Tommy’s candy flipping, he stumbles into the Panasonic, and the record skips to Psycho Killer mid-”run, run awa-a-y” as I tilt my head back to catch every particle of china white in my sinus cavity. The drip is forming in my throat and I’m beginning to feel zonked. Or zoned. Or stoned. Or whatever.

I feel a nudge on what I think is my shoulder. I crack my eyes and focus on a marijuana cigarette pressed between Serp’s tattooed fingers. I puff, puff, and keep the joint. It’s my weed anyway. Serp is already hunched over the mirror on the coffee table, helping himself to another line of H.

Margo is sitting at my desk in an eight-thousand-dollar chair, snooping through my browser history. A voice that sounds vaguely like mine offers an uncommitted “Hey, I wouldn’t . . .,” but trails off as I realize her hand is rhythmically massaging a wet spot on her underwear. “There’s a vibrator in the drawer,” I wish I could say as I fade into the abyss.