temperature Vanilla Coke from a can and staring at the posters scattered around his living room. Clockwork Orange, Fast Times, legalize this, legalize that, a detailed chart of all the best ways to wear a beanie, and a heaping handful of throwaway Playboy models with overwhelmingly plastic… everything. The place is a run-of-the-mill man cave defined by organized chaos cluttered around a big, gaudy TV, a crusty Sega Genesis and a Nintendo Wii that doubles as a drink coaster. I spy empty fast food wrappers and beer bottles, the intricate remains of old pipes and bongs from exotic countries, et cetera, et cetera. The kid could fill a Museum of College Dropout Paraphernalia with solely the contents of his living room floor. There's even an antique gumball machine in the corner that skill kinda works, if you have a nickel. It's been three years since I've even seen a nickel.

"Ritchie's scaring me," I say to one of the Playboy models on the wall. "It's nothing but 'cry cry cry' all the time. No more cupcakes. Still no sex. I dunno what to do."

"You need to do some more drugs Lizzie," says Diego, returning from his kitchen and placing a frozen Tupperware container on the coffee table. "And relax. It's been way too long since we've hung out. You always just buy and run, buy and run. I'm a fuckin' person too, y'know. Your little girlfriend talks to me more often than you do these days, and she's a psycho cunt, lemme tell ya."

"You don't need to tell me – I live with the little nutjob. Gimme advice, Mister Canadian Dream. I dunno what to do with this," I say, sipping my soda.

"Ha! I'm not touching this one," he says. "Do I look like a fortune teller robot to you? Geez, that girl's starting to rub off on you, Lizzie. Before Ritchie Rich came along, you always knew what to do. Or at least you always said so. Jesus, I'm constantly surrounded by insecure idiots!"

"Yeah, well…" I start to say something, but it escapes me.

Diego cracks open the container and retrieves a thickly-packed sack of California Lemon Kush; even before he opens the bag, that heady and appetizing pot smell assaults my senses, an instant and vicious reminder of giggly, red-eyed high school memories, and better times in general.

"I'm not sure what to think about that chick anymore," says Diego, placing an ancient textbook on the table and pouring a few nuggets of solid weed on top. I can't help but grin. "Y'know she told me she wants to get married soon, Lizzie bear."

A misty explosion of cola jettisons into the air and slowly drizzles down onto Diego's coffee table. "Are you kidding me?! She told you that?"

"Whoa whoa, Dragonfly! I didn't mean 'married' like 'let's spend the rest of our lives learning to hate each other' kinda married! Figure of speech, eh? I meant like she wants to take the relationship to the next level. And don't spit your beverage on the product, man! Shit!"

"Oh… sorry Deeg, but… even as a metaphor, 'married' isn't a word I wanna hear right now. We haven't even had sex yet! That girl confuses me to no end, I swear."

"Really? I never would have guessed that, man," he says, not bothering to wipe the Coke off the table. Just the drugs. Everything else in this pit could topple into the Void, but God help us if the drugs get soda on them.

"Guessed what," I say, "That we don't get each other?"

"That you don't fuck each other. Girl seems like she's always on your tits like glitter on glue, but I suppose that ain't the truth. By the way, I've always been meaning to ask you," he says. "Remember that crazy diesel-haired cunt you dated a few months back?"

"Don't call Stacey a cunt, man. I'm still sorta friends with her, y'know?"

"Yeah, whatever – that bold little imp stole from my stash, murdered my hamster, demolished my Bob Saget pinball machine, and if I ever see her again I'll... anyway, you two used to be close, right? Wasn't that before the Blood set in?"

"I honestly don't remember a time before that… where are you going with this, Deeg?" I just wanted to buy and run, goddamn it – what's with the interview? "I'm gonna fire up the Genesis – if you don't mind, that is."

"Tu casa. And I just wanted to know what the sex was like – you know, in a non-lesbo way."

"I should have known," I say, booting up Earthworm Jim and finishing my soda. "Perverted, crusty, fatass, basement-dwelling—"

"Miraculous, gift-bearing God," he finishes, tossing a slightly cola-stained eighth into my lap.

