If You’re Offered A Drug Called CHC, I’m Begging You Not To Take It

It only took a half-hour to reach Felix’s house. It wasn’t a mansion, but it might as well have been. It was the type of house that people like me would daydream about getting decades ago, when 20-somethings didn’t have a shit-ton of student loans and credit card debt.

This guy definitely had money. If his “special” drugs didn’t give me a good high, then at least I could walk out with a coat filled with valuables. Win-win.

Two seconds after ringing the doorbell, which played some complicated piano riff, Felix answered the door. I didn’t know if that was one of his household duties or if he just wanted to see me. I hoped he wasn’t developing any real feeling for me, because I wasn’t interested in anyone that was interested in me. The type of guy that would settle for a handjob whore. No thank you.

Luckily, he didn’t try to hold my hand or grab my waist as he showed me to his brother’s laboratory. Although, laboratory was a pretty strong word for it. It was clearly a spare bedroom with the bed taken out and a bunch of computers, wires, and steel chairs thrown in.

“What do I have to do?” I asked after shaking his brother’s hand.

He attached a helmet with colorful wires and electrodes to my head and told me to think about the memory I wanted to relive. He referenced Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind, but it reminded me more of Back to the Future, when Doc has some ridiculous contraption on his head for comedic relief.

“What if I don’t remember all the details?”

He told me it didn’t matter. That memory was faulty. That, when you remember a memory, you’re not actually remembering the moment itself. You’re just remembering the last time you remembered the memory. So, over time, the reality gets eroded.

I told him that his memory drug was a pretty shitty idea, then.

He laughed at that. I guess he was used to dealing with assholes his brother brought home.

He treated me like an equal, though, not like someone he needed to talk down to. He explained how the brain stores everything. That most humans can only access ten percent of what’s inside, but there’s plenty of stuff lodged beneath the surface. Worlds of stuff. And that his technology had the ability to dig beneath the superficial memory and get to the real memory.

Technical mumbo-jumbo aside (mostly because I couldn’t repeat it if you paid me), that meant his drugs would bring back details I didn’t even remember. It would be ninety percent more accurate than my conscious thoughts ever were.

So, when he told me to concentrate on one specific memory while his computer did its magic, I thought of my mother’s suicide.


It took him a total of two minutes to finish whatever he was doing with my head, but after he removed the helmet of wires, he spent two hours with the computer.

I spent that time with Felix.

I still wasn’t interested in his yellowed skin or his red pubes, so I don’t remember much of the conversation. I know he mentioned something about blow and pornos while I murmured mhm’s and looked around the room for pocket-sized objects. A lighter. An ashtray. A golden bong, maybe? But I didn’t see anything I could slip into my jeans.

If I wanted more free drugs, it was probably best for me to keep the kleptomania to a minimum, anyway.

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