They went to the grocery store. Money was scarce for Gus, and his previous diet of fast food was no longer viable. They bought a package of bologna and a loaf of bread. To celebrate, Gus even shelled out for a six pack of beer. They broke bread together. Donny had never tasted anything so delicious as that wheat and meat. They didn't even have cheese, but Donny was too hungry to notice. They split the beer, three bottles a piece. Every meal was Donny's Last Supper. They had no blood of christ, nor his body, but Donny was contented nonetheless. 

Donny once again lay on the mattress beside Gus. The space heater was roaring away, and things felt calm. Stable. Donny exited briefly, saying he had to piss. Donny snorted the last little iota of Oxy. It was only about 10 millies, if that. He had steadily chipped away at the tablet, until nothing was left. Much like there was nothing left of Donny. He too had been chipped away, to the core, then past, then nothing. 

Donny closed the blazer tailgate, making sure the overhead light was off. He went to sleep soundly. 

There was $20 leftover for more Oxy. It was the last remnants of Donny's popcan money. It took months to save that cash, but only moments to snort it away. Or inject it.

Donny had taken leave to go to the library. He was on edge, watching out for the same librarian who had ratted him out to Whynzinger the day Donny was sprayed with mace. It was dangerous, but the drug-addled Donny pushed forward. 

Donny googled how to shoot up Oxycodone. He was the nerdiest drug addict you could find. He did not have street finesse, and didn't know anybody that injected their drugs. There were several methods, depending upon the kind Donny got. Some of the smaller Oxy tablets were fast-acting, but didn't have a half-life as long as the decay of extended release pills. 

He didn't have much left. If he shot it up, it would last longer, and he would finally be able to get high. He was crawling away from withdrawal. Interveinously, the drugs could make him feel the pleasure, and not just escaping the pain.  Plus, a little would go a long way. Suppose he couldn't get a 20 milligram pill? What if he only got a 10, or a 5? Donny wanted quality with limited quantity. He already had a rig. The needle was safely bundled up, along with Donny's cash, just waiting for it's owner to return. The Oxy was making his memory fuzzy. It was pure luck he even remembered he had the rig.

Donny printed off the drug-taking instructions. It was a manual for self-assassination. He folds it and puts it in the coat pocket. He zips the pocket, not wanting Gus to discover his schematics for drug induction.

Donny knew there would be no turning back once he started shooting it up. He was tired of life. Things had not worked out. The game was rigged, and Donny was cashing out, no longer wanting to play.

He reasoned this technically would not be suicide. Addicts might live for many years with a habit. Slow death. That's what it was. He would bargain with God when it came time to meet his maker. Or, there would be only blackness and eternal peace. This is what he thought about as he climbed back into the Blazer Hilton.

"I'm gonna be staying at my sister's tonight," Gus says, as he fries up some eggs. In addition to the space heater, Gus had acquired a hot plate as well. It was plugged in the same outlet, next to the heater's plug. 

"Ok," Donny says numbly. The Oxy was kicking his ass today. Usually he popped, snorted, or smoked an Oxy just before noon. Being so early in the morning, it really messed donny up. 

"You can stay her in the Blazer," Gus explains, "but I'm taking the ignition keys."

"How am I supposed to get out if I want to?" Donny asks, "just leave it unlocked?"

"No, don't leave it unlocked!!" Gus says adamantly, "whatever you do, lock it up. I'll leave you the tailgate key. It's separate from the car door keys, but you'll be able to get back in here."

"Okay, that's fine," Donny says sluggishly. Gus studies him carefully. The carpet King knows one of his subjects is intoxicated. But the matter is not addressed. Donny is thankful Gus can mind his own bees wax.

The eggs are good. They are only a dollar a dozen, but it's worth every last red cent. Donny has his over-easy. Gus prefers his scrambled. There is no butter, but they toast the bread briefly on the hotplate. A piece of bologna is also heated up, one for each of the hobos. It is a delicacy Donny is unfamiliar with, but hunger makes crap taste epicurean.

