I asked my friend, novelist and screenwriter Eric Layer if he’d be up for writing a story about adrenochrome. He laid this raucous gem on me, in the spirit of its unwitting forefather, Hunter S. Thompson. Artwork by Justin Abbink.
I’m somewhere in the middle of the biggest bet of my life when I get the call. “Paging Mr. Duke.... Mr. Raoul Duke... White courtesy telephone, please.” Technology hasn’t exactly caught up down here, but that’s the way our host prefers it. He’s old-fashioned like that, a bit of a Luddite. For instance, we only got basic cable last year, and not the premium stuff, just the crap with commercials.
Being an old-schooler myself, I can relate to the guy. I don’t need a lot to be happy. Gimme a glass of Bourbon, a volume of Hemingway, and an oil lamp to read by, and I’m in heaven. Which I guess is why I can’t get any of those things here.
At least we’re allowed poker. Most days, five of us lifers are gathered around the table, cards in hand, chips stacked up. And on a good day, like today, none are piled higher than mine.
“Not now, goddammit!” I shout back at the automated voice beckoning me to the phone. “I’m about to become a millionaire! It’s taken me eighty years! I’m not gonna let you fuck me out of this one!”
I suck down the last of my Everclear and Diet RC, all melted ice by now. Cocktails don’t last long around here.
“As your attorney, I advise you to take the call,” says Gonzo, seated beside me, chewing on his imitation Cuban.
“Sure, you would say that, you treacherous infidel. I’ve got you on the run. You’re this close to losing your own shirt.”
“I’LL BET MY SHIRT, AND MY SHORTS,” he bellows, stripping off both and whapping the sweaty garments on the table, scrambling everyone’s chips.
“Now you’ve done it,” I say. “And I was winning too! For the first goddamn time in my life, I was REALLY WINNING!”
“So what?” Gonzo says, flinging his chair aside like it’s made of cheap plastic, which I guess it is. “What were you winning, anyhow? It’s not like money matters here. They’re just chips, man! They mean nothing!”
He takes a fistful and tosses them in the air.
“Your hirsute attorney has a point,” says Bob W. from the head of the table, where he remains still as Buddha, for what seems like, and might actually be, an eternity. “Even here, beyond the bounds of capitalism, we still can’t seem to break their pernicious chains.”
“It’s not about the money,” I say, leaving the table and heading for the door. “It’s about the thrill of victory, the vanquishing of my enemies, the inflated pride one attains from defeating his rivals. You can’t put a price on that!”
“Seems to me we’re paying that price everyday,” says Billy B., shrunken and skeletal in his oversized chair. “As long as we remain prisoners of our own egos. Which reminds me... Did I ever tell you about the man who taught his asshole to talk?”
“About a thousand times, Billy!” I bark back as I leave the room. I have zero patience left for the ol’ junkie’s sloth-paced musings, however brilliant they’re supposed to be. Decades off the dope, and he still spends half the day nodding off.
I’ve got no stomach for any of my fellow inmate’s fatalist views. It’s not like I’m unaware of the futility of our plight. I just choose not to dwell on it. We all know we’re stuck. But why should we act like it?
Life, for me anyhow, was always a grand performance, a pissing into the abyss, a chance to squeeze out as many kicks as I could muster against the absurdity of our inevitable extinctions. So why should death be any different?
“Duke speaking,” I say into the phone.
“Duke, my old friend, how’s it hangin’?”
It’s him, our host with the most, the boss man, the head honcho, the grand Kahuna himself. This can’t be good.
“Down to my knees,” I say, and he chortles, something between a laugh and a hack. I swear I can smell his breath through the receiver, and it’s not good.
“Ah, there’s that patented Duke wit. I’ve missed it. Why don’t you and that rapier tongue of yours come pay me a visit?”
“Sure, buddy, no problemo. I’ll do that, just as soon as I get a chance–” “Sorry, I guess I’m not making myself clear. What I meant was... NOW!”
