Chase the Dragon

elude.

I

The sun would never shine again, not that Dragon gave a fuck. He trudged slowly through the light drizzle with a headful of crack cocaine, eyes scanning the dirty concrete for drugs, cash, or anything of even the slightest value. Although he appeared to be wandering aimlessly, his eyes and ears were sharply attuned to the prospect of danger, and he was ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. Slim of build and slight of stature, the thirty-two year old addict was known to be fleet on his feet. This dragon, sadly, did not breathe fire.

Avoiding sidewalks for the most part, Dragon shuffled across Gore Street and into the closest alley. He kept strictly to the lanes when he was messed up, which was frequently, but not as often as he would have liked. Even now, his buzz was dissipating rapidly and he wondered how he might get some more drugs. Never mind that the rock these days may or may not contain actual cocaine. Chemists had developed a convincing imitation using methamphetamine and other ingredients they could obtain locally, which made the product very cost effective. Dragon knew he wasn’t getting what he paid for, but didn’t really care just so long as it altered his mental state. Reality was also to be avoided whenever possible.

The alley wasn’t empty—it never was. Two bedraggled working girls beside an overflowing dumpster argued loudly over the division of drugs, and three crackheads in a musty alcove passed a broken glass stem back and forth. Dragon knew all five, but none owed him anything, nor he them. Aside from the most casual of glances, the busy addicts did not acknowledge Dragon and he might as well have been invisible. Stepping over a pile of sodden, discarded clothing, the desperate man increased his efforts, haunted eyes scanning the wet concrete the way a detective might scour a murder scene for evidence. Although he knew that a solution could appear at any moment, he was also aware that he might encounter people who wanted to collect money or drugs he owed them. Life was all plusses and minuses, and he had more of the latter than the former.

Dragon kept walking, vaguely aware that the light rain had stopped. The brain damage he suffered several years ago from a beating made it hard for him to think straight, especially when he was jonesing. While the injury was rarely noticeable to strangers, he had difficulty concentrating and occasionally experienced seizures. At least his head didn’t torture him with negative emotions the way it once had. He seldom entertained thoughts of suicide these days, even after a three-day coke run. Dragon was accustomed to hopelessness.

By now, the high was gone and only the nasty side effects remained. A great heaviness settled over Dragon as he gnashed his crooked, yellow teeth and ground his jaw. Being an equal opportunity drug addict, the anxious man was not looking specifically for rock, and would settle for anything that provided even an inferior high. A few swigs of rubbie and water, a hit from a joint, or even a couple of huffs on a bag of glue would do the trick. He shuffled along, trying desperately to think of someone who might help with his problem. Paranoia crept into his head and he suspected that everyone was hiding from him. How else could the complete absence of benefactors be explained? The bastards were making themselves scarce.

Dragon crossed another street into the next alley. Joined with crisscrossed wooden beams, the telephone poles on either side of the lane were so ubiquitous to the Downtown Eastside that they sometimes invaded his dreams. It seemed that even when he was asleep the poles towered over him, mute witnesses to his endless self-destruction. The wooden sentinels stood patiently when Dragon leaned on them for support, refusing to move even when he pissed on their feet. They watched him stick needles in his arms and suck toxic smoke into his lungs, never judging, never reproachful. These noble keepers of the alley presided over not just Dragon, but over all the other addicts as well. Unlike meddling health care workers or the local police, the telephone poles did not intervene if a situation went sour, choosing instead to let matters resolve themselves naturally. They monitored more desperation and sickness than any mortal could bear, more drama than even the toughest outreach worker could endure. The poles never looked away.

Oblivious to the silent sentries, Dragon wouldn’t have noticed one particularly mossy pole if a little scallywag by the name of Lina weren’t trying to hide behind it. The part-time sex worker was skinny, but her attempts to take advantage of the sparse cover were pathetic even to Dragon and his damaged brain. He walked over and greeted the girl as if she weren’t attempting to avoid him. Hi, Lina. What’s going on? he smirked. Despite his desperate jones, he was almost amused.

