Yesterday's Gone: Season One

who likes to fuck with the tourists. Difference is, back alley shit smells fake; this black-magic snatch right here smells like the real deal. Yessiree, some weird ass shit went down in this room.
     
    Two buckets had been kicked to the side. Scabs of black vomit crusted the lacquered hardwood floor. Rich people were willing to pay a chunky hunk of fat cash for thrills you couldn't score in a back alley, but the bad trips that had happened in the living room had practically scarred the air.  
     
    A red and white bedroll was in the center of the circle, with wooden instruments, spirit sticks burned to a nub, and a large two-liter jug of what looked like sludge. It had been filled to the top, as evidenced by the thick coat of green and brown the bottle wore at its lip, but now it was mostly empty. A shot glass on the floor shared the ghost of whatever had been inside.  
     
    Well fuck me four times on a Friday if that ain’t some million-dollar mind fuck right there. Giddy-up. I might as well make myself nice and cozy. The world is over and there’s some liquid fucking juju just waiting to get swallowed.
     
    Boricio picked up the two-liter jug and shot glass, then went upstairs, found the master bedroom and lay on the bed. He had no idea on the dosage, so he filled the glass to the top, put it to his lips, held his breath, and spilled the entire psychedelic mess down his throat.  
     
    For a few moments, he didn’t feel anything. He wondered if it wasn’t some sort of drug in the jars but rather some perverted, sick-ass rich, weirdo bodily-fluid-ingesting ceremony.  
     
    Something moved in his guts.
     
    Seconds later, without warning, Boricio lost it all. Vomit spewed from his mouth like an unholy sprinkler. The sudden acid in his nostrils made him wince. It was liquid death and smelled the part.  
     

     
    Boricio lay face down on the Egyptian cotton as the toxic stew leaked from his mouth and marred the ivory-colored rug. He noticed it in a detached, almost whimsical way. He smiled, moving to touch the stuff, but his hand felt weird, as if he was directing someone else’s body from a distance. He started to laugh as his fingers opened and closed on his cue — a bottomless, retching chainsaw of a guffaw. Whatever he puked up, he was glad it was gone.  
     
    He felt so much lighter, so much stronger, so much better .  
     
    And besides, only once the blackness was gone could Boricio see all the colors around him. They bled and expanded and spun around, dancing in his mind and threatening to smother him in an endless torrent of mile-long thoughts.  
     
    It wasn’t like drugs he’d used before. Those drugs made you feel things that weren’t there. This shit made you realize the things that were right in front of you but you were usually unable to see.
     
    He was normally able to control himself no matter what he was on. Sure, he might get higher, lower, but he never really let go of the steering wheel.  
     
    Something bad was happening here, though. He could feel it in the back of his skull, threatening to take the wheel and kick him right out the passenger door.  
     
    He snarled, had to fight.  
     
    Thoughts overwhelmed him, too many to sort, voices, images, and a million colors, fuck, the colors, as the world seemed to spin and cave in on him.
     
    He could feel the end coming, might’ve died right there.
     
    What’s the point in going on? Just let go of it all.
     
    He wanted to wake so he could stand and run, but whatever universe he drank was crawling up through his body and infecting every corner of his mind. And as it raced through his memories and dreams, it forced him to watch what it saw, forcing him to witness the darkest shit inside him.
     
    Hate, rage, violence, murder, rape, robbing, maiming, and all the perverted shit he’d ever done or thought to do. This thing inside dragged it all into the light — a bright light as big as fucking Christmas.  
     
    This is you. You are all of this.  
     
    But no one tells Boricio what to do, not even other parts of Boricio.  
     
    So he battled his way through a thick haze of muddy time, swimming through an angry abyss of forever. He ran, not even sure if he were really running or if it were only in his head. Yet, he kept at it. Just as he got far enough away, and was about to get back in the driver’s seat of his brain, he slipped, fell on his back, and slid down a steep hill of wet grass. Wet, bloody grass.
     
    As he tumbled