The phone heats up in my hand. I hear the sizzle and smell the burning flesh before I feel the pain. Then it hits me and I wail like a madman, trying to pry the receiver off my palm, but it’s stuck like a burning slab of meat on an ungreased pan. I slam it against the wall until the plastic finally cracks and dislodges, taking a chunk of my skin with it.
I’d always imagined death would be the end of pain. Joke’s on me. Turns out, it’s only the beginning.
“Sounds bad,” Gonzo says, appearing out of nowhere, or else beside me the whole time. “The boss doesn’t call you to his office unless some serious shit’s about to go down. As your attorney, I suggest you take me with you. Not that I have any real sway, but in case it’s the last we see of you, I can impart your final words to interested parties.”
“Fine, but how ‘bout fetching me some ice first?” I say, peeling a layer of charred skin from my hand. “And put your damn clothes back on. The boss may be the lord of chaos, but he still appreciates some basic decorum.”
As Gonzo goes to collect his garments, I pull out my cigarette and holder and put it to my lips. I pretend to light a match, suck in the flame, and inhale the invisible smoke. It’s our fearless leader’s cruelest joke: Hot as balls, and not a light in sight.
We ride the lift all the way to the bottom floor and walk down the long, winding hall that ends at his office. From behind every door along the way, we hear screams, moans, mad cackles, and delirious ramblings. The boss likes to keep his worst cases close, something about feeding off their pain.
“On second thought, he might take offense to you bringing legal representation,” Gonzo says, clearly freaked by all the suffering surrounding us. “You got this.” He turns and bolts back the way we came.
“Come back you COWARD!” I scream after him, but nothing slows him down.
I go on without him. When I reach the boss’ red door, a weight hits my chest, like a fist punching its way through my skin and bones and taking hold of my heart, squeezing it in a taut fist. At first I think heart attack. Then I remember it’s happened every time I’ve been summoned. Maybe it’s anxiety. Or maybe it’s a test. Apparently I pass, because once the pain subsides, the door swings open. I step inside.
A reptilian receptionist sits at the front desk battering away on an old typewriter. I notice there’s no paper in its reel, and no ribbon, either. Without even glancing my way, the creature juts its chin towards an empty chair and I take it.
As soon as my butt hits the seat, the lizardy lady says, “He will see you now,” and I bounce right back up. I give her a scowl as I pass but she’s too engrossed in typing nothing to notice.
Of the three times I’ve been summoned, not once has the boss’ room remained the same, as if he re-designs it for every occasion. The first time it was all mid-century modern. The second, more of a minimalist Japanese aesthetic – we sat on the floor with tea. This time, it’s straight-up Bond villain. He’s seated behind a comically large mahogany desk, a fluffy black cat on his lap, and a roaring fire behind him. The whole scene is so outlandishly on-brand, I can’t help but laugh.
Luckily he doesn’t notice, too involved in a conversation to even acknowledge my presence. Two distinguished, gray-haired men sit facing him, both in suits, one herringbone, the other seersucker. In my Hawaiian shirt and golf pants, I feel a tad underdressed.
“So you’re telling me you never once asked Stanley about it?” Bossman asks Herringbone, who has the bloated face of an alcoholic. “Not about all the American Indian stuff? Or whatever the hell was going on with the bear-suit blow-job guy?”
“Like I said before, that film came after ours,” Herringbone replies. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
“I’d rather not ruin his mystique.”
“I agree,” says Seersucker, a gaunt fellow in tea-shade glasses. “I had the misfortune of having lunch with Faulkner once. Entirely unpleasant fellow.”
“Never meet your idols,” I say, stepping between the two chairs.
“I hope you’re not talking about me,” Bossman says, looking insulted.
I stutter, trying to backpedal, but before I can, he flashes me a smile with teeth so white they’ve got to be veneers.