Short, with unruly ginger hair, eyebrows plucked almost to extinction, and a nervous, jumpy manner even when she wasn’t high, Lina was a strung-out female leprechaun, perpetually hyperactive and quick to take offence. Oh, hey, Dragon! she rasped. How the hell did ya sneak up on me? I didn’t see ya comin’! The girl’s eyes flashed with paranoia and her body twitched convulsively, smoldering crack pipe still in hand. She batted her washed-out green eyes and licked her thin, cracked lips anxiously. Lina was a terrible liar, a serious handicap for any full-time drug addict.

You musta seen me before you ducked behind this pole, no? maintained Dragon, secretly pleased that people actually were trying to hide from him. No one wanted to believe that drugs were making them crazy.

Lina became overly indignant, another sure sign she was being deceitful. I wasn’t hiding—I was just trying to stay outta the wind to light my pipe! she exclaimed, waving a dirty yellow lighter angrily. Why th’ fuck would I wanna hide from ya? Lina’s squinty little eyes stabbed Dragon so aggressively that he regretted his choice of words.

Since Lina was already mad at him, Dragon could only follow through and hope for the best. Ya don’t owe me nothin’, but I was kinda hopin’ ya’d remember that I spent my cheque with ya last payday when yers was held back, he said carefully, hoping he hadn’t blown it. The little freak might just storm away without sharing.

I didn’t fergit shit! said Lina, irritably brushing a strand of oily ginger hair from her eyes. She’d been careful to avoid Dragon when she got her welfare cheque the next day. Feeling suddenly remorseful, she looked at the pipe in her hand and thrust it at Dragon. I ain’t got much, but yer welcome to share. Initially upset about running into Dragon, she resigned herself to the reality of paying him back.

Her benefactor took the pipe gratefully. I hope ya didn’t think I was pissed off at ya or nothin’, said Dragon, flicking the lighter. Without waiting for a reply, he hauled greedily on the stem and pulled a large amount of smoke into his lungs.

Nah, it don’t matter none to me, said Lina, taking the stem from Dragon’s nerveless fingers. The pipe was almost too hot to hold and she waited impatiently for a few seconds before cramming a small yellow nugget into it. Gimme that lighter.

Dragon held the toke for several long seconds before huffing a dizzying cloud of toxins up at the soggy, grey sky. Anything Lina said now was of little importance, and she was well aware of that. The telephone pole she had tried to hide behind watched stoically as the pair passed the stem back and forth. Whatever was in the pipe might not have been real crack, but it made their ears ring. For a few seconds at least, time ceased to exist.

The pair smoked a few more hits before they felt comfortable enough to make small talk. While they weren’t sipping tea in some fancy restaurant in Gastown, social protocol could not be ignored entirely. Small talk, after all, is the cornerstone of every civilized society. So, what ya been up to lately? asked Lina, exhaling another ruinous cloud of crack smoke. Still livin’ at the Lampson Hotel? That fuckin’ dump should be bulldozed!

Aw, the Lampson ain’t so bad, said Dragon, unaccountably protective of his dilapidated and vermin-infested place of residence. They sprayed for bedbugs last week, and I don’t get too many bites these days. John at the front desk says they’re even gonna fix the elevator next week.

Fat fuckin’ chance, muttered Lina. That damn elevator will stay broken until they tear down the hotel.

Dragon let the comment pass and watched intently as Lina lit the pipe again. I noticed some rich fucker opened a wine bar across the street from the Woodward’s project last week. Change was coming to the neighbourhood, none of it good.

Lina made a sour face and spat on the concrete. I saw that. Somebody threw a brick through the window the first night it opened, but they replaced the glass so fast it was like it never happened! There ain’t nothin’ anyone can do about developers ruinin’ the neighbourhood. She grimaced bitterly and horked out another looger. Gentrification inspired her saliva glands to work overtime.

At least it’s a store that sells booze, even if we can’t afford it, said Dragon, attempting to put a positive spin on this latest bummer. A twinge of alarm penetrated his buzz. He wasn’t so brain damaged that he didn’t know it was important for the person with the drugs to be in reasonably good spirits. Unhappy benefactors were less likely to be generous.

Fuck! swore Lina. She wanted to spit again but her saliva glands had finally dried up. Instead, she reached into the pocket of her dirty jeans and pulled out a ten-dollar rock. This is all I have left. After this, we’re right back where we started. She broke the rock in two and jammed one of the chunks into the stem. As far as Lina was concerned, she and Dragon would be even after this.

