I'd most deffinately develop a strong habit with Heroin, and push it as far as it could go. But why stop there? Oh, sure, why not... I've always wondered how much a couple of French concubines and a house in the pines would cost me. Well, hey. It wouldn't matter much... The financial discharge would weigh no responsibility on me, other than hiring a Portugese midget to look after my money, and make all offical transactions in my name. When all is said and done, I'd have probably pushed it to its most grim, fatal extent. What I did with the money wouldn't matter half as much as what the money did to me. And, this would call upon pondering, as I sit in a sketchy motel room on the outskirts of Vegas, drinking gasoline out of a beer-cap, enjoying a rub down from a pair of conjoined Sweedish twins, and rummaging through my plastic baggie for the last of the reds.
Ah... well, damn.
"Somebody told me when the bomb hits, everybody in a two mile radius will be instantly sublimated, but if you lay face down on the ground for some time, avoiding the residual ripples of heat, you might survive, permanently fucked up and twisted like you're always underwater refracted. But if you do go gas, there's nothing you can do if the air that was once you is mingled and mashed with the kicked up molecules of the enemy's former body. Big-kid-tested, motherf--ker approved."