“I’m just fucking with you man,” he says, cackling. “Take a seat. Have you met my friends here? They’re both writers, too, though a bit before your time.”
Neither looks familiar, though I tend to recognize writers more by their words than their faces. “And surely you two must know Raoul Duke.” Their expressions betray no recognition of my name. “Fear and Loathing? The movie, with Johnny Depp? Duke here wrote it, or at least the book it’s based on.”
“I’m afraid I’m not much of a film buff,” Seersucker says.
“I believe it’s in my Hulu queue, but I haven’t watched it yet,” Herringbone adds.
“Hold on, you get Hulu down here?” I say, appalled that, even among the damned, there’s apparently a caste system.
“In any case, besides being writers, you all have something else in common,” Bossman says. “Any guesses what that might be?” We glance at each other then back at him, shaking our heads. “You should know, if you’ve been paying any attention to the news coming out of the Middle World lately. Starts with an A...?”
The mention of news gives me a clue. Bob W. was the first one to inform me that my name was being bandied about again, wrapped up in some outlandish conspiracy that apparently a growing number of people were buying. I’m sure Bob only pointed it out to assuage his own guilt for perpetuating the whole Illuminati mess, like finally it was someone else’s turn to be misinterpreted.
“Are you talking adrenochrome?” I ask.
“Precisely,” Bossman says, stroking the sharp edge of his goatee, clearly relishing his own cliché.
“That does ring a bell,” Seersucker says.
“It should,” Bossman says. “You were the first of this trifecta to write about its supposed psychedelic effects.”
“Did I? Perhaps. Though I don’t recall ever trying it myself.”
“Just like all these modern-day conspiracists,” Bossman says. “Why bother
with facts when guesses are just as good?”
“That’s right, I got it from you,” I say to Seersucker. “Was it in Doors, or Heaven and Hell? In any case, I was just riffing off that. Like most of my work, it’s not meant to be taken literally.”
“Oh, but it has, you see, that’s the problem,” Bossman says, leaving his chair. “I’m sorry, but I’m still not sure why I’m here,” Herringbone says.
“Really?” Bossman says. “No idea?”
“If you’re referring to the mention of drenchrome in Clockwork, it was clearly a work of fiction, and meant to be more of a light amphetamine. If anything, you should be blaming Stanley, since my book was a commercial failure until the film came out.”
“I didn’t bring you here to blame or shame you,” Bossman says, tossing a log into the fire where it immediately sparks in a gust of flames. “I’m simply trying to settle a bet, and it’s helpful to know where this all started. Though Aldous might’ve launched the ship and Anthony hitched a ride, the one most responsible for keeping it afloat appears to be you, Mr. Duke.” As he stokes the coals with a poker, he turns to me, the fire reflecting in his eyes. “It was you who wrote how the most potent form of adrenochrome could be extracted from a human corpse, was it not?”
The Brits turn and stare with exaggerated disgust. “I believe I said a living body was preferable, but a corpse would do,” I say, feeling the sweat begin to pool in the polyester of my pits. “Obviously I was exaggerating for comedic effect-”
“Obvious to you, maybe. But try telling that to these Bible-thumping literalists, who read allegories as facts.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“Point being, without that single sentence of yours, none of this would’ve come to pass.”
I nod, once again awestruck at the power of a good turn of phrase. More than moving its reader, it can also ignite an entire bullshit movement.
“Looks like we’ve found our man,” Bossman says, smacking his hands together and sparking a small flame between them. It’s the kind of cheap flash-paper parlor trick that makes me realize, for all his notoriety, at heart he’s just a corny magician. “Duke, I’m sending you back to the Middle World, where you’re to find these Q people and set the record straight, once and for all. Convince them you’re the real culprit behind the whole adrenochrome myth. Think you can do that?”
“Won’t it seem a little odd that I’ve risen from the dead?”
“Surely you are capable of convincing them you’ve pulled an Elvis-style disappearance, or maybe some kind of Andy Kaufmanesque prank?”