Dragon watched Lina put flames to the rock and thought idly about his mom, who never missed an opportunity to scold him about drugs. At seventy-one years old, the woman was rapidly developing Alzheimer’s disease, and was changing as fast as the Downtown Eastside. Soon he wouldn’t recognize the neighbourhood, and his mom wouldn’t recognize him. The addict shook his head angrily and waited for his turn on the pipe. Why wasn’t the crack working? No matter how hard he tried to avoid it, reality always found a way to emerge.

Here, Lina said, smoke leaking from her mouth as she passed Dragon the stem. She tilted her head skyward and exhaled mightily, eyes glazing over. The wine bar was forgotten.

Soon—all too soon—the rock was gone. Dragon searched through his pockets compulsively while Lina rooted through her handbag. The hunt took their minds from the harsh realization that they were out of drugs again. When they finally settled down a little, the two began walking in eccentric circles, stopping occasionally to peck at the concrete. Fuck! swore Lina, throwing down an empty gum wrapper in disgust. I gotta get outta here! Her sparse eyebrows and ginger lashes made her eyes look even smaller than they were, and they rattled wildly in her head as if looking for an exit.

Maybe I’ll go home, muttered Dragon. I can’t do this no more. He walked down the lane without looking back, leaving Lina with her demons.

Wait for me! shouted Lina, running after him. Can I come with ya? Unlike Dragon, she hated to be alone when she was tweaking. That she had a large number of unresolved issues was obvious even to the untrained eye.

You can walk with me a bit, relented Dragon, slowing enough for Lina to catch up. Although he didn’t want company, it would be rude to dump her after she’d smoked all her rock with him. The pair left the alley and walked west on Hastings Street, trying hard not to pick at the sidewalk—not because they cared if people saw them tweaking, but because they knew it was futile. The insanity had to be kept at bay.

Lina almost had to jog to keep up with Dragon, who walked briskly in a subconscious effort to distance himself from her. The part-time sex trade worker didn’t seem to mind the rapid pace, and tried to forget about her current, drugless state by babbling mindlessly. Geez, I know it doesn’t look like it, but I sure have been eating a lot lately! I had three salami sandwiches for lunch yesterday, and then I ate supper at the shelter last night. We had lasagna, and I even ate the garlic bread and Caesar salad that came with it. Normally, I just have a bag of chips or something, but I was hungry as hell and couldn’t stop eating! Today I was still starving, and blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah...

The steady stream of chatter inspired Dragon to walk even faster, but there was no escape. Lina blathered on and on without mercy, ignoring the stony look on his face and seemingly unaware that she was driving him crazy. Worlds collided in Dragon’s head and the babble washed over him like acid rain, stripping away what was left of his sanity. How could he have forgotten this extremely annoying trait of hers? He should have pretended not to see her hiding behind the pole.

Dragon cursed his trainwreck of a life as Lina chased him down the sidewalk. Raised in a small town to a bus driver and a paralegal secretary, Dragon and his two brothers had plenty of time to raise hell while their parents worked. He remembered riding a stolen bicycle with his brothers and other local troublemakers, getting into jams and shoplifting from stores. Life was generally decent until his oldest brother Jack choked to death on a meatball submarine at age twelve. The sudden death inspired their mother to gulp Valium and drink red wine daily, which eventually resulted in her dismissal from the law firm. A flighty, pinched woman with no chin, no tits, and a noticeable speech impediment, Dragon never understood what their father, a relatively handsome man, saw in her. He acknowledged detachedly that his mother had good legs and a nice ass, but winced inwardly at the thought of his parents having sex. If only his brain had some sort of filter to weed out thoughts that sickened him. Drugs didn’t help with that.

The pair kept walking and Lina kept talking. Dragon thought about his older brother, Howard, who stopped hanging with the other kids after Jack died and applied himself to schoolwork with a dedication that was remarkable. Rather than fall apart, he turned the grief into a positive thing and used it to push himself forward. Howard went on to win a full scholarship and eventually became a high-powered criminal lawyer, even saving Dragon from serious jail time by providing free legal counsel. Resentful of his success, Dragon felt that Howard and his associates were called criminal lawyers for good reason, and knew his brother had represented several high-ranking Organ Donors in the past. The bikers never skimped when it came to lawyers.

