Bulmanethyltryptamine

Take a jab of Bull, give a jab of Bull. That’s the beauty of it: the community.

I won’t bore you with the science—frankly, I don’t give a damn how it works if it feels this good. You shouldn’t either. But to give it to you quick, you take the drug—Bulmanethyltryptamine; BMT; or, you know, Bull—and it changes you, fiddles with your body chemistry until, for a few minutes, you become Bull yourself. That’s when the magic happens. You can use the same needle. Ain’t no risk of spreading something: Bull is pure. Taking it out feels just as good as putting it in because you know that you’re passing it on. That’s what they’ve taught us our whole lives. Sharing is caring, after all. It’s like a wave in a football stadium. It just keeps going around and around and around. And the party never stops.

I’m on my forth jab when I finally come to. My head hurts, but that’s just the mid-drawals. A few more jabs and I’ll be done for the night. That’s another perk of Bull: if you stick with it through the mid-drawals, no hangover. Rox, Lobo, and I are in some kind of maintenance closet. We started on the hotel roof… not entirely sure how we got down here. Again, it doesn’t much concern me; I’m here for the Bull.

A siren blares in the distance. I bet they’re after Bull too. Only they want to smash it, ruin the fun. I’ve been in jail a few times, but they can never keep you. Once the effects wear off, once you return to your normal chemistry, there’s no trace. Sure, they can catch you in the act, throw you in a cell for the night, but as long as you get rid of the needle, they don’t have a lick of evidence. In court, it’s pointing finger versus pointing finger. Who’s the drug addict and who’s the fascist? Sometimes, they don’t even take you to the station—a lot of cops just can’t stand another black mark on their profession. Bull is a counter-culture hero. A hundred years ago, we would’ve been called hippies.

Rox can’t line the needle up right. She’s such a lightweight. I have to help her all the time. As I reach for the needle, we make eye contact. That welcoming mouth, the arched eyebrows: she’s awfully cute, but this ain’t the time or place for romance. We have to act quickly before the Bull disappears, and by the time I get that jab in my arm, I will have forgotten she’s even there. The corner of her lip curls. That’s the best smile she can manage with her mind off visiting some technicolor paradise. Like a surgeon, I act clinically, efficiently. I retighten the tourniquet and fill the syringe. In and out, quick and painless. Not that Rox is feeling much of anything right now, except her own personal brand of bliss. When I inject, I’ll feel that bliss for a brief moment. Then it transforms, and Lobo will get a sense of where I’m at on his turn.

Bull looks like blood, but I assure you, it is not. I take my jab and hear Rox’s voice. She’s singing a song about parrots blowing out a volcano like a birthday candle. The words meld with my psyche. I don’t exactly see the picture she paints with her melody, but the feeling is there. So sweet. I remember now why we brought her along: the stories she tells in her songs make Bull even better. And to her lullaby, I drift into a dream.

My eyes open and all I see is Lobo pounding his head against the wall. The Raging Bull. I’m still groggy but seeing the side effect is enough to sober me up. No one knows why it happens. The person, the place, the dose: all random. Some go years and never see it. Others feel the rage on their first (and last) try. The effect is always the same. They lose their minds—it’s not something you recover from. Bull is fleeting, but the Raging Bull is forever. Lobo is definitely seeing red, and his face is not looking too hot either. I continue to silently watch for a minute, just to make sure.

Rox wakes up and starts singing again. Without moving my body, I glare at her. Eyes closed, not good. I slowly reach to touch her, but Lobo has heard. He turns around and huffs. People feeling the rage just want to destroy—and a quirk of the psychochemistry has them doing that with their head. He charges, scalp first, into Rox. In such a small room, there’s no time for her to react. She tries to scream but instead giggles. I swear, no one feels Bull like her. In other circumstances, I’d be jealous. Lobo lies on top of her, flailing ineffectually. Neither has the wits for a true scuffle, but the Raging Bull is unpredictable. At any moment, Lobo might realize he’s not really hurting Rox, then his tactics will change.

I am not about to see that happen. I’ve tried Lobo’s bliss. It’s nothing special. I don’t care much that he’s been part of my party for a few years now. The Raging Bull is the end of the line, and like a rabid animal, Lobo must be put down.

I once knew a guy who carried a revolver with him for this very purpose. He wouldn’t tell me how many times he’d used it. That didn’t sit well with me. I’ve never seen someone go violent feeling the real Bull—it’s Raging cousin doesn’t count—but I wasn’t about to be shot by some lunatic. From that day forward, I declared no weapons at my party.

A gun would certainly make this easier, but Bull makes me clever. I reach over and push Lobo off the still-giggling Rox. He’s two hundred pounds of dead weight, so he doesn’t go very far. But my goal is not to save Rox; I aim to make the beast angry.

It takes Lobo a second to realize what’s going on, but when he sees his assailant, he bellows. I lunge for the maintenance closet door and throw it open, floating on a breeze of lingering Bull. We’re in a stairwell. Good, just as I hoped. Upwards I go, prancing from landing to landing. Lobo follows me but stumbles every few steps. It’s nowhere near an even fight—his deranged mind can’t handle the climbing—though tossing him down a flight of stairs won’t kill him, especially not when he’s feeling the rage. No, I have to go higher.

The door to the hotel roof is marked with multiple warning signs. Instead of a traditional handle, it has a strange security paddle that will trip the alarm if it’s opened. I can’t remember how we got out there earlier without triggering the alarm, but I definitely don’t have time to worry about that now. Lobo is slow, but I’ve just cornered myself.

A red light flashes as I press the paddle. No siren though, odd. The alert must go directly to the security office or something. That could explain why we were hiding in a closet… I step onto the roof and over to the railing. Much of the city rises above me in all its neon glory: advertisements the size of skyscrapers, entire streets doused in perfume. It’s almost like a Bull dream. Bull is still better though. For one, I don’t get chased by a maniac when I listen to Rox’s songs.

Lobo has caught up. He stands by the doorway, backlit in strobing crimson. He paws at the ground with his toe. I can’t tell if his huffing is from exertion or anger or some defect-fueled combination. I shout at him to come at me, to finish what he couldn’t do to Rox or himself. He takes the bait and charges headfirst in my direction.

Funny thing is bovines can still see where they’re going when their heads are down. Humans cannot. I step out of the way long before Lobo makes contact. He doesn’t change course. Instead of hitting me, his chest rams into the railing. The impact knocks the wind out of him, and as his momentum carries him over the ledge, all he can do is wheeze his despair.

Commotion on the street below: the Raging Bull is done for. The drugs must be wearing off because I feel a wave of exhaustion overcome me. That simply will not do. I am here for a party and I intend to get my fix.

Rox is still in the closet where I left her. The Bull we were using has gone stale. I don’t mind—I’m superstitious; I never jab from the same needle that gave someone the rage. Rox’s eyes light up as I pull a fresh sample from my back pocket. Twisting the cap off the syringe, we begin the night anew.

A Note from the Author: Thank you for reading my story! It's worth noting that I do not condone the use of illegal drugs. This is a work of fiction and does not represent real people or events. If you enjoyed reading, please consider sharing my work with others and/or leaving a tip. Your support makes it possible for me to provide free content here on Vocal! Thanks!