I nod, realizing that if the Q people are gullible enough to believe in my made- up adrenochrome myth, they’ll probably buy my resurrection, too.
“My I ask why you’re doing this?” I ask him. “You mentioned settling a bet?” “More or less. A silly wager with the man upstairs.”
“You’re still on speaking terms with... Him?” Seersucker asks.
“We talk. Well, mostly I talk and he listens. It’s kinda like therapy. He doesn’t judge me. Though I do get the sense that’s he’s still disappointed in me. Which I guess is why I want to prove him wrong. Also to help swing the world a smidge less towards oblivion.”
“But why?” I ask. “Don’t you want oblivion?”
“That’s so typical,” he says with a sigh. “But think about it. Without a world to tempt with sin, what on earth would there be for me to do?”
There’s a man waiting in the waiting room as I pass back through, a familiar, smarmy-looking fellow in an orange jumpsuit. He spots me staring and nods.
“I’m a fan of your work, Mr. Duke,” he says with a million-dollar grin.
I recognize that smug smile. It’s been all over the news lately. “Is that right?” I say. “Guess I’ll take ‘em where I can get ‘em. Which was kinda your life’s motto, wasn’t it?”
“Sorry?”
“Looks, let’s not waste time with pleasantries. Tell me the truth: did you kill yourself or not?
Before he can answer, the secretary interrupts: “He will see you now, Mr. Epstein.”
Epstein rises with a smirk and heads for the office. Just as he reaches the door, he turns back, and says, “Of course I fucking didn’t.”
I want to prod further, but the Bossman is on him, saying, “Jeff Baby, at last we meet. Big fan.”
The door shuts and I continue on, fast-walking out of the office and past all the screamy rooms until I’m back at the elevators. Gonzo sits cross-legged on the lobby floor, head down between his knees.
“You waited for me?” I ask him.
“No, I’ve been waiting for the damn elevator. Must be broken or something.” As soon as I press the button, the doors ding and open. “White privilege,” he mutters, rising and dusting off his slacks.
Inside the lift, only one number lights up on the panel: 13. I press it and up we go.
“This place gives me the creep,” Gonzo says. “Glad we’re going back.”
“That depends on what you mean by ‘back.’”
He looks at me, then at the panel.
“Thirteenth?” he says. “There’s no thirteenth floor. Where are we going?” “Get ready, my friend. We’re heading back home.”
“You mean...” His eyes get big, and liquid drips from his already sweaty head.
“Shit, I’m gonna need a buffer.” He pulls out a plastic bag of white-ish powder, wets his fingers and dips them in, snorting several fingers-worth in quick succession.
“What is that?” I ask. “Coke? Meth? Ecstasy?”
“You think I can get the good stuff down here? Nah. It’s crank. Trucker-grade, but it’ll do.”
He hands me the bag and I take my share. By the time we reach our floor, my heart’s already pounding. We go through the entire bag by the time the doors open. Immediately, the temperature plummets. We shiver, our teeth chattering. I wish I brought a sweater along. Though it’s probably dropped back to normal, compared to where we were, it feels like we’ve entered the Arctic.
We step into a large, tastefully decorated hallway. It’s the polar opposite from the one we just left: everything is cream-colored or pastel pink, the walls lined with portraits of smiling people in formal attire and vases of freshly cut flowers. From the distant cacophony of voices and music, its clear there’s a party going on somewhere in the house.
A man wearing a black eye-mask and holding a tray of tiny meatballs walks by, offering us one. I shake my head. Gonzo takes a handful and immediately pops them in his mouth one after the other. The man shakes his head, taking back the toothpicks, and walking on. We follow close behind, Gonzo still chewing his wad of meat. I give him a glare.
“Don’t judge me,” he whispers. “I’m starving. Haven’t had real food in years.” “Just try not to stand out.”