"I'm gonna leave now," Gus says, wiping his greasy mouth on the sleeve of his green and black checkered shirt. 

Donny follows the geezer outside, waiting to be given the lock key. Donny is puzzled. Gus is taking the battery out of the Blazer.

"What're you doing?" Donny asks.

"The cold might wreck the battery," Gus mumbles, "So I'm taking it with me."

Donny reads a different reasoning in Gus' actions. A battery would grab a few dollars, if a drug-user was desperate enough to kife it. Gus did not necessarily trust Donny, which was understandable, perhaps warranted, even.

"Oh," Donny says sleepily. The Oxy made his pride diminish. He did not confront Gus about the possibility of stealing again. Donny wondered if Gus had heard about the pills taken from Greg.

"You can run the heater to keep warm," Gus says, "just be careful about the business owner around here. If he traces that cord back to the Blazer, it'll be lights out, pun intended."

Gus waves a brief goodbye and traipses away. Donny watches the jerky movements of Gus, as he carries the heavy battery under one arm. Gus looks ready to spill over from the dead weight of the electric cell. The Carpet King had complained before about his back giving him troubles. Such a good man should not have such calamities at all times. 

Once Gus was out of sight, Donny got to work. He locked the tailgate and headed out for 1st Ave. There were some head-shops that sold paraphernalia along 1st, and there might be some potential hookups for the drug. 

Donny's foresight proved reliable. There was a house across the way from the Puff N Stuff building. A crowd of black people were hanging out on a porch, despite the cold weather. They were bundled up in different styles, some wearing fur-hooded tundra coats, and some wearing plain white winter coats. They had several different sports teams emblazoned on their attire. It was just outside a shop called "Puff 'n' Stuff". Donny could detect the lingering aroma of marijuana from the group. Also, Donny could see little packages with designer images printed on them. The little envelopes carried a synthetic weed material called "spice". 

Donny had tried spice on occasion, and found it didn't agree with him. The man-made chemicals were sprayed onto a plant, which resembled weed to the untrained eye. The spice was very potent, to the point of causing Donny to freak out. But it only lasted about 20 minutes. It was the worst of both worlds. It was too strong to make a mellow high, but not long-lasting enough to replace Oxy, or even weed. Nevertheless, these people were partaking in a little spice, and everything nice.

Donny approached the black people. Suddenly, he understood what it was to be the minority. Not one white person was among them. Donny imagined a black person, surrounded by white people most of the time. It was a fascinating concept.

"Hey people," Donny says uncertainly, "can I bum a smoke from one a y'all?" 

Half a dozen African American faces turn towards Donny. Their eyes stick out from the varying blackness of their faces like white moons. There is hip-hop music blaring on the porch. One of the persons turns off the portable radio with a click of a button. 

"What's that you say, man?" the guy asks in a booming voice.

"Anybody got a smoke?" Donny repeats. 

"Nah," the same guy says, "we ain't got no smokes to spare. But we do have a joint."

"A joint, huh?" Donny asks, "That'll do."

Donny is surprised how straight-forward they are. Donny must not pose a threat. Without knowing who he is, the group includes Donny in their passing of drugs.

Donny hits the joint and tastes the flavor of strawberries. Uh-oh. It was spice. Also known as K2 in some circles. Without any further inhalation, Donny passes the joint.

"Ain't ya gonna hit it twice?" another brother asks him. Donny shakes his head, bracing himself as the drugs hit him. Donny's heart-rate and bloodpressure increased. His chest tightened, and it felt as though he was having a heart attack. The crowd watched him amusedly.

"Yo, he's freaking out, man!!" someone says. Donny shakes his head in negatement. This high was even worse than his other run-ins with spice. It felt like he was on crack, or maybe even meth.