I take the baggie and pocket it without a second glance, slipping Diego a wad of cash and bolting to the front door in one fluid motion. Took him long enough. "Kaythanksbye—"

Much to my eternal dismay, Diego heaves his fat girth off of his futon and throws himself in front of me, blocking my escape. "Let's hang out, kid. I like having you around."

Come up with an excuse. What about Ritchie? Tell him you're dismayed about Ritchie – it's sorta true anyway. "I'm pretty dismayed about Ritchie, dude. I wanna go home."

"Did you make that up on the spot? That sounded so made-up," he says, pressing his filthy glasses to his even filthier nose. "Your pitiful vocabulary has never included the word 'dismayed' until this very moment – now sit your blonde butt down and play some Earthworm Jim with me. We'll do a speed run."

"My vocabulary is just fine, thank you."

"Oh really?" He says, beaming. "Tell me what 'anachronism' means."

"Fear of spiders, asshole. Let me through."

"Epic failure! You couldn't have missed it harder if the answer was in a different galaxy altogether," he says.

"Nonetheless, I just want to go home, relax, avoid Ritchie," I say, realizing that it all sounds like a massive crock of bullshit before it even comes out of my mouth. "And I wanna smoke some of this mota before I go insane, alright?"

"Chill out, Lizzie. You should really wear your mask more often – that's what makes people stressed out, y'know? Ten minutes out there in the Blood is seriously like sticking a hundred needles in your brain stem, man. Sometimes I'll see you walking around outside, your face nakeder than the day you were born, sucking in the atmosphere like a goddamn vacuum with a suicide wish. You're not invincible, y'know –"

"Shut up, I wore my mask today – and I'm putting it on right now, see? Now move."

"Today but," he says pausing to sniff his fingers, "What about yesterday and the day before? You're gonna die one of these days, kid."

"Oh, thanks for the lovely advice, you fortune teller robot. I should start buying from Edwin one of these days – kidding," I say after noticing the horrified look on his fat face. "I'm gonna go home, alright? Mask and everything. Thanks for the stuff."

He locks the door and does that stupid Nedry line from Jurassic Park: "Ah ah ah, you didn't say the magic word!"

"Seriously, get out of my way," I say, trying not to laugh. If a single giggle comes outta me, I'm stuck here playing videogames for God knows how long. "C'mon Deeg, I'm in no mood."

"AH AH AH! AH AH AH! AH AH AH!"

Oh no, I can feel it brewing. Those fat jellyrolls lift and separate with every 'ah', slapping together and punctuating his impression slappity slappity slap—

"Damn it Diego," I say, shoving my hands into my pockets as I mope against the chuckles. That terrible Nedry line does it every time. "I don't want to stay very… long…"

"What was that, Dragonfly?" Diego says, noticing the look on my face.

My fingers are pressing against the contents of my coat pockets: an old dollar bill, an even older tube of chapstick (blueberry, I think – a stocking stuffer from last Christmas), a fake fingernail, the eighth I just bought and… another baggie, a nearly-empty baggie that I'd first noticed just before Ritchie had her breakdown, and forgotten again until now. This can't be what I think it is… right?

"It's nothing, let's play Wii Sports or something."

"Oh total lies," says Diego, overpowering me and shoving me into the wall. "You have an obvious tell – I always know when you're lying."

"Jesus, you're a disgusting tank! …Wait, I have a tell? What is it?"

"I'm not saying a peep until you do, Lizzie Bear."

I weigh the pros and cons for a second. On one hand, Diego's offering food (leftover pizza, but still), hospitality, videogames and drugs. On the other hand, it's fucking Diego Marceau, the most annoying and unhygienic person I've ever gotten to know. Every time I come over to this pit, I feel like putting my mask back on.

Conclusion: Diego might be an annoying fella, but he doesn't cry, he doesn't sneak up on me, and he doesn't want to talk about our relationship on any other term than 'let me feel your ass', and is therefore significantly less annoying than Ritchie right now. But should I really tell him what's in the baggie? Is it worth the trouble?

