Void

Major Havoc had once tested his latest batch of speed on a creature other than his usual test subjects—his friends. The chosen victim was a massive beetle he'd captured on the street. The beetle didn't survive. We were never entirely sure whether it succumbed to the speed itself or the fluorescent paint I had slathered on its carapace earlier. I'd done it purely for aesthetics, wanting to see it glow as it scuttled around the room in the dark under a ketamine haze.

Through the perpetually open window, the relentless noise of the avenue spilled into the apartment like an uninvited guest. The growling engines sounded like boiling water in a kettle, interspersed with an occasional metallic screech that made my teeth ache. Outside, a storm cloud hung low over the neighboring building, heavy and foreboding, as if waiting for the right moment to unleash chaos.

I sat on the bed, absently poking at the bruise on my leg—a deep, purplish blotch that strangely resembled the flower pattern on the worn bedspread beneath me. On the cluttered desk lay a bizarrely ominous magazine someone had left behind, its pages filled with grainy photos of cults and conspiracy theories. A bold headline screamed from one page: "Don't do it if you wouldn't want Jesus to see it."

The rest of the day slid into familiar patterns of chaotic indulgence. It began with our favorite pastime: stealing from the supermarket.

The solvent we'd consumed earlier had a peculiar side effect—it left you craving the worst kinds of junk food, anything salty, sugary, or artificially flavored. Chips, candy, soda—these were now holy grails. The problem? We were perpetually broke.

Havoc was caught red-handed trying to pocket a chocolate bar, but the distracted store clerk failed to notice the condom pack he'd also swiped. As for me, I made it out with a massive jar of chocolate spread barely concealed in my coat pocket, its weight threatening to drag me down with every step. It was a miracle none of us were detained. We left the store grinning like fools, our ill-gotten treasures in hand.

By nightfall, the psychedelic funnel in the kitchen—a makeshift contraption that delivered precise drops of liquid euphoria—had finished its work. The world outside had gone dark, and we decided to "unwind" in our usual way.

We wandered the dimly lit streets, drifting from one pharmacy to another in search of cough syrup to "treat" our nonexistent ailments. Havoc entered one store wearing a black T-shirt emblazoned with the molecular structure of LSD, a detail that seemed both brazen and absurdly appropriate. Behind the counter, a wooden-framed portrait of Jesus stared down at us with solemn disapproval.

Havoc made his purchase—a small bottle of cough syrup—along with a handful of pamphlets stacked by the register. Back outside, he handed me one with a smirk. It was titled: "The Role of Stimulants in Modern Society." Another, equally thorough, explored dissociatives in clinical and recreational contexts.

"Who writes this stuff?" I muttered, flipping through one. The information was shockingly accurate, devoid of the usual moralizing tone you'd expect from such literature.

"Someone who's done their homework," Havoc said, already uncapping the bottle.

Back at the apartment, we "treated our coughs" and embarked on yet another journey into the unknown. The air soon filled with the hypnotic sounds of Elder Moss, layered with the distant, archival voice of Timothy Leary urging us to "expand consciousness." The room seemed to shift and swell, its corners dissolving into infinity as the universe slowly unfurled before us.

Havoc stretched out on a foam mat in the middle of the room, his body rigid and perfectly aligned, like an overdrawn bowstring. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow, as though he were attempting some kind of astral projection.

"What are you doing?" I asked, half-whispering.

"Quiet," he replied, his voice barely audible. "I'm reaching for the stars."