Louie’s older brother was a drug dealer, plain and simple. He sold large quantities of crack-cocaine. Not only for this reason did Louie avoid his brother, he was also constantly in debt to him, and beyond that, Rick took great pleasure in tormenting Louie. For example, Louie would stop by his brother’s apartment to drop off some money and Rick would humiliate him about being gay.

They arrived at a seedy apartment complex at approximately 9:30 pm. A stoop-shouldered woman with a hostile stare answered the door. She looked like she had been living in a dark, moist cave for most of her life. She retreated back into the kitchen, where she was dutifully scrubbing potatoes in the sink. There was a golden retriever sleeping at her feet which also looked life-weary and put upon. Underneath the dog’s loose jaw, the floor tiles were curling and there were dead insects and debris scattered in his fur.

Lethe followed Louie into the apartment. Louie’s older brother was enthroned on a torn-up couch with his hands inside his sweatpants. A hairy mass of flesh protruded out from underneath his blue football jersey. He had an ogre’s appearance, large-boned and angry. On top of the coffee table were three crack pipes, a bent clothing hanger, a burnt spoon, and a couple swampy ashtrays.

The garish and overweight woman in her late twenties was Rick’s mistress. Her name was Mona. She lived down the hall and came over every night to smoke crack. The two of them liked to watch adult films on Cinemax. Rick’s wife, the somber woman in the kitchen scrubbing potatoes, feigned indifference whenever Mona was over.

Lethe sat Indian-style on the floor projecting a guru-like aura of self-composure. He almost felt as though he were hovering over the room, looking down upon it. The spirit of Mammon awakened within him and he was filled with confidence, clairvoyance and strength. He’d stalked the streets of Vegas, he’d hunted for crack. He’d visited the land of the living dead. This setting was no less extravagant, no less bizarre. Lethe Bashar could handle anything, and not only could he handle it, he could manipulate it as if it were his own creation.

Meanwhile, the hermit lady in the kitchen was scrubbing potatoes with increasing force. She tried her best to maintain that Stoic calm, that goodly wife’s countenance; she tried to repress her outrage at her philandering husband. But a hairline fracture in her self-possession was growing. Now she scrubbed the potatoes louder and louder, and the golden retriever jumped every time she brought down the blade on the countertop.

Mona reached into the enormous freezer bag and filled the man’s pipe. She had chalky-white skin, red lipstick, and flabby breasts. She dug her fake fingernails into the crack rocks. Her plump hands came out of the bag looking even paler. On the tips of her nails were gold and purple flowers.

Rick inhaled morbidly, spreading his legs apart as though he were giving birth. Rings of smoke poured out of his pie hole, followed by a savage, raspy coughing fit. The endless smoke mushroomed out of Rick. It emptied from every nook and cranny of his withered lungs.

The room was awash in crack smoke, smelling like burnt tea-leaves and cow dung.

Mona poked greedily into the freezer bag and prepared herself a couple hits.

“Who’s that?” Lethe asked, pointing to a picture frame on the television set.

“That’s my son,” Rick answered sharply. “Why?”

“Just curious, that’s all”

“Well, stop being curious then. Who are you?”

“I’m Lethe. Your brother brought me here.”

“I figured that much.”

“Do you ever get to see your son?”

“No. Why do you ask so many goddamn questions?”

Louie blushed.  He didn’t like it when his brother got upset.

“Sorry. Just wondering.”

“I was a football star in high school. I used to be thin like you. I got a video around here somewhere. My son played football. I trained him to be just like his dad. He was the top quarterback in the state. Recruited by . . . I forget now what it was, some fancy school.”

Lethe glanced over to the stoop-shouldered woman by the sink. She relaxed her grip on the knife, listening to her husband tell the story.

“Then he fucked up. His coach found out he was using steroids. That was the end of his free-ride. Nobody wanted him after that. Nobody cared anymore.”

Louie was listening also, from behind the couch.

“Offer your friend some crack, you gay faggot.” Rick yelled.

“I prefer cocaine,” Lethe said abruptly. “Crack makes my head hurt.”

“Don’t be a pussy, smoke some crack.”

Lethe took the pipe Mona handed to him and inhaled deeply. The fuzzy, lightheaded euphoria touched him for a brief moment. His senses expanded, growing upwards and outwards, until he was hovering over the room again, looking down upon everyone with a cheerful grin. Mammon’s spirit was close by.

Rick and Mona eyed each other cautiously.

Lethe felt a rush. He wanted to scream or shout or run to the ends of the room. It was like a scene from his Novel. The scene in which Lethe exposes himself and outrages Rick by his audacious remarks. All of it was on the brink of happening, the ignorance, the outrage, the hurt feelings, the spitefulness . . .

“Who’s that woman in the kitchen?”  Lethe asked.

“That’s my wife.”

“Doesn’t she care that you have another woman in the apartment?”

“Huhhgh,” Rick grumbled belligerently. “She doesn’t get to tell me what she thinks! I pay the bills around here. She’ll do what I say!”

Rick’s wrathful voice climbed several notches and soon the room was shaking with fury. “Let’s go now,” Louie grabbed Lethe’s arm and pulled him out of the apartment. Lethe reached for the freezer-bag of crack and they were gone.

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