I’ve really been craving lentils lately for some reason, prattled Lina, although Dragon obviously wasn’t listening. Sometimes they serve lentil soup at the mission, but they mix it with other kinds of soup, and I wish they wouldn’t do that. Did you know that beans are far healthier for you than meat is and contain just as much protein? I like lima beans but sometimes I’m not in the mood for them, and I always like green beans, Lina jabbered semi-hysterically as she jogged alongside Dragon, who was almost running at this point. I think I could eat green beans with every meal and never get tired of them. In fact, I’ll bet I could eat them as a main course every day and blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah...

Somehow, Dragon partly managed to dial Lina out. Deep in the recesses of his drug-ravaged cerebral cortex, he sensed her steady nattering, but it was of no more concern to him than a paper cut, not enough to cause true distress. Lina continued to spew as they jaywalked across Hastings Street. I wish the shelter would serve bean salad. I can’t remember the last time I had a good bean salad, or even a bad one, mumbled Lina, abruptly emotional and sad. All I ever get is the lousy crap they serve in soup kitchens and bread lines! The tiny woman scurried along, full of self-pity and remorse. Crack cocaine, or whatever it was these days, did not provide users with a sense of well-being when it wore off, especially when they reflected on the havoc it had wreaked on their lives. I WANT SOME BEAN SALAD! Lina bawled loudly, tears springing to her eyes. Legumes, apparently, were also habit forming.

Even though he had the sensitivity of an alcoholic bricklayer on payday, Dragon attempted to console Lina. Crying women always made him extremely uncomfortable. Oh, I’m sure the craving will pass soon, he said awkwardly, certain that Lina had completely lost her mind. I dunno about you, but I’d rather find some more drugs than eat bean salad. Bad smells come out of my ass when I eat beans. He glanced cautiously at his morose associate, wondering what she might do next. Maybe he would get lucky and they would run into someone she liked more than him, which meant anyone who had drugs or money.

I never get nothin’! Lina bawled brokenly. I have to fight like hell for every scrap I get, and it’s always shit! Why do I gotta be such a fucking loser! Her flat little chest heaved mightily as sobs wracked her body. FUCK MY LIFE!

Whoa! Try not to think about that shit, Lina! squeaked the dragon that didn’t roar. That ain’t gonna do ya no good! He reached out to put a hand on her quaking shoulder, but wasn’t sure if it was safe to touch her. His hand hung uncertainly in the air, a needle-pocked and skeletal bird frozen mid-flight. The girl was crazier than a dumpster rat.

Lina covered her face with her hands and stumbled along blindly. But it ain’t right! Why does everything always have to be so hard? I just wanna eat bean salad and live somewhere that doesn’t suck!

I dunno, said Dragon, choosing his words most carefully. I guess we were just born in the wrong place to the wrong people. His forehead crinkled in concentration as he contemplated the unfairness of life. This was one of those trick questions that had no real answer.

Lina stopped crying and slowly wiped her face. With her red-rimmed eyes and smudged, teary cheeks, the forlorn woman stirred something in Dragon that was close to empathy. Thanks, Dragon, she sniffled. You’re a good friend, and I’m sorry to go off on ya like that. I just need some sleep and maybe some food. Do you wanna come down and grab a sandwich with me from the mission? They won’t have bean salad, but they might have egg salad. Dragon? Lina looked back and noticed that her companion had stopped walking. In fact, he was just standing there with a look of shock on his face. What’s goin’ on? Did ya lose something?

Dragon held up a small, flattened white baggie containing an unidentified white substance. I just found this stuck to the bottom of my shoe! he exclaimed, unable to believe his eyes.

What is it? cried Lina, rushing to join him. What is it?

I dunno, but we’ll soon find out, said Dragon, tearing a small hole in the corner of the baggie with his yellow teeth. He squeezed a few grains onto his finger, and stuck his finger in his mouth. His face stayed neutral as he processed what his taste buds were telling him.

WHAT IS IT? WHAT THE FUCK IS IT? Lina yelped, jumping up and down in excitement. This was too good to be true, but still she held out hope. Even junkies deserved a break.

