"Waitin. Always fuckin waitin."

The Beast mumbles to himself. The stink of the air hurts his lungs. The bar is dark and the dark hurts his lungs. Waiting hurts his lungs.

He slams the rest of his drink. It burns its way to his stomach, but doesn't settle his mood. The drink is strong, but not strong enough to take away the pain of waiting in the dark. Alone. And cold.

He tries to relax, but money burns a hole in his wallet. Desire burns a hole in his heart.

"Patience is a virtue," the Beast murmurs.

His dilapidated claw rummages around his pocket for a smoke. He brings one to his charred lips and strikes a match with his talon. Thick, white clouds from Heaven fill his lungs, pushing out the cold. Another puff, another brick off his shoulders.

He blinks and the flash hits him. His scales twitch. They hunger. They drive the impatience. They remember the piercing relief of the needle. They quiver in anticipation.

"Fuck."

He thinks another puff will cure this impatience. All it brings is another shake through his body. It aches for that relief. It aches for that punk to arrive.

The waitress comes around with another drink. Without thought, he slams it down. His slimy green scales settle once the liquid fire joins the three previous drinks in his crowded stomach.

"One drug's as good as another," he lies to himself.

A sarcastic laugh barely escapes as the cigarette obstructs his mouth. His insides are a religious battleground. Heaven and Hell battling each other in eternal combat. The end times are here. Armageddon. Fire water from below and the blissful clouds from above.

Patience is a virtue.

His eyes fall onto the other patrons in the bar. Soldiers in the trenches, waiting for the next battle, but already defeated. Life's a war no one wants to fight, but fight they must. Defeat, failure, regret, destruction, collapse, and imminent doom are the only facial features he sees. Humanity at its finest. Humanity at its most brutally honest. Washing itself in booze and smoke. Trying to wash away the dirt.

What stories could these people tell him if he asked..? If he cared to ask..? All stories are the same at their basic points. Dreams, hopes, wishes. All passionately glow in the beginning, then slowly sucked out, burning to the end, until there's nothing more than a pile of ashes.

He tosses his cigarette into the empty glass.

His scales shiver. Yesterday teases his memory. A flash of happiness from long ago. Back when things were pure. Back when things were clean. The dirt hadn't yet collected. Things were still exciting. Things were still new. Things were.

"Patience is a virtue my fuckin' ass."

"I see you're in another fine mood," says the voice.

The voice is nirvana. The voice is freedom. The voice is a sign that the waiting is over.

The Beast looks at the Kid, whose voice brings the hope of relief.

"'Bout fuckin' time ya got here."

The Kid sits at the table, opposite of the Beast.

"Traffic was a bitch," the Kid says. His voice is soft and full of life. It is not a tainted voice. This is a voice sheltered from the aches of life.

The Beast grunts and slams his money on the table, like it belongs there. Like it always belonged there. The Kid eagerly scoops it up and slides it into his pocket.

"Someone's impatient," the Kid says, fishing in his pocket with soft, slender, untouched hands.

"Ya dun understand. Ya haven't seen the world. Shit, yer barely away from mama's tit."

The Kid hands the poison to the Beast, under the table. A talon briefly grazes the Kid's palm, sending a trembling wave of both disgust and intrigue throughout his body. The Beast's tail whips in a moment of joy. The goods are in hand. Peace is just a needle-prick away. His scales pucker and retract, like mouths begging for bottles. Like children chewing gum.

"So, how've you been?"

"Better than the alternative."

The Kid smiles. "That's good, I guess."

They share a moment of uncertain silence. The Kid's eyes caress the bar. He sees drunks, nothing more. No soldiers. No warriors. Just drunks.

His eyes return to the meet the Beast's. Two pair of eyes battle each other for a minuteless eternity. The Kid's full of intrigue and amazement. The Beast's full of emptiness and remorse.

"What's on yer mind, junior?" the Beast asks.

"You."

The Beast chuckles.

"Shit. Yer not developin some faggotty-ass high school crush on me, are ya..?"

The Kid nods no.

"I'm just curious about you. You're my most interesting client."

"Is that a fact?"

"That's a fact," he mocks.

"And what about me is so damned interestin'? How do I differ so greatly from yer other clientel?"

Without hesitation, the Kid replies. "You don't buy shit from me with any kind of regularity. Sometimes you call me every day. Sometimes every couple of days. And this time - well - it's the first I've heard from ya in a few months."

"I'm not gettin it from someone else, if that's what yer after. I only buy when I need it. I didn't need it before. I need it now."

"That's not what I mean."

"What do ya mean then? Spit it out already."

"I guess what I'm trying to say..."

The Kid trails off into silence. Words escape him. He does not the proper vocabulary. The Beast sees this. He's not sure what the Kid wants to know, but he does know he has to take control of this conversation or else it will go nowhere.

"Ya know what destroys people, kiddo? Not drugs or sex or television or violence. What really destroys people are memories. Gettin lost in the past. Memories are a curse. They creep on ya like a torrid lover in the night, remindin ya of what ya've lost. What ya've destroyed. What mistakes ya've made. And what could've been.

