Two fat lines of
the finest crystal coke reflected the lights in the ceiling like
shattered glass as they lay spread upon a mirror. A rolled-up
one-hundred dollar bill sat nearby. Beer bottles sat in bitter puddles, condensation teardrops trickling down in zigzag patterns. A small mound of sifted marijuana, shot through with
crimson, gold and emerald, sat on the cover of Passport's Infinity
Machine. A black ceramic bong shaped like a skull sat
before me. I grasped a silver lighter, a
rainbow playing about the edges of my sapphire ring. I raised the bong and put my lips to the
mouthpiece. I did the hit. I took a sip of beer.
I felt good . . .
A knock on the door . .
.
It would be time to go
on soon.
I turned my head
slightly to the left. “What instrument did you say you played?”
said the dude sitting next to me.
“Second fiddle.”
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