Do the Weird Crime, Serve the Weird Time

THE SYRINGE

Mr. Randolph Holland’s prize possession was an old-style glass hypodermic syringe. It had served him and his habit well for twenty-five years. Despite what you may have read on the subject, junkies can live a very long time—long, anonymous, gray lives in cheap boarding houses—with two-bit jobs which have only the function of serving the monkey. Such syringes used to be the rule, but plastic with its disposability now dominated the market.

“Never misses the vein,” he used to boast. “Always hits blood.”

Mr. Randolph Holland not only lost his prize possession but also his life (although in a sense he had lost it years before) to a pair of the street thugs named Crazy Eddy and Rico.

“Man, this guy didn’t have shit,” said Eddy cleaning out the boarding room with leisure. Mr. Holland had been quiet about his going, so the boys weren’t worried that his neighbors would be dropping in. They had watched the old junkie.

“Let’s pull him off the bed,” said Rico. “We can stay here for a while, sell his shit tonight.”

They pulled him off the bed. Rico took out a package of condoms and they amused themselves.

Later as night fell, Rico asked, “You want to shoot up his stash? There ain’t enough to sell.”

“Nah, I don’t do that stuff. Makes you too slow.”

Rico was more catholic in his tastes than Eddy. As he prepared his fix, he said, “I ain’t never seen a syringe like this. I bet that old cocksucker used this for years man. Look the metal’s green on the handle. I wouldn t stick it in me.”

“I washed it man. What are you worried about. Maybe it’s haunted. Maybe it’s used to biting the blood of the living every night.” Rico managed a pretty good Lugosi for the word blood. He filled the syringe from the spoon, and tied off his right forearm.

“Don’t talk that stuff with him stuffed under the bed.”

“We didn’t wake him up before, we’re not going to wake him up now.”

Rico went to shoot up. Suddenly his arm jerked and the syringe plunged full into his shoulder.

“Shit.”

He injected the entire contents and then pulled at the hypo. The plunger on the back came out and blood pouredf rom the device.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!”

He was loud, very LOUD.

All Eddy could think of to do was hit hard. Ring his bells. Quiet him down. He punched Rico’s nose, and Rico fell.

Eddy didn’t even breathe for a while. Just listened. There were people talking, and toilets flushing, and TVs—but no knock on the door.

He checked Rico. Rico was not going to get up.

He would stay here a few hours, then clear. He gathered up the money from the two bodies, and he turned off the lights so it would look like no one was home.

It was a long wait. Everytime he heard somebody in the hall, he damn near pissed himself. All he could think of was “drinks the blood of the living.” What a stupid bastard to say something like that. Better not think it too much.

He wondered how many times the needle had tasted blood. Once a night for—he couldn’t figure it out. When would the blood become a habit for the needle, like junk for the junky?

Something rolled in the floor. Someone had kicked the needle. Oh god, should he risk the light. Stupid son of a bitch. Stupid—

That was his last clear thought as he felt the needle prick his arm.