As we cross into the main room, I see what an impossible task that will be.
Everyone wears masks, and not the Covid-style ones, but the kind that covers everything but the mouth. They’re all customized to resemble some type of bird: peacocks, toucans, flamingos, vultures, all distinguished by their feathers and the sizes of their beaks. They gather in clusters throughout the expansive room, chattering in hushed tones too low to make out. Besides the masks, they wear typical formal attire: suits and ties, dresses and gowns.
We observe the party from the entranceway. So far no one seems to have noticed us.
“Where the hell are we?” Gonzo asks, his face twitching from the crank. “Illuminati headquarters? An avian-themed sequel to Eyes Wide Shut?”
“Possibly. Though my bet is these are Q people.”
“Q? Not those pendejos! Explain to me why he sent you here again?”
“To settle a bet. Or save the world. Something like that.”
As Gonzo scans the crowd, something makes his eyes bulge. He grabs me by the collar and pulls me back into the hall. “Did you see who’s here?” he asks.
He points out a man with a tiny beak and snow-white feathers that match the patch of hair visible behind his mask. There is a familiar stiffness about him, but I can’t place it.
“It’s him,” Gonzo whispers. “The VP.”
It definitely could be. But without being able to see his face, it could also be nearly any other older middle-aged Republican male. As I keep staring, I see his eyes slowly turn my way.
“I think we’ve been spotted,” I say.
“We’re gonna need some masks,” Gonzo says, yanking me back the way we came. We walk to the other end of the hall that leads to a kitchen, where a couple fills cups from a punch bowl. Hiding beside the doorway, we wait for them to exit before we enter and look around. There’s only one other door and it’s locked.
“There’s got to be a way out of here,” Gonzo says.
“Might as well have a quick drink while we figure this out,” I say, scooping up a ladleful. I’m about to slurp it down when Gonzo whacks it out of my hand.
“What the hell, man?” I say, punch running down my chest, looking like a gunshot wound.
“You’re seriously going to drink the Kool-Aid? In a place like this? Man, I always knew you were reckless, but this is beyond.”
“What the hell is there to be afraid of? It can’t kill us. We’re already dead.” “You, sir, of all people, should know there are fates worse than death.” “I’ll take my chances,” I say, grabbing the metal label off the counter and pouring a scoop of punch down my throat before he can smack it away. As soon as the liquid hits my tongue, I can tell I’ve been hoodwinked. It’s completely booze-free.
We go to leave but another couple stands in the entranceway, blocking our path, staring at us like the invaders we are. The woman’s appears to be a barn owl, while the man sports the sharp, thin beak and frizzy red hair of a woodpecker.
“Where are your costumes?” Woody asks us.
Before I can offer an excuse, Gonzo pipes in: “We’re wearing costumes, can’t you tell?” They shake their heads. “Raoul Duke and Dr. Gonzo. You know, from the famous book and movie starring Johnny Depp...?”
“Oh right, that writer who first exposed how adrenochrome is connected to the New World Order, right?” Barn Owl says, but her partner seems less impressed. “That’s not the kind of costume I meant. And if you were invited, you should know that. And where are your Qs?”
“Qs?”
He holds up his hand, exposing a tiny tattoo “Q” on the underside of his wrist. Before I can come up with an excuse, Gonzo grabs the metal ladle and whacks the Woodpecker on the head. He crumples to the floor. Just at the Barn Owl starts to scream, he clobbers her, too, and she collapses right on top of her partner.
“What the hell, man?” I ask Gonzo, who’s clearly cranked to the gills, huffing and puffing as he sets down the ladle.
“We need masks, right? Well, here they are.” He rips off the Barn Owl mask, hands it to me, and takes the Woodpecker for himself.
“And what do we do with them?” I ask, pointing to the unconscious couple.
Gonzo glances at the open pantry. Before we stuff their bodies inside, he goes through the guy’s pockets and pulls out a set of keys.
