The Derm, The Bomb, and the Erotic Thunder.

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Hiroshima, The Derm,. and the Rectangle Scar

Jet leaned back into his set for the first time in hours, leaning on the accelerator withe heavy, even weight.

'Time to get fuckin HOME'  His thoughts spat. His head was fuzz. Dense foam. There wasnt more than one thing on his mind and it filled his skull like a wad of toilet paper jammed into the cylander it was uncoiled from.

Waiting for drugs was the worst.

The craving had started the second his dealer replied " Yeah, im around." The Craving, true craving never started untill he knew he was going to get his fix. Jet's Hunger had driven him to message the pusher, but the feeling of drive and urgency had only arisen once the Sludge was within reach.

He had hurried out of the Compacto-grade quaters him and his bitch stuffed themselves into and rocketed into the drivers seat of his RoadWave rx92 within nano seconds of recieving the reply. The Wave had been a slick sex machine with a no questions , nonstop hover rig when he bought it. Now it was a second rate grav-bound piece of shit with four wheels more than anyone wished to worry about. When you live on the ground floor of Highland park a hover rig is only worth what the fucker who chops it off your car can sell it for.

But fuck it. It wasnt about cars anymore. It wasnt about status. It was about Sludge, and where it could take you. Where you might end up. When you might end up. Modern life is rubbish, right?

Jet had sat outside the squat where his Pusher pushed for a good 45 minutes. This was a fucking eternity. The drive only took about 15 and by minute 7 of the trip he was already buzzing with anticipation.

Sometimes he wondered if that feeling, the feeling of wanting, needing, might be more of a kick than any of the junk he had ingested. If they could bottle that feeling he'd buy em out. It wasnt a good feeling but it was a strong one, and for a junkie as far gone as Jet it wasnt about good or bad. It was about strength, potency. The sweaty palms and quivering joints of a Pusher bound car ride was fuckin potent. The waiting was the peak of that miserable high.

He sat outside the squat checking his watch ever minute and a half. The arms on his vintage analog watch swung so slow he often thought it was broken. Old tech had a way of mocking you. He lived in a world saturated with information, so much you could never count it all, never know or see it all, But a quantified set of info shoved in a circle and dictated by 3 slowly swinging black arms was easy to understand. There was no distraction from the truth it was trying to tell. That was it. This is time passing- and your going to fucking watch.

'Hey man whats the deal ive been here 30 mins' jet typed and messaged his pusher.

'Comin' The pusher replied.

'Godamnit' Jet thought to himself. "Comin" meant nothing. It meant he had seen the message. Thats it.

'How easy if your fucking job?' Jet thought, 'Literaly all you have to do is wal outside, hand me two derms, take my money, and go back inside. How fucking hard is that. Im literaly meters away from where youre sitting huffing Nan-Bug, twitching around. Just get up and walk outside.'

Jet looked down at his watch for the 32nd time the moment a ring tapped his window. Finally, jesus.

"Yo here you go man, 600." The pusher said through the transparent plate of passenger side plasteel.

Jet let the window recede into the door while extending his arm across the trash covered seat beside him. He had been holding the cash so long and so tightly it was soaked with palm sweat. If the Highland park coalition of vendors and residents (HPCVR) had still used paper money the wad would have been destroyed, but the sweat slid off the Corn-plastic like it was supposed to and the pusher grabbed a half dry 600 credits.

"Is this good shit? like clean fuckin high and easy travel?" Jet asked grabbing the derms awkwardly with his left hand, body twisted in a rush.

"Yeah, its the same as usual, your gonna shit your brains out." The pusher said releasing the two pink rectangles.

The nerves of waiting immediately fled and before he really heard what his man had said, Jet was half way to the Compacto. The cab was silent, he couldnt think about music, didnt care about singing along to some radio trash hed heard s thousand times. His head was filled with the journey to come. The tingling feeling racing from the derm to his fingertips. Electric pain shooting to every nerve in his body, from the middle out. His scalp tightening and taking an inventory of every follicle of hair on his head. His joints tightening, just to release and disapear into a time he never should have seen move. Into a time in which he wasnt welcome, wasnt understood, and couldnt be stopped from invading, to do as he wished.

He pulled the Wave upto the curb in front of his complex. The thing had been chipped so many times it served as more of a visual delineation of street and sidewalk than a lip. The walk from the wave to the lift, the ride up 33 stories, the sprint down the hall ending with a slap of a thumb against his greasy Print-coder slipped out of history before it began and he was home, sludge still in hand.

"Oh my god that took for fucking ever!" Tema said raising her arms, spilling a feww drops of the Tsing-Tao she had just opened. "Happy fuckin anniversary asshole!" she shouted, laughing.

"Happy anniversary! sorry i took so long, work was shit, but I got us something..." Jet said with a shit eating grin, hands behind his back. He gently thumbed the derms.

"I dont see any flowers...no champagne..." She joked sipping her beer. "Then what? Dick? I have had your dick- it aint a present its a pain in my ass." They both went silent a beat then erupted in laughter.

Jet produced the derms. It had been months since they had tripped on sludge together. Longer since they could afford it.

"Godamnit J- how did you come up with the scratch for fucking sludge!?" Tema exclaimed umping to her feet.

"I been working my ass off and saving for tonight. I wanted to do Hiroshima again like the first time." Jet said approaching her with his arms open wide. The junkie had left him. He wasnt alone in it anymore.

"Oh my god, I fucking love you" Tema said grabbing Jet by the waist.

The spidering rectangle scars on their fore arms ached, and as the lights on the ground level of Highland park grew dim, they peeled back the derms, stuck them to the usual spot, and disapeared.