Eventually, after a few minutes, the unsettling sensation leaves. Like a car's shifter, he has gone from Paranoid and Nervous, back to his slightly les anxious body. Donny squints his eyes, and rubs his pounding temples. The joint comes back to him. Donny waves it off.

"No thanks, bro," Donny says, "that's not my thing."

"That flavor is called fire. So what is your drug of choice?" the radio guy asks, "we've pretty much got it all, if you got money."

Donny sees opportunity knocking.

"OC?" Donny asks in a hushed voice.

"What?" the radio man asks, leaning closer, and turning down the music again.

"OC," Donny repeats, "Oxy?"

"I don't know nothing 'bout that," he says, "you a dope fiend?"

Donny shrugs.

"What happens if you don't get your fix?"

"I'll get sick," Donny explains.

"I know this guy," another brother pipes in, "I've seen him at the stoplights, begging."

"YOu homeless, dude?" someone asks. It turns out, they do know him after all. 

"Yeah," Donny confesses, "I'm sleeping in a truck with my friend right now."

"D-A-A-Y-AMN" the radio man says, emphasizing the word and drawing it out, as if to match Donny's pitifulness.

"That's rough," one says, "I had a cousin who was homeless. His name was Tanner."

"I think I met him once," Donny says, recollecting, "he smoked some weed with me one time."

"It was by the pedestrian mall, right?" the same guy says.

"Yeah, I've been there," Donny says, "I was withdrawing, and your cousin hooked me up with some OC."

"It's a tiny fucking world, man. Tiny."

"Yo, what's Iowa City like, man? I haven't really been around there."

"It's great," Donny says, "lotsa beautiful college girls, and plenty of drugs to go around. Mostly weed, but other things, too. The University brings a lotta like-minded people together. Drinking's big, too, like anywhere."

"It's a lot nicer than CR," radio man says, "this place is going downhill."

"There's lots to do there," Donny recalls, "but I never had any money really to check it out."

"I tell you what," radio man says, "I'm gonna call Tanner and ask about you. If he says he knows you, maybe I can help you out. Yo, does Tanner still have the same number as before?"

"Yeah, but I don't know if he's got service for it, though."

They all talk back and forth, contributing to the conversation in a dozen ways. Donny can't keep track of all the banter and goings-on. Black people seemed to be very vocal. Eugene was as well. 

"Oops, his phone's shut off," the radio man says, "sorry, but I can't help you if no one vouches for you."

"How do we know you're not a cop, anyway?" someone asks anonymously.

"He ain't a cop, he stinks too bad. You can't fake this guy's stanky ass."

"Are you racist, Donny?"

"Hell no," Donny says with a foolish smile, "I have a colored TV."

The porch of guys all stop and look at Donny. THey can't believe their ears. 

"You hear what he said, Andre?" one black guy says, to the radioman. Deyandre stands, looking taken-aback. Then he laughs.

"You wanna kill yourself, Donny?" Andre asks.

"No." Donny says.

"You must be suicidal," Andre says, twisting open a bottle of beer with his meaty fist, "if you say some shit like that around us."

"I don't think I'd kill myself." Donny says thoughtfully.

"Have you ever attempted?" Deyandre asks, amusedly.

"Yes," 

"How did you do it, Donny? You cut yourself?"

"No, I was standing in a bathtub of water, with a toaster." Donny explains. Being open meant nothing to Donny, if it hurried things along to get dope. If Donny revealed his self-destructive side to them, it might lead them to understand his desire to get his fix.

"That wasn't enough to zap your ass dead?" Andre asks.

"I didn't go through with it," Donny responds, "I chickened out."

"I'll beat his ass, Andre." one of the thug-like men say, "he'll wish he was dead!!" 

"You're not doing a goddamn thing," Andre says, "What's your name, fool?"

"Donny."

"C'mon, how many black people do you know, Donny?"

"I know Eugene," Donny says, "he's my weed dealer. He's black."

