by T.L. Murphy
He had pills to make you sleepy, pills to make you smart, pills to turn your eyes blue. We called him Snot-Rag Slim because he’d been losing weight since nineteen-sixty-eight, looked like roadkill down on its luck and was reduced to the shortest distance between two thoughts until someone dropped a wad and he’d materialize in one of nine astral planes, which any quantum physicist will tell you is both exciting and dull at the same time.
But he rolled out enough dust to defoliate Asia with a two-for-one special on self-esteem. So I bought a dozen hits.