“Check it out,” he says, jangling the keys. “Cadillac. We’re gonna ride outta here in style.”
“What about my mission?”
“So we complete this mission and then what, game over? I wanna live a little! Hit the road and have some adventures, like the old days. Head up to the mountains. See the ocean. Smell the fresh sea air. Watch the sunset while sipping on a margarita. Find a nice girl to love on. Drive to the city and do an eight ball in some seedy motel room. Come on, this could be our last chance!”
“You’re probably right,” I say, convinced, especially at the mention of women. One of the most torturous components of our new home is the strict gender separation. “Screw the mission!”
“Right on. Let’s go find this Cadillac and get the hell outta Dodge.”
We head back down the hall until we reach the main room again. All the masked revelers are now seated in a circle, watching a short, Crow-like man light a series of candles. The front door appears unguarded. We creep along the outskirts, slow and quiet, while Crowman lights a stick of incense and begins a low chant, the crowd joining in. We hum along as we get closer and closer to the door. Gonzo reaches the handle first and tries to turn it. “It’s locked,” he whispers to me, but not softly enough.
“Halt!” the Crow says, pointing at us. “Where do you think you’re going?” “We’re just stepping outside for a smoke,” Gonzo says.
“In the middle of a ceremony? Apprehend them!”
Two Ostrich looking ruffians are quickly at our sides, grabbing our shirts and tossing us into the middle of the circle. We fall to our knees. The Crow steps forward and lifts our hands, inspecting our wrists.
“Just as I presumed,” he says, dropping our wrists. “Who are you? How’d you get in?” He sounds like an obnoxious teenager playing the part of a villain, forcing his voice lower than it naturally goes.
“We’re Q-believers, like you,” Gonzo says. “When we go one, we go all!”
He starts to give the Nazi salute, re-considers, and turns it into a regular ol’ US army-style one.
“Glad to hear it,” the crow says. “But you weren’t invited.”
“We were,” Gonzo says. “I got that invitation somewhere.” He starts digging through his pockets. “Ah, here it is!”
He comes out with a fist and starts swinging, getting in a blow or two before the ostriches have him on the floor in an arm-lock. I try to pry them off, but two buzzards grab me by the arms and pull me back.
“YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO DO THIS!” Gonzo shouts, squirming as they tie our hands behind our backs. “YOU HAVE NO AUTHORITY OVER SOVEREIGN INDIVIDUALS! I’M A FULLY LICENSED ATTORNEY, GODAMMIT! YOU’LL BE SEEING US IN...”
Crowman runs a strip of duct tape over his mouth and muffles Gonzo’s protests. He keeps struggling until the sound of a gong rattles the whole room. A large man steps forward, wearing the mask of an eagle along with a headset mic.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Eagleman says, his voice booming out from the back of the room. “Or should I say, gentle birds....”
The room squawks. As he begins to work the crowd, I can see the unmasked back of the Eagle’s head, a disheveled nest of grayish orange hair.
“I know you’re all anxious to get to the ceremony,” he says. “And that will happen. But first, we have a little situation on our hands: Two party-crashers dressed in the guise of our patron saints.”
It takes me a second to realize he’s talking about us. The crowd continues their bird sounds, seeming to morph before our eyes. As I yank on my shackles, I feel my left hand start to loosen. If I can manage to stall and distract them long enough, I might be able to pull it through the rope.
“Just hold on now,” I say. “We’re not impersonators. We’re the real deal.”
Eagleman laughs and the crowd follows suit, stopping when he stops. “Impossible,” he says. “They’re dead.”
“That’s what we wanted you to think!” I say, with the full power of my baritone. It seems to work, as their clucking simmers down. “That’s why I faked my own death. I had no choice. The crooked Feds were getting too close, and I had to do something. So I dug up a fresh corpse around my size, shot it in the face, wrote a suicide note and skipped town. I’ve been living in the Tropics ever since.”