Screw it. I close my eyes and let fate take its course, slowly whipping out the old plastic bag and displaying it on my open palm.

I don't think I've ever seen Diego speechless before. It's a peculiar sight, watching the big guy try to stutter past his own jowls.

"Oh, sweetheart… that's not what I think it is, eh?"

"That's what everyone says when they get a peep of this stuff, Deeg. So I guess, based on that… yes, this must be exactly what you think it is."

We glance at each other, the name hot on our tongues. "Dark matter," we say in unison.

Sitting in my palm is a baggie harboring the crusty remains of one of the newest and most devastating hallucinogenic drugs on the planet. Blacker than the richest tar, this gunk will take a person places they never even dreamed they could visit… and the fact that the bag's almost empty scares the shit out of me more than anything else.

"Do you even remember tarring down?" Diego asks, grinning profusely as he yoinks the baggie from my grasp and examines it. "There's not much left, but this debris is still pretty fresh, Liz."

"What the fuck, I don't remember doing this at all," I mumble, nervous now. When did I break into that bag? Who did I buy it from? How much time have I lost? "Oh shit, I don't remember doing it at all, Diego."

"Don't worry, don't worry. I'm sure it would all be a lot worse if you did remember," he says, carefully crinkling the bag with his fingers. There's a devious grin on his face.

"What's so funny? This isn't funny! I'm mortified here!"

He opens the bag, gets a whiff of the residue, gags and tosses it aside. Laughs. "Yeah, that's dark matter alright. Smells like a dead dog."

"Hello?! What the hell do you find funny about all this? It might be serious, man… oh God, I could have killed somebody or worse—"

"I trust you, Lizzie bear," says Diego, a little abruptly. He's up to something, I can tell. "Do you trust me?"

"I don't think you heard me – I did dark matter alone at some point, no spotter, no witnesses. I could be fucked beyond belief, Deeg."

He rolls his eyes and lightly shoves me. "And I understand kiddo, but I need to tell you something before we get into that. It can wait. Now once again, do you trust me?"

I hesitate, but I realize that there's nothing he can do that I can't handle. "Sure. We've beaten enough videogames together, finished enough pizzas, done enough drugs… why?"

"Because your little discovery reminded me about something important. I need you to keep a secret for me."

Again, hesitation. The fat kid isn't exactly famous for his sincerity, but I play along anyway. "What are you, a fuckin' Girl Scout? Are we gonna play patty cake next?"

"Dragonfly."

"Alright, alright. Shoot," I say, sighing.

He bites his lip and starts to head back into the kitchen. "I trust you," he says again, as if to pressure me into a guilt trip. After a long while, he returns with a silver lockbox, secured shut with a thick red chain, two padlocks, a handful of combinations, some duct tape and a leather belt. It takes him five minutes and a lot of sarcastic comments from me before he's finally able to unwrap it.

"That better be Elvis Presley's shrunken head, fatass," I say just as he finishes up. He shoots me a warning glance, then asks one more time if I trust him. I trust him, sure, why the hell not. "Now open it before I fall asleep."

With a series of grunts and a hissing fart that almost kills me, Diego opens the box and reveals a bag the size of my head, packed to the brim with black, glassy space gravel.

"That better not be what I think it is, Diego."

"Now before you go off on a tangent, let me explain—"

"Is that whole thing—"

"Let. Me. Explain."

I start to stutter nonsense at him, but I quickly give up and let him speak. "This better be unbelievably good," I say. Diego nods and takes a moment to gather his thoughts, puffing out his fat chest and trying to make himself look important. I make sure he sees my eyes rolling.

"Alright Lizzie," he says. "Yes, what you're holding is a bag fulla dark matter. Nova, Sludge, Star Tar, Soy Sauce, Corpse. The whole thing. You and I have tarred down before, I know this… but let me just explain something before you touch that bag, alright?"

I slowly inch my fingers away from the thing, pouting.