"You don't mean Eugene Livingston?" Andre says, his eyes lighting up.

"That's him," Donny agrees, "you know him?"

"Green Gene?!?!" radio man says, in recognition, "why didn't you say so in the first place!!!!"

Eugene's character carried across town. They all knew him. They began spouting Mean Gene stories. The tales intermingled, with different guys jumping in at random moments. Some of the tales are about weed. Some are about women. There are a few that even involve violence. Eugene really got around. His generosity and honesty spread far and wide. 

"Step into my office," Andre says, gesturing inside. The house is somewhat dirty, but warm. Donny would gladly stay within shit-spattered walls if he was warm. The home was nowhere near that dirty though. Donny saw another African American woman in the living room, looking after several toddlers in diapers. It was ghetto day-care apparently. 

Donny had nothing against black people. His character judgement was now based on drug acquisition. Since Andre was helping him score, he was held in high regard to Donny.

Andre goes upstairs and Donny follows. They head towards the master bedroom. Donny plops down into an office chair, but Andre snaps his fingers.

"That's my seat, Don," Andre says, motioning him to move. Donny does so. Glancing around at the tidy bedroom, Donny notices how organized everything is. Incense sticks protrude from a glass jar atop a polished-looking armoire. The bed is made neatly, with blue and black striped sheets, and a poster of Bob Marley hangs above the headboard. 

"Nice place you got here," Donny compliments.

"It'd be better, if that woman downstairs would CLEAN IT!!" Andre shouts, leaning over towards the stairwell on the last syllables. 

"I'm watching babies," She counters from below.

"Does she get money for watching them?" Donny asked, still trying to get on Andre's good side.

"Yeah," Andre says, "but she ain't got no licensing, or state-bonded, for watching kids. It's illegal."

"It's money," Donny says with a grin, which is very hard to muster right now, "I won't tell."

Donny makes a fake zipper go across his lips, with his fingers. It says he will stay quiet. Andre raises one eyebrow and rolls his eyes.

"For all I know, you might be a mutha fucking cop," Andre says, as he lights up a large blunt roach, "or an informant."

Andre hits the roach several times, and it is blazing in the expanse of the room. He passes it to Donny.

Donny takes several large hits. The weed makes him feel good, but the sickness is not abated. Donny hungers for more powerful drugs. Still, the weed is good. Donny is high, with a nice body buzz. Andre only will smoke this with him to prove maybe that Donny is not a cop. Donny licks his lips as he passes it back.

"Swisher Sweet?" Donny says, with a dopey smile. Andre nods.

"I only smoke weed with Swisher Sweets cigar blunts," Andre says, "it's a habit of mine."

"We all have our habits." Donny says.

"I had problems with a snitch before," Andre says.

"Before you say anything else, "Donny says, raising up his hands to interject, "does it involve Jessie Baxter???"

Andre smiles broadly. 

"Yeah," the black man says, "that fucker tried to squeal on me. But I wouldn't sell to him. When Jessie left, the cops came back knocking on my door. I wouldn't let them in. They had nothing on me. I didn't sell to Jessie, even though the fucker asked me like half a dozen times. No joke. I'm not selling to that mutha fucka. Never have, never will."

"He tried to rat Eugene out," Donny says.

"What'd Mean Gene do?" Andre asks, perking up with interest.

"The cops are at the door, right?" Donny says, poising his hands to emphasize the story, "and Eugene just starts breaking up this huge brick of weed, and flushing it, like nobody's business."

Andre puts his hands to his forehead, where a blue 'do rag is resting. He is chuckling to himself.

"He flushed so much weed," Donny says, "that the pipes got backed up, and shit was coming through the walls!!"

Andre's whole body is convulsing with laughter.

"Did he get away with it?" Andre asks, between peals of laughter.

"They came in and searched," Donny says, "but they didn't find any weed."

"That's my dog. Mean Gene, my nigga." Deyandre says compassionately.