The Perfect Drug

Tri-vexil-dimethyl-hexocycaline. Trivex. The Perfect Drug.

Like so many inventions, it was an accident, like the serendipitous discovery of matches; so many government scientists working so many late nights in so many labs trying to uncover the newest biological weapon to win the war on terror, only to find that they were high as fucking kites if they inhaled the smallest amount of fumes of one particular compound. Of course it didn’t take long for one of those aspiring chemists to take that recipe home with him, realizing it had far greater potential recreationally than it ever would for the military. And after that it was only a matter of time before the details leaked onto the internet and became public knowledge.

Vex. The Perfect Drug. It sold itself. Try Vex, the dealers starting saying after time. A beautiful high like none you’d ever experienced, no side effects, no bad trips, no addictive potential – and it could be manufactured by all from simple household chemicals and cough syrup. It was a blessing. A gift from God. And it took America by storm. Suddenly the American government began funneling so many of those precious millions of dollars from the military budget over to the DEA, who now had their hands full with this new little nuisance called Vex.

No one’s ever shot it in liquid form, at least not as far as I know. But I’m on the edge. I’m willing to experiment. I’ve had enough with sniffing this shit out of flasks and vaping it. I need something better. Something more.

The needle goes in my arm, and oh God, it’s the greatest thing I’ve ever felt. A million orgasms’ peaks all thrown into one second of absolute celestial bliss. An existential high. I want to die now so I never have to come down.

And then my arm is itching. I look over, and scratch my fingernails against the skin. Oh god, it itches bad. I’m scratching and scratching and then I feel something hard. Then the skin breaks and I see what was beneath the surface breaking through – a human tooth. Now my arm is being torn apart, exploding into hundreds of them; smoker’s teeth, yellowed and covered in plaque, sprouting from my arm by the crease of my elbow and spreading all down my bicep and up toward my shoulder.

With horror I see that my fingers are twitching and writhing, swelling with bloat and growing into turgid tumescence. They are changing into tongues, tangled in long trails of saliva and covered in moist drops of spittle. They are writhing like they’ve been stung with cattle prods and flinging the thick drops of warm liquid everywhere.

I can’t feel my legs but look down to see that they are engulfed in flames. Horrible grey-green flames, burning brighter than the depths of hell and every funeral pyre erasing the horrors of the Holocaust from human memory.

My fingers – those tongues – itch and I feel them peeling apart like the withered skin of ancient dried oranges. They crack and open and myriad of tiny black specks, millions of baby spiders, emerge from the shattered tips and crawl all over my skin. They engulf the toothy forests of my arms and swarm onto over my torso. Up my neck and into my mouth they scurry as I let out a scream that no one will hear.

Trivex is the perfect drug.

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