"The stuff is a perfect fusion of a casual drug and a real killer; like if Mr. Heroin and Miss Mushroom got drunk had a batch of superpowered devil babies, this would be the stinking afterbirth. When the dark stuff gets in your system… well, you know. So don't fucking touch it, okay?"

"I already know what dark matter does, you don't have to give me a safety lesson—"

"Can I finish?"

Apparently I can't stare daggers very well, because Diego immediately starts talking again. "Good sludge makes you feel like you're in deep space, right? Like you're an astronaut with no suit and you're covered from head to toe in endless darkness and it's all just… desolation, plain and simple. Normal nova, the kind we bought from Edwin and Frenchie… that'll will turn you into a spaceman, right? The slightest amount of star tar will make a person topple into a place only the most depraved among us ever end up."

"Yeah, that's why we sprinkled it on everything that one time – weed, tacos, you name it. A little nova will make you suffocate all the way to wonderland – I know this. Now get to your point so I can murder you. I'm not in the mood for an endless blab session…"

"I didn't get this nova from Edwin or Frenchie, Liz."

"Then where? Is this some exotic sludge, or what?" I say, fiddling with the bag's stubborn zipper in spite of Diego's anxious glances. I've never seen him so serious, but I don't pay him any mind. I prepare myself for the wave of bubbly, rancid dark mat—

"AUGH"

The fumes hit me head-on and I retch up few bites of my pancake breakfast in the process. My eyes start to burn, my nose goes numb and my throat convulses like an animal without a head. Blood boils in my veins as I catch a face full of putrid dark matter odor. I immediately hold the baggie away from my face – I've never smelled anything so disturbingly foul in my life. A quick glance and I notice that smoky blue vapors are visibly rising from the thing – Jesus! Even through the thick bag, I can feel the stuff starting to poison my hand. It must be really great shit.

I sputter and gurgle for a second before moaning, "Christ Deeg, what's the potency of this? It's… alien guts!"

He hesitates. "Close it."

"Tell me first!"

"Close. It." That round double chin jiggles slightly, and I know he's serious.

I roll my eyes and frantically fumble with the bag, zipping up the double-seal and testing it. The burning, rotten landfill stench still lingers in the air. "Alright, it's closed – burn some incense. How strong is this stuff?"

It takes him an agonizingly long time. "This… this is ninety-nine percent pure nova sludge, Ritchie."

"You lie! Right through your fat jigglin' jowls, you fucking lie!"

"Fine, call me a liar," he says, idly sucking the sticky cannabis residue from his thumbs. "And gimme my bag of black nightmares back. I'm uncomfortable with you holding it anyway – that's a lot of money."

"Hey hold on," I say, keeping the bag away from his grubby paws. "Don't get your neckbeard in a twist, alright? Lemme look at it. I promise I won't open it anymore, eh?"

Diego sighs and turns his attention back to the pile of grass in front of him. Fat stoner prick doesn't know when to trust his friends and stab his enemies.

I glare at the bag. This… this can't be pure dark matter. I mean, the barely-potent stuff costs hundreds of dollars just for a thimbleful. The bag actually feels uncomfortably heavy as I shift it around in my hands. I've never held a sack of drugs and thought of putting it down because it was too heavy – I've never, ever thought it was even possible, not even for pure nova. The bag has to weigh at least a hundred pounds. "What am I holding in my hands right now, Diego?"

"Pure dark matter, I told you. It's the stuff of urban legends."

"No, you fuckin' starry-eyed maniac… how much am I holding? Fifty grand? Sixty?" I get up from the couch and press my face right up against his sweaty jowls, shoving my next sentence through two layers of clenched teeth. "How much legal American tender am I coddling in my arms, Diego?"

"I'm not at liberty to say, Dragonfly."

"Fuck you," I yell, shoving him head-over-heels to the carpet and straddling him, holding the sack of darkness high above my head, "There's no way you're keeping this a secret from me, so you better make a decision real quick."