"Television clouds the memories. Puts them on hold. It fills yer head with new, filtered, top-quality, family-friendly, produced-fer-the-masses memories. Ya dun have to live through the sufferin and pain of yer own life. Turn on the idiot box. Watch people gettin paid - mind-bogglin amounts of money - to fake reality fer yer amusement. Watch enough of the shit and ya start to be able to remember what happened in Seinfeld's day better than yer own.

"Sex makes the painful memories disappear, but only in the height of climax. Fer one, brief moment, when yer entire body is transformed to warm, pulsating energy, yer happy. Yer alive. Nothin in the world - in the world of memories - can touch ya. None of it matters in that glorious instant of orgasm. Then, as ya wipe up the gushes of love, those fuckin memories seep their slimy way back in, extinguishin the warmth and feelin of completeness ya achieved. Ya were a formless essence, emptyin yer body, now just empty.

"Violence, although a great momentary release, only comes back to haunt ya. Either from police or a pissed-off lover or pissed-off friend or, if yer weak-minded, guilt. It all comes back to ya. Usually when ya least expect it. And usually with bloody consequences.

"But drugs dull those memories and if yer lucky, can make those memories disappear completely. No matter what the drug. No matter what the high. Yer there. Free. Free from yer body. Free from yer cares. Free from yer memories. Everything has a plastic protective sheen on it. Everythin is warm and glows. Yer alive. Fer the first time since childhood, the world is a beautiful, awe-inspirin place. Yer a god, walking amongst the peasants. Ya can do no wrong. A god dun make mistakes. A god dun have regrets. A god is pure. Memories are tainted, especially by time, but godliness..."

The Beast trails off, staring blankly into a nearby dartboard. Its center becomes instantly hypnotic. Mesmerizing.

"But the drugs wear off," the Kid adds, "So eventually you'd come back to square one."

The dartboard stares back at the Beast. Unflinching. Unforgiving. Staring deep into the black heart of his soul with its single, judgmental eye.

"Back to center," the Beast murmurs.

The dartboard blinks suddenly, jolting the Beast back into conversation.

"It doesn't wear off, if ya dun want it to. It stays with ya. Once ya start killin off those fuckin memories, ya gotta fill yer brain with sumthin. Drugs're sumthin."

"Now you sound like one of my regular customers. A real junky."

The Beast looks back at the dartboard. Even though it's just one emotionless eye fixed in place, he can tell it's mocking him. Laughing. If he were to stare deeply enough and long enough into its gaze, he knows he would hear laughter. Macabre laughter echoing out from the depths of Hell.

"The fist-fuckin pansies that buy shit from ya have nuthin in common with me. They're junkies, losers, addicts, wash-outs. Ya hear from them all the fuckin time because they need that shit to get through the day. They're pussies who haven't lived through life and need shit to shield themselves from all the undesirable occurrences in life."

"Isn't that what you're doing?"

"Yer not listenin," he says, looking away from the eye and back into the Kid's. "I've paid my dues, kiddo. I buy when I need it. I dun need it every hour or every day or every week. I just need it when I need it. And right now, I need it."

"Well, it's some primo shit right here."

"I dun wanna hear that nonsense. Every fuckin dealer I've ever dealt with in my life says they have 'primo shit.' It's the language of the game, used to coerce college coeds and common street punks into buyin bulk."

"True, but not this time. I've been saving this batch for you and only you."

"Is that so?"

"I've..." the Kid's words disappear from him before he can say them. Nerves. Uncertainty. "I've missed you."

"Shit, son. Dun turn queer on me. It's no way to live. Not in this world and not this country."

"But..."

The Beast diffuses the conversation by standing.

"I hope you got whatever answer yer lookin fer. I've got things to do."

"One more question," the Kid whispers.

"Yeah?"

"What're you hiding from? What memories are you trying to escape from?"

The Beast turns from the Kid, facing the door. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with secondhand smoke. Secondhand worries. Secondhand pains. He stares at the doorway.

"Life, kiddo. Just life."

The Beast walks away, slowly approaching the door. He doesn't look back at the Kid. If he did, he would see a single tear melting away from the Kid's eye. Instead, he glances at the dartboard and sees a single tear coming from it.

The Kid sits, speechless. He thinks of the words freshly planted in his mind. He watches the Beast's tail swaying behind him as he disappears into the darkness of the doorway.

The Beast gets into the bathroom and secures himself inside a stall. The smell of shit and piss is overwhelming, but barely noticed. Business is at hand. The Beast takes the stuff purchased from the Kid and without missing a beat, scoops some into his talon and snorts it up his pudgy nostril. Then the other. He grabs his spoon from his jacket and cooks up a little taste for the needle. His scales begin popping. Opening. Yawning. Separating. Coming apart, ready to be fed. And fed they are. The needle works its way through a small opening between scales and with one slow push, the memories rush out of his body. Yesterday massages his memory into blissful comfort. No more pain. No more worries. No more memories.

Nothing until tomorrow rears its ugly head.