“Why did you want to come here?”

“Just wanted to check it out before they make it illegal,” answered Vic.  “It’s only a matter of time.”

I leaned in close and whispered, “Shit, you’re not actually thinking of trying it, are you?”

“I’ll play it by ear.”

“You don’t ‘play Syn by ear’.  That shit changes you!  And just after one dose.  Look around you.”

It was easy to pick out the Synners at the bar.  They were sitting (they always sat, if not in chairs, then on the floor), staring at nothing.  They were often mouthing words to themselves.  I’ve seen them sometimes laugh for no reason, and occasionally cry for no reason.  But once you approached them, they sparked to life, immediately breaking out of their stupor and engaging you with a smile.  I’d never met a mean Synner.

And this was where all the Synners in town hung out: at the local Pepper’s.  The chain bar and grill wasn’t as classy as Vermillions, but wasn’t a dive like Max’s (where Vic and I frequented).

“Got a special today,” the smiling bartender announced as he appeared across from us.  “Free Syn with a drink.”

“Any drink?” asked Vic.

“Dude, you don’t want to get Syn from a bar.”

“There’s no such thing as bad Syn,” the bartender said evenly.

“It’s all bad,” I muttered.

“I’ll take it with a vodka tonic.”

“What vodka?”

“Well will do.”

“Tell you what: I’ll pour you Sidorov Elite at the same price.”

Vic brightened.  “Thanks!”

The bartender turned to me.  “Same thing?”

“Nah, I’ll take a whisky on the rocks.  No Syn.”

The bartender didn’t offer to upgrade my drink.

Plopping both of our tumblers down on the bar, the bartender unclenched his ring and pinky fingers about Vic’s drink, letting a tiny white pill tumble onto the red cocktail napkin beneath.

Vic plucked it up and held it between us.  It looked like a grain of uncooked rice, only fatter.  It had no seams or markings; it was perfectly plain.

“You want to check it out before I pop it?”

“Hell, no.”  I was paranoid that if I touched it, some of it may rub off on me and get absorbed through my skin, like LSD.  Then it occurred to me that the bartender could’ve laced my drink with Syn.  I swirled the tumbler in my hand, futilely trying to discern a tiny white tablet amid the dark whisky and glistening ice.  I ended up spilling some.  Drying my fingers on my napkin, I asked Vic, “You really going to do this?”

“You should do it with me.”

“Nah, one of us needs to stay sane to look after the other.”

“No one’s ever overdosed or died from Syn.”

I resisted the urge to tell the bartender to shut the fuck up.

We clinked our glasses.  “’Long live the new flesh’,” Vic toasted.  (Knowing Vic, the phase must’ve come from some horror movie.)

Vic popped the pill in his mouth and swallowed it with a gulp of vodka tonic.

I brought the whisky to my mouth, but didn’t take a sip.  I tried hard not to lick my lips.

Vic’s eyes grew wide, his jaw fell slack.  Then the edges of his lips curled, forming an open mouth smile.  His arms fell lax to his sides.

“No, hold on to the bar,” the bartender instructed.

I put an arm around him to make sure he didn’t topple from his bar stool.  “Shit, you’re already feeling it?  What’s it like?”

“Oh my god, it’s like—  Everyone…from everywhere, shit!  It’s really hard to concentrate on words.  Hard to talk…”

“Alright, I’ll let you enjoy your high.  Is it OK if I let go of you?  You won’t fall over, right?”

Vic nodded, his eyes now closed, his mouth an intense grin, his hands latched onto the edge of the bar.

After I was sure Vic was OK on his own, I hopped off my stool.  Making my way to the bathroom, I thoroughly wiped my mouth on my sleeve.  I locked myself in the bathroom’s only stall.  Planting my foot on the toilet seat, I hiked up my pant leg and fished out my flask from my sock.  Unscrewing its cap, I took a stinging swig.  It was my turn to smile.

To be continued…

(Or read the story in its entirety in Goddess.)