STIMULANT
By Randy Romero
Ronnie would have complained about
the accommodations, but, what accommodations? This hotel was the very
definition of “no frills.” The unremarkable beige wallpaper that would have
looked more at home in his grandma’s living room. The predictable floral
patterned carpeting. The acrid stench of bleach that the bedsheets carried.
The bed itself was lumpy and
unpleasant. Ronnie laid down on it for two minutes and figured he’d be better
off sleeping on the floor. But he wasn’t about to rest his face anywhere near
that grimy carpet, so the bed would have to suffice for the evening.
Ronnie didn’t mind the exclusion of
a mini-bar. The temptation might have proved to be too overpowering. That was
about all he was grateful for.
He’d requested a smoking room and
they couldn’t even be troubled to supply him with an ashtray. But that wasn’t
going to stop Ronnie Wright from smoking. So he resorted to using the bathroom
sink.
Of course, Ronnie Wright was just a
stage name, a pseudonym. Ronald Dawes was the loving handle his parents gave
him. But Ronnie Wright was the name he preferred. Ronald Dawes was a nobody who
would’ve been stuck working minimum wage jobs to pay the bills. Ronnie Wright was
a rock star, a legend, a God (in his own words).
Ronnie stood in the bathroom, taking
drags from his cigarette and flicking the ash into the sink. His family and
friends had begged him to quit smoking. But smoking was the least of Ronnie’s
issues.
He’d clashed with addiction for most of his life. It came with
the music industry. If you could smoke it, snort it, shoot it, or swallow it,
Ronnie used to do it back in the day. Coke. Crack. Heroin. Ecstasy.
Painkillers. Speed.
Meth was the bitch of the bunch. One bump was all it took to
reel him in like a live fish. But the drugs carried him through the gigs, kept
him going onstage, and kept him on the road 250 days out of the year.
At the height of his career, Ronnie took everything he could
get his hands on. He played guitar on acid, high on coke, tweaked out of his
mind on meth. He smoked joints after the shows or took painkillers just to
sleep. In fact, Ronnie hardly even remembered the height of his career. So many
gigs, so many venues, so many faces, so many faded memories.
But he’d cleaned up his act over the years. Caffeine and nicotine
were his only vices now. No more drinking, no more drugs. But he needed the
caffeine to perform onstage. Uppers were out of the question. Caffeine and
sugar were his only options.
He extinguished his cigarette under the faucet, washed his
hands, and dried them off with a coarse towel that also reeked of bleach.
Harry, you cheap bastard,
Ronnie thought. You couldn’t have found a Marriot or a Best Western? I’d
settle for a Motel 6 at this point.
He consulted the Magic 8-Ball in his
duffel bag.
“Will the show go off without a hitch tonight?” he asked and
give it a shake. Yes, was the 8-Balls reply.
“Will I be bringing a groupie back
to my room tonight?” Most likely.
“Should Harry Fletcher go eat a bowl
of dicks?” Without a doubt, the 8-Ball replied.
Ronnie set the 8-Ball down on the
bed and went back to his bag. Ravensville was a small town in Pennsylvania with
only one gas station on your way in and out. He’d stopped off for a pack of
smokes and to load up on coffee and sugary drinks. The shelves of the fridge
were stocked with off-brand cola. No Coca-Cola or Pepsi. No name brands. They didn’t
have Sprite, but they had Spirit. No Dr. Pepper, but they had Dr. Spice.
Instead of Mountain Dew, they had Mountain Rain. No Coke, but they had Jazz
Cola.
The label boasted that Jazz Cola
carried three times the caffeine of regular sodas. It was also not approved by
the FDA. Go figure.
He popped the top on the can, sat on
the bed, and flipped through the TV channels–all twelve of them. The rest were
scrambled or you could barely make out the picture. There were a few adult films
available for rent, which Ronnie considered purchasing and sticking Harry
Fletcher with the bill.
The news was on channel four, which
is what he settled for, but Ronnie was half listening. To Ronnie, no news was
good news. Terrorist attacks, nuclear weaponry, school shootings. Bad news
waiting around every corner. You don’t even have time to digest one story before
they hit you with the next.
He waited for the bubbles in the can to settle and then he took
a taste test. It wasn’t Coke or Pepsi. It wasn’t even Royal Crown. But it had a
sweet aftertaste that Ronnie couldn’t deny. He took another sip and found it
was even better the second time around. He took a bigger gulp and fished out
another cigarette from his pack. He lit it and held it between his coarse,
calloused fingers.
Guitar strings are not very kind to your fingers. And he
vehemently refused to use a pick. The day he used a pick, he’d trade in his man
card. Picks are for sissies, Ronnie thought. Actually, sissies wasn’t
the word he was thinking of, but you get the drift. A real guitarist plays
with his fingers. That was his belief.
He took one last swig of his soda and encountered some
residue at the bottom of the can. The viscous substance slid down his throat
before he even had a chance to react. He managed to spit up only a drop of the
grayish sludge. He retched and gagged from the taste. He tried to force it back
up, but this slimy substance wouldn’t budge.
The cigarette slipped from his fingers. Still choking on
whatever he had accidentally ingested, Ronnie had enough sense to stomp it out
with his shoe before it set the carpet ablaze. He scratched at his suddenly
itchy throat. The unknown substance kicked around in his stomach, wreaking
havoc on his insides.
He finally managed to catch his breath and set himself down
at the foot of the bed again. “Am I going to be okay?” he asked, shaking the
Magic 8-Ball. Very doubtful.
Unsatisfied with the answer, Ronnie tried again. “Am I going
to be alright?” Ask again later.
Frustrated, he tossed the 8-Ball on the floor, and then plunged
to his knees beside it. His clutched at his stomach, the pain excruciating and indescribable.
He could feel this substance, this thing,
shifting around in the pit of stomach, twisting, turning, tearing at his
insides. It was moving, growing. As malignant as a tumor.
It was spreading through him like a cancer. It wasn’t just
confined to his stomach anymore. It was everywhere. He could feel it binding
with his blood, ripping at his flesh, eating through his bones like corrosive
acid.
Doubled over in pain, he managed to crawl his way past the
useless 8-Ball, towards his duffel bag, where his phone was. He needed
immediate medical attention.
Come on, you’re almost there, Ronnie said,
trying to will himself on. The pain was insufferable. He was getting weaker,
losing the fight. You’re so close. Just a few more feet. Just a few more–
***
Harry Fletcher arrived an hour
before the gig to protect his investment. As both his agent and manager, he had
a vested interest in Ronnie’s performances. And he knew how unreliable
musicians could be. Harry was a veteran in the music industry. He’d dealt with
the best and he’d dealt with the worst. He still wasn’t sure where Ronnie
ranked.
Room 14. That’s where they told
Harry he could find Ronnie. He knocked once, waited a moment, then knocked
again.
“Ronnie, it’s me,” Harry shouted. “Open
up. You don’t want to be late. Promoters hate that shit.”
He tried the knob. The door wasn’t
locked, but something stopped him from going in. He watched as a gray puddle
seeped out from under the door, slimy and viscous. An undetectable substance,
unlike anything Harry had ever seen.
Harry wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to see what was on the
other side. But he drew a deep breath, braced himself, and grabbed hold of the
doorknob…
This is horror gold.💀👌💗
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