Tastes like down. I can’t tell for sure, but it seems stronger than usual, said Dragon at last. The quality of heroin in Vancouver had gone down the drain in the last ten years and good dope was very rare. Still, free heroin was free heroin. Dragon examined the mashed baggie and saw that it held at least three grams, maybe even four. Suddenly apprehensive, he wrapped up the heroin and shoved in his pocket. C’mon, let’s get the hell outta here! Whoever lost it might still be around.

Lead the way, Sir Galahad! said Lina, smiling so widely that her burned lips split open. Fuck the bean salad.

II

The dense noise that boiled from the old-fashioned tower speakers was unrecognizable as music to most people born earlier than 1985. Calvin Clay was an obvious exception, and he loved the brutal, unintelligible vocals and layers of sludgy, drop D guitars with a passion that only true fans of death metal could comprehend. To Calvin, the maniacal, percussive explosions, multiple tempo changes, and gruesome, indecipherable lyrics were the sweetest sounds ever created, and those who didn’t agree risked a good beating. As bass player for one of the most respected death metal acts in town, Calvin was an authority on the subject, and anyone who argued with him about anything was a damn fool anyway.

The Satanic barrage continued as Calvin pulled himself into a sitting position and fumbled around on the bedside table for his cigarettes. With some trouble, he managed to get one lit and fell back on the bed, huffing smoke up at the ceiling. Nicotine, alcohol, and caffeine, which didn’t really count, were the only drugs Calvin allowed himself. People who shoved needles in their arms or sucked on glass pipes were out of their fucking minds, and even his little sister, whom he loved almost as much as he loved death metal, was batshit crazy. His scarred and knobby fingers curled into lethal clubs when he thought about his beloved sibling living like a dog with a bunch of junkies. Today he would do his best to change that.

Calvin slowly unclenched his fists and took the burning cigarette from between his lips. He couldn’t allow himself to get bent out of shape so early in the afternoon, and he needed his wits about him if he wanted to be effective. His hangover retreated slightly as he pondered the difficulties ahead. First, he had to collect $4,000 from a biker who didn’t want to pay, and then he intended to snatch his sister from the Downtown Eastside and have her committed to a residential drug treatment program. Although Calvin was almost certain she would not go willingly, he did not intend to give her that option. One way or another, the girl was going to clean up her act.

Although Calvin’s own band, Homicide Holocaust, was feared and respected worldwide, he relied on strong-arm work and low-level extortion to put gas in his pickup truck. Still lying in bed, he contemplated the problems he’d been having trying to collect a loan from a notoriously difficult Organ Donor associate known as Jerry The Beak Arsenault. Creditor and full-patch Organ Donor Fatty McDougal was so angry that he’d been tempted to put a contract on the deadbeat, but reluctantly decided to send Calvin instead. If Calvin failed to collect the debt, Fatty would hire someone else to visit The Beak. That person would be carrying an untraceable semi-automatic pistol.

Crushing the butt in an overflowing ashtray, Calvin threw his legs out of bed and heaved himself upright. Only five-foot-eleven in height, his stout upper torso, beefy arms, and powerful legs helped compensate for his relatively short stature. His best attributes were his ferocious nature and inability to feel pain while fighting. The debt collector and death metal bassist rarely tied his long, dirty blond hair in a ponytail, but no one dared to pull his hair. The last fool to yank his flowing locks was still hobbling around with a permanently damaged kneecap. As far as Calvin was concerned, anyone who couldn’t fight like a man deserved to limp.

The hungover thug stomped to the bathroom and performed his ablutions with a minimum of fuss. He wasn’t the type to spend much time in front of the mirror, even though he had recently begun shaving again. An overabundance of grey hairs had inspired him to cut off his beard, and he now looked somewhat younger than his forty-four years. Only the dark brown eyes—penetrating, suspicious, and hostile—hinted at his true age. Indeed, those evil orbs, and the horny silver eyebrows above them, belonged to an older man or, possibly, a gargoyle from the deepest nadirs of hell. Scarred of face and hands, and covered with blurry, demonic tattoos, Calvin was well aware of the effect he had on people and used his look to full advantage. Mostly, he didn’t even have to hurt debtors to collect what they owed.