“If what you say is even true, why have you returned?” Eagleman asks.
I scan the crowd in an overly dramatic fashion, before I say: “To set the record straight on adrenochrome.”
Brows rise. Heads cock in my direction. Everyone’s listening. Even the blowhard leader allows me to continue. I’m sure they can tell the real deal when they see it. Not even Johnny was able to nail down my particular je ne sais quoi.
“Yes, I based it on an actual chemical compound, but the rest I made up. In truth, it’s not a psychedelic at all, more like a low dose of Dexedrine. Mostly headache-inducing. Not something anyone would form an international trafficking ring to get their hands on. Trust me on this.”
“BULLSHIT” the little crow sidekick cries out. When no one else responds, he doubles-down, clapping his hands and chanting, “BULL-SHIT, BULL-SHIT...” A few half-heartedly join in, but Eagleman holds up his hand, immediately silencing them.
“But why make all that up?” Eagleman asks, sounding a tad disappointed. “What was the point?”
“Mostly to scare the squares,” I say. “I guess it worked. But who knew it had such legs?”
“And why should we trust you?” Eagleman asks. “Even if you are who you say you are, maybe you’re being paid to say this. Maybe you’re only retracting now because you’re one of them, another pedo, addicted to the blood of terrified children.”
“Oh yeah, about that... I don’t know how it became about kids. I only mentioned corpses.”
“So you admit to killing children-“
“I never said that –“
“Child-killer! Child-killer!” Crow chants, and this time his leader join in. Soon the whole room is chanting it as they rise from their seats and move in.
I rise, holding up my hands. “People! Shhhh! I can prove it! I can prove that adrenochrome isn’t real!”
Eagleman quiets his minions. “You can prove it? How?”
“Well, wouldn’t you agree this is a fairly terrifying situation I’ve gotten myself into?”
He thinks for a moment. “I suppose, yes,” he says.
“Do you believe I’m scared?”
“You better be.” The crowd laughs and he lifts his neck and puffs his chest out, soaking their approval.
“Okay, then we’re agreed,” I say. “Now, does anyone here have a knife?”
“I do,” Crowman says, stepping forward and pulling out a switchblade. “Great. Then stab me.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said stab me. You wanna see if the theory is true? Then try and get high off my blood.”
“I don’t know.”
The crowd starts to egg him on. Someone shouts, “Stab him!” and they begin to chant it. Crowman is clearly unnerved.
“C’mon. Stab me. Just not anywhere it can kill me. Maybe the shoulder or the-
He stabs me just below my ribcage. I feel nothing for a second or two. And then...it hurts like a motherfucker.
“YOU SMARMY LITTLE ASSHOLE!” I scream.
“I gotta get it from the adreno glands,” he says.
Blood starts pouring out the hole. “Fine,” I say, falling to my knees. “Then get some and taste it. If your theory is right... if my adreno-blood is really a drug, then... you should get high as hell, right?”
The Crow looks at the blood dripping from his knife. “But I don’t do drugs,” he says.
“Gimme that!” Eagleman yanks the knife from his hands. The crowd cheers, then goes silent as he wipes more blood on the blade from my wound and lifts it to his nose. The room becomes so still you can hear his tiny nostrils as they take a whiff. Finally, he shrugs and licks the remaining blood off the knife.
“There you go,” I say. “Should be a nice fresh dose of adrenochrome in there. But maybe drinking it might not be strong enough. Anyone got a syringe?”
Before someone can respond, Eagleman stiffens up, his eyes going wide. “I’m feeling something. Oh... man... I’m definitely feeling something!”
“I don’t think it would kick in that quickly, ” I say, but he clearly ignores me. “I feel... incredible!” He drops the knife and spreads his arms, looking towards the sky. “I feel... like a Golden God!”
The crowd cheers. I can’t believe they’re buying his B-movie level performance. And yet they’re eating it up, so much that I can’t even tell if they’re cheering for or against the drug. Or if it even matters anymore.
