A night electric. Night plugged into the mains.
She tapped her steering wheel. Talking Heads on the radio. Something about a psycho. Something about a killer.
Parking lot lights. Coliseum lights. Stars and headlights from cars on the distant freeway. The way they swirled together made her wonder if she was dosed herself. Somehow. By mistake. But that couldn’t be.
Sometimes a night could wrap you in a hug. Maybe this was such a night.
In her bag, ten sheets of twenty tabs. Ten dollars per tab. Two thousand dollars. An hour or two of work.
“Potent,” she would say.
Guaranteed. But just come find me if you aren’t satisfied. I’ll be around. I’m easy to find. Cheshire cat smile.
Everyone knows the trip is what you make of it.
She would be making the most of her trip. This life. And that required cash.
She always chose her customers carefully. Descended on them like Gabriel, Herald of Visions, Patron Saint of Messengers and Diplomats. A halo of golden hair, radiant smile, she spread her wings and opened her bag and promised them ten dollars worth of mind-alteration. Illumination.
That it was just paper? A minor detail.
The distant crackle of amplifiers. Time to work. Rumble and hum.
Qu’est-ce que c’est.