"Are you threatening me, Dragonfly?" Diego says, laughing. "With what? You like nova too much to even think about messing with that bag, so stop bluffing. You're about as threatening as a wilted posy!"

"Oh yeah? Remember that crazy diesel-haired cunt I used to date? I'll bet with a little coaxing, I can get her to destroy a lot more than your hamster and your pinball machine."

That shuts him up, puts a heaping helping of schoolyard fear on his face. Deep sigh. The guy has a smoker's voice box, all drenched with grime and swampwater. "Alright Lizzie bear, if you gotta know… what you're holding is about three hundred thousand bucks worth of un-fucked-with dark matter. I'm not kidding. And before you say anything," he adds, cutting off a brewing tangent. "This particular brand of pure nova will change a person in their core. It is not something you wanna fuck around with, so gimme it back."

There's something brewing in my throat; takes me a moment to realize it's the rest of my pancakes. Keep it down, girl. Or better yet, don't – spew your sticky breakfast all over this stupid kid.

"Get up," is all I can say without being sick all over the place.

"I can't exactly move with you riding me," he says, both eyes locked on the ridiculous three hundred grand worth of illicit substance.

I oblige him, tossing the dark matter onto his chest, carefully crawling back onto the couch and sinking deep down. "You don't have three hundred thousand dollars, Diego. Never have. Never will."

"I'm well aware of that fact, Lizabeta," he says.

We both just sorta lay there for a while. Next door, I can hear Diego's sophomore neighbors screaming in glee as bullets whiz through the air and explosions make pacified kerbloom noises in the distance. Thin walls, loud Xbox.

"I'm not asking you where you got it," I say, staring deep into one of his posters. Sandy Hamilton, girl of the month in November of some unspecified year. Her tits are hard plastic. "No, we've known each other too long for that. I just want to make sure I've got everything straight… you do know how mind-numbingly illegal this is, right? I mean, if you're dealing this stuff, they will literally trade in a hundred heroin pushers just to see your fat ass crackle and burn on a spit, alright?"

"Yeppers."

"And you do know that just by being in this room with you, I'm eligible to get locked up in a place so dark that I won't know where to find my own asscheeks, right?"

"Shame, it's such a beautiful ass too," he says, eyeing me up before carefully returning the baggie to its fireproof, metallic home. "Ritchie's gonna be heartbroken, huh?"

"Don't push it fatso, I'm not done," I mutter, whipping out a cigarette and gnawing on it. "Who else knows about this? If you've told that little spaz Eggroll, I'll murder you in your sleep."

"Ha! You're dreaming if you think Eggroll's in on this. Kid has enough problems as it is."

"You better not be lying," I tell him, glaring.

I take my cigarette and mutilate the little thing until the filter and tobacco are lying in a pitiful pile at my feet. I scoop up a bit of Diego's grass, break it up and stuff it inside the paper cocoon, anxiously wrapping and lighting the makeshift joint as fast as my trembling fingers will allow.

"Now, about this pickle," I mutter after a disastrously long hit. "How long do you expect to have this bag of demon shit in your possession?"

"Not sure," he says, idly glancing at the puddle of puke I left on his carpet, knowing full well that he's never going to clean it up. "Dark Matter's still new, y'know. Some people aren't even sure what it does, or how you get high off it – it's still in the hot, trendy stages. So… probably about six months, depending on how fast this shit catches on."

"Then I'll see you in six months," I say, taking another deep hit and dropping the joint in Diego's ashtray. "I don't know you, alright?"

"Oh, bullshit Lizzie!"

"I don't know you," I tell him again as I head for the door. I take out my phone and fiddle with the touch screen for a moment. "You're not my friend. I'm blocking your number. Don't call me, don't text me, don't email, don't do shit. I don't exist until that stuff is gone, got it?"

"Lizzie bear, wait!" Diego cries, but I'm already long gone, trembling in the elevator as the doors squeeze shut. Three hundred thousand dollars worth of pure nightmares, and Diego's swimming in it with a smile. Deeg has made some stupid moves in the past, but this time… I don't want to be anywhere near him.