Churchill bitches. Slapped down a wad of Franklins to get this treatment. The
meds, oh those delicious little fizz pops, eat the lining of the brain. One foot
shuffles in front of the other in a halcyon moment.

“This is your time, what do you want to do with it?”

“Aren’t you supposed to help me?”

Kills the bleeding spirit. Needles filled with liquid solitude. Disconnected from
the real that serves as an aside to the real about which Churchill bitches. No
burgers on this menu. Everything is sodium free.

“You’re killing yourself,” he says.

“I can’t stop.”

“You won’t stop. You haven’t tried yet.”

“I’ve tried.”

The tiles on the floor hop. Cartoon rabbits hop along the wall. The seratonin
hops. Back and forth it goes into the chemical horizon. Bright horizon flickers.

“How do you feel?” He flashes the light in the eyes.

“Fine.” Plated pupils speak of madness.

“What do you feel?”

“I feel nothing.”

“Are you angry?”

“Bite me.”

Chemical bliss quakes in joyful release. The temporal lobes shudder. Call me the
human bubble machine. Who is your sugar syrup shaman daddy? I am I.

“Take nine hundred milligrams, twice per day.” After this, the deluge.

“This stuff gives me the shakes.”

“If you don’t take it, you’ll die.” Death takes a bow.

“I’m already dead.” Truth is a nasty luxury.

“You only feel dead.”

“I am what I feel.”

“You are what you drink.”

“Then I’ll smoke happiness.”

Fluorescent kills neon. A sip would spin mind’s centrifuge. Dying of thirst is a
terrible thing. Churchill wants his whiskey; Russell calls him M.A.D. Jerry
observes with judgmental hatred.

“What are you fighting?” Fuck him, he knows.

“Shouldn’t I fight the urge?” Fuck me; I’m fucked.

“You need new urges.”

“I’ll find the dopamine lollipop store.”

“I’m serious, you need new urges.”

“I’m thirsty.”

Still, the distilled would still the nerves unsettled. Horizon flickers again then
fades. Tiles rise. Darkness kills fluorescent. And Churchill bitches.

“Where do you go from here?”

Bill Turner is a former newspaper columnist, policy analyst and was a
bipolar drunk. He is still bipolar, but doesn’t drink now and his manic
episodes are limited to the written word. Bill’s fiction has been published
online and in print. Readers can contact Bill at

© 2004 Underground Voices