“He’s faking it, come on people!” I shout, but no one’s listening. They’re all focused on Eagleman, bounding around the room and leaping on furniture. While he carries on his performance, I finally manage to wriggle my left hand free.
“I am Superman!” he shouts, thumping his chest. “I CAN DO ANYTHING!”
He grabs Crowman by the back of his shirt and flings him into the crowd. It’s impressive, even if the guy looks light. Eagleman winds up the crowd so much that even I get intoxicated. What if it’s real? I start thinking. What if I’m the one who’s wrong?
“But I’m starting to weaken already,” he says, leaning over to catch his breath. “I need more blood... BRING ME MORE BLOOD!”
When the crowd turns to me with murder in their eyes, I summon all the energy I have left, scoop up the knife with my ropeless hand, and lunge at Eagleman, stabbing him square in the heart. He reels back, looking first at me, and then at the knife sticking out of him. Blood begins to ooze from the wound. He clutches the handle and tried to wedge it free, but only manages to make the hole bigger. As he starts to go down like a sinking ship, he spits a spray of blood into the air, reaching out his hands, grabbing for something – a pussy, perhaps. And then he falls to the floor.
The crowd watches in speechless horror. Crowman nudges a foot at the dispatched leader’s limp body. A pool of blood begins to form around him. His eyes are open, staring back at me. There’s still life in them. His gaze softens as his lips start to move. I crouch down to listen.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
Then he’s gone.
“What have you done?” Crowman says. I quickly pull the knife from the dead leader’s chest and whirl around to face him. He shrieks, tearing up. Dropping to the floor, he begs me not to kill him.
“Here,” I say, handing him knife handle-first. “Take your revenge.”
I drop to my knees, the pain from my wound at a near-crippling level. I close my eyes, spread my arms, and await the sensation of the cold metal blade, ready once again to feel the sweet release of death.
But it doesn’t happen. Instead, my pain starts to subside. I open my eyes, and see he’s dropped the knife. He turns to the crowd and says, “The false Q has fallen, bested by the real Q, who will not succumb so easily to the blade.”
He pumps his fist, shouting, “Hail Q! Hail Q”. One after one, the crowd slowly joins in, their fervor rising with each new voice added to the chorus. Somehow, I’m buoyed by their cheers and able to rise again. That, or the stab managed to miss anything vital.
When I stand, they crouch and continue their chanting, heads bowed. I take the opportunity to free Gonzo, stripping the tape from his mouth last.
“Almost thought you forgot about me,” he says. “How’s your wound?” “Hurts, but I’ll live.”
“Good. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”
He heads towards the door. I follow but stop at the threshold while he continues outside, turning back once he notices I’m not moving. “What are you waiting for, man?” he asks.
“I have more work to do here. These people are only just beginning to awaken.”
“Them? What about you?”
“I’m awake! Now more than ever! Maybe you should stay here with me.
Together, we could really make a difference.”
“So what, you’re buying this whole ‘New Q’ bullshit?”
“Not at all. But that doesn’t mean I can’t exploit it.”
“You don’t get it, man. It’s not about you. It’s power. It fucks you up.”
“Not me. You’ll see.”
“Sure. Sure I will.” He heads to the door again, opens it, and turns back to me.
“Good luck, my friend.” “You, too.”
He runs out the door. I watch him find the classic Cadillac in the row of parked cars outside, unlock the door, hop in, and rev up the engine. I realize this is it, my last chance to join him on the road to what he might call freedom, but I know all too well is just another illusion. Still, sometimes that’s better than nothing.
Back in the main room, a man holds up his hand, stilling the room. It’s the white-haired Doveman, stepping out from the throngs. He stares down at me in silence. Finally, he offers me his hand. I take it. He lifts our hands high in the air and proclaims to the people: “Hail Q! Savior of the World!”
The crowd goes wild.