Rocco doesn’t take the drug for the high. He used to, when the drug was coke. The new designer shit he takes for the telepathy, the premonitions. The kids don’t get it: they don’t know how to manage the ride so as to get to that place where the really good stuff happens.
Maybe that’s a good thing. Rocco’s almost forty. He has self-control. Not enough to quit drugs, enough not to go nuts and wreck the world.
It would be so easy. There was that chick in the airport bar in Houston who knew stuff. Crazy dangerous government stuff.
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