A DARKNESS PALE

Moluxhc

…Irie’s dad, Dec, trying to reunite with Irie, but also dealing memory loss. He was pretending he was in LA to take part in a boutique drug deal and…

Moluxhc

The Cadillac parked at a set of granite steps leading up to a palatial four-story Queen Ann mansion with a cluster of boxy additions expanding out like accentual tumors. All of it occupied the crest of a hill behind which sparkled downtown’s dubious glitter.

As he assessed the scene he realized he’d forgotten who he was and why he was here. A frowning man stood about halfway up the stairs cradling an automatic rifle in a clear vinyl sleeve. Whatever was going on, this was clearly some shit he was stepping into, and to get out he was going to have to play it extra cool. Extra cool, but wait, where was he trying to get out to?

A very solid middle-aged man with a young lady at his side were waiting for him in the parlor. The man was milky brown. His yellow hair, hard and straight like bristles on a broom, was parted severally down the middle of his large head. He wore a crisp gray shirt under tailored corduroy overalls. Wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes and mouth. The face was the anchor that brought Dec into himself again. He was looking at Victor Delgado, the Milk Man.

Victor gave him a hearty handshake. “Marcus, so good to see you again.”

Marcus being the name he’d been using for the past thirty-odd years.

“Likewise,” Dec said. “What a wonderful residence.”

“Thank you. We actually only just moved in. Please don’t mind the brouhaha with the guards. I don’t think PETA’s serious, but we want them to know we are.”

He’d met Delgado at some holistic conference in New Mexico. Delgado was one of the first handful of people to get into genetically modified milk production, cows modified so they looked more like mini beanbag chairs with udders. Injection feeding. Unapologetically controversial and most likely where the industry was headed, given the Big Dip. 

Delgado turned to the young lady, who was also blonde, though her long hair was thin and silky. Dec wasn’t sure which was tighter, her black turtle neck or her ripped black jeans. Delgado was beaming. “This is my daughter, Ninvea. Ninvea this is Marcus, he’s a the curator, and he is your late birthday present.”

“Yes,” Dec said with a humble nod. “I’ve been creating strains for over fifty years. Tonight we’re going to come up with a combination that is uniquely suited for you.” He offered a short bow.

The consult took place in what Delgado casually referred to as The Purple Room. Dec followed Delgado and his daughter down different hallways and past many doors. The purple room wasn’t actually purple. The walls were covered with gilded photographs of Prince.

Delgado left them to it, saying he’d be in his office if they needed anything. Dec reminded himself the reason he was in L.A. was to reconnect with his own daughter. And something else. There was something important he was forgetting. Be smooth, Dec told himself. Getting tight would only jam him up. He would either remember what else was going on, or he wouldn’t.

He retrieved his notebook and fountain pen. There was a lot he should be saying at this point, there was a whole song and dance, what he did and he’d been doing it for a long time. Personal curator of TCH to the rich and powerful. But he couldn’t speak. He saw the script but for whatever reason the worlds weren’t there. Oh here we go, he thought. Here we go. Faster – shit is picking up. Get up and go, you got to figure out how to get up and go.

“This is about getting me hooked up with some really dank shit, right?”

Gratefully, Dec said, “Yes.”

“So this is what you do, you meet with people at their homes, and you help them find the shit that is just like, totally their perfect shit?”

“I do.” Signature Blends, was what he and Muscle had decided to call it. Dec tried to explain and again found he couldn’t. He glanced at the door. How to exit without making a ruckus.

“That’s cool,” the young lady said. “Sounds like dad went all out on this one. I gotta say I wasn’t expecting this when he said he wanted me to come over. This is kind of excellent.”

Dec smiled. “Excellent.” Execute grace, keep it smooth and then get out. “Your weight?”

She hesitated, then said, “A hundred and one, or more like a hundred and four, I guess.”

“Health?”

Somehow, he gathered rest of the necessary information. He matched strands to what she told him she normally ingested.

“Tolerance.” He packed a sterile glass pipe. “Relax.” They would have to talk about what her interests and preferences were. It would require more words and he wasn’t sure he could do that.

She was eyeing the pipe. “I’m going to get really fucking high.” She giggled. “Holy shit. Not what I was expecting today. But, uh, let me ask you a question.”

“Yes.”

“You can match whatever’s out there.”

“Mostly.” Mostly he could do better.

She was suddenly shy, embarrassed. “Can you do, uh, Moluxhc?”

She wasn’t gagging or trying to clear her throat. Moluxhc was a name he recognized clearly. Moluxhc was what certain people were calling the centipede, what they thought of as the heavy presence in that other world, the one he’d spent most of his life trying to connect with.

That original strain from Thailand, that Irie’s mother cultivated and he further cultivated, it had taken him deep into that other world and there had been a few times in his almost forty years of explorations where he’d thought he’d gotten close to the Big Truth. And the centipede had been lurking, always lurking just beyond the periphery. All of it ended after he got Covid. After Covid, if he got high, what was out there was now inside, or it seemed. It was the damnedest thing, but there it was. There was no more traveling, no more exploration.

What was his loss become a gain for others. They felt something they never had before and more and more of them were saying it was a centipede. No one was exactly calling it a god but, yes, it was sort of becoming a thing. The reason Muscle was having that meeting tomorrow morning to see about licensing their strain to a company that wanted give the whole Moluxhc hipster trend a big commercial push.

“Yes,” Deck said.

“Then that’s what I want. I don’t need the rest of this. If this is something where – then yeah, that’s what I want.”

Dec put away the pipe and fiddled around until he found the Moluxhc strain. “Well...”

“That’s fucking cool. That’s so fucking cool.” She was worked up now, agitated, biting black nail polish off her thumbnail. “I’ve just, I’ve heard getting in touch with Moluxhc can help. I’m just kinda of like really freaking out, you know? I can talk to you about this, right? You’re not going to tell my dad.”

“Sure.”

She blew a big stuttering sigh. “Cool. So, my mother and my brother are both drifting. You know what that is? It’s like Alzheimer’s. They think it might be related to Covid. You just kind of go and die out in nature. It’s like this thing. There’s like, media suppression or something, but it’s a thing. It’s happening. My mom already drifted and my little brother - he’s basically locked up in here. My dad thinks… He funding some studies, but no one knows. Have you heard of Zola Jesus?”

Dec had not. Was she related to what he couldn’t remember?

“She teaches at the college I go to and she talks about Moluxhc and how like, feeling it helped her. Like you embrace death and you’re not as fucked up about it, like you’re more connected.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but was also having trouble with words.

Dec handed her a newly packed pipe. “Connect.”

…Dec attempts to escape, and then is lost and found…