The decay of a human being can be a fascinating thing. And if pixies did anything especially well, it was decay. Over time, I had developed a pixie classification system. The breakdown went something like this: First, there were regular pixies, who mostly just sweat a lot and had a constant pallor; these pixies could also have strange tics like making farting noises with their mouth. The second kind of pixie was the scabnetti; these pixies constantly picked at their skin so they had sores all over. They often reminded me of starving dogs—skeletal and missing patches of fur. The third form of pixie was the sausage; they were always red—most likely due to high blood pressure—and sweated profusely, resembling an Eckrich smoked sausages. Finally, you had sprites who were usually female pixies who just dabbled in the drug and didn’t appear as diseased as the other pixies.

Dustin had found himself a choice pixie specimen. She was a scabnetti. I was almost envious, because she had special features I doubted Tracy could ever develop. One of her special pixie powers was the ability to spontaneously leak fluid from her nipples. I could only imagine the fun Dustin had with that. I rarely ever saw Leslie in person—she would usually run and hide in Dustin’s room the few times she was over. However, she never seemed to mind leaving my bathroom a complete mess or eating half the lasagna I made for Tracy and myself. I wasn’t really certain why pixies needed food—I guess they used it to manufacture nipple fluid. Unfortunately, pixie relationships seemed to last about as long as a pixie nap. In a moment of comical insanity, Leslie abruptly decided to drive to Arkansas at 8pm to move back in with her mother. Dustin and Wayland chased after her in the Family Truckster.

It was about 2am that night that Tracy and I sat in the living room, the only light coming from the flickering television. Kalyptis had climbed out of his aquarium and was sitting on the entertainment system. Sometimes I swore I could detect a deep intelligence behind those beady red eyes.

Tracy shivered, “Does Kalyptis ever get loose in the apartment?”

“Nah. He’s pretty lethargic. He just sits there mostly.”

I heard a key rattling in the door lock followed by a whirlwind of chaos. Dustin rushed into the living room, completely disheveled. He was pale and sweat was rolling down his face, which was framed by a wild, tangled mass of golden brown hair. His eyes were wide and sunken. Tracy and I both jumped. Kalyptis was the only one to remain unperturbed.

It was almost impossible to have a quiet moment in that place.

“Hey Dustin,” Tracy smiled.

“Hey. Oh my God, Darren, you should have seen that fucking pixie!”

“Which fucking pixie? There’s only a million of them.”

“Wayland. We went down to my mom’s. Every time we passed a weird building or bridge or something he’d point to it and say, ‘Tweakers did that!’”

I remembered all of my acid trips and painkiller episodes and how songs always seemed to be about whatever drug I was on at the time, “Jesus, what an idiot.”

“Oh that’s not the worst of it. He brought his machine gun with him.”

“What?! Where the fuck did he get a machine gun? What idiot sold that nut a fucking machine gun?”

“Some Mexicans he knows. Man, I don’t want to know any more than that.”

“Yeah, me either.”

“So, we parked out in the middle of this field and he was just shooting that thing into the air. He was laughing and he was like, ‘I’m so high! Look at me! I’m so cool!’”

“Holy shit!”

Tracy was mesmerized by the story, her jaw hung limply open.

“I almost left him there, Darren.”

“You probably should have, dude. What about Leslie?”

“Fuck that pixie!”

The phone rang and Dustin answered it. There was a few minutes of hushed mumbling and then a piercing, “I’ll be right there!”

He was summoned back to Wayland’s place to get some pixie dust. Wayland stole a triple beam scale from the hospital and couldn’t get it to work. Dustin arrived at the apartment where Wayland was helplessly moving counterweights on the scale and slapping it in confusion. Eventually, they sorted everything out and ended up outside some store with a fire going in an old trash barrel. Wayland, in a flash of extreme brilliance, threw an aerosol can into the fire, which exploded and burned his eyebrows and hair. Pixies always knew how to throw a wild party.

The next I saw Dustin was at work. He was standing in front of the cigarette machine, preoccupied with something I couldn’t quite figure out, while we waited for Toad to finish the books. Dustin made a slight shrieking sound, wrapped his arms around his chest and stomach, opened his mouth wide and, with utter terror radiating from his eyes, he gasped and shrieked again, “Oh my body!”

“Dude, what the fuck is your problem?”

He took several quick, panicked breaths, “Darren, I’m a fucking mess!” He laughed insanely.

The image was sickening. I was watching my cousin decay in front of my eyes. He was skeletal and, as I concluded with my untrained analysis, completely psychotic. I couldn’t imagine something destroying a human being like that. I couldn’t begin to guess what manner of tortured thoughts haunted him.

“How long have you been up?”

“I don’t know. Nine days or something.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, man.”

He laughed again.

“Do you really think it’s funny? Go fucking look at yourself in the mirror!”

I was somewhat surprised by my own anger. I sat back in my chair and analyzed the source of it. I realized I felt rather helpless. I couldn’t bear to watch someone I loved—someone I’d known since he was born—do that to himself.

Dustin managed to compose himself to some degree, “I have to go to the bathroom!”

I watched him amble for the women’s restroom on the outside of the building, which we sometimes used out of courtesy to our coworkers, “What a fucking mess. Meth is just filthy.”

Toad got up to drop a stack of bills into the safe. He closed the door and spun the combination, “Moderation is the key.”

I shook my head and chuckled, “Ugh…” was all I could muster in my frustration.

“It isn’t a moral question, Darren. People aren’t bad because they use drugs!”

“What?! What the hell are you talking about? When did I ever say that? Are Tracy and I the only people left on the planet who aren’t fucking completely insane?” I began to wonder about my own sanity. If everyone else seemed crazy, maybe I was the one who was really breaking down.

Toad collected his cooler and plastic Vodka mug and headed home to use Kasey Bleau as a pawn in his ongoing marital struggle.

After about twenty minutes, Dustin walked calmly back into the office. He seemed more collected than when he’d left.

“Darren, I think I just took the biggest shit of my life.”

I couldn’t help but laugh as I cradled my head in my hand.

“I broke the toilet. There’s water everywhere!”

“Fuck it. Let Toad deal with it tomorrow. He lives for that shit.”

I longed for the only thing left in the world that didn’t seem completely surreal.

* * *

The next day, I pulled into the station and noticed the door to the women’s restroom was open. Toad was kneeling down over the toilet, his pale ass crack peeking through his official olive-green Phillips 66 work pants that nobody else would be caught dead wearing. I laughed to myself.

“What’s up?” I called, unable to suppress a wide grin.

Toad turned to look at me, scowling as I approached. As I got closer, I could see more detail. The floor of the restroom was flooded with water. There were thin clumps of feces congealed in random spots. Toad’s shirt was soaked and stained. His rubber-gloved hands were muddied as he reached into the drain at the bottom of the toilet scraping out chunks of Dustin’s intestinal fetus. Sweat rolled off his unusually reddened face. He panted heavily and flies were buzzing all over the place. A broken plunger lay on the floor next to him.

“There was a fucking tampon in here! Why the fuck was there a tampon in the fucking toilet?!?!”

“Maybe because it’s the women’s restroom…”

Toad reddened even more, “I know that, Darren! What the fuck is wrong with you?! Oh, don’t worry, Toad will fucking take care of everything!” Toad always referred to himself in the third-person. His bushy beard quivered with anger, “Fucking idiots!”

“OK, dude!” I replied, as I walked toward the front door, satisfied I had squeezed no less than six “fucks” out of him and perversely relishing the thought of a man with a masters degree in history being reduced to scraping shit and tampons out of a toilet.

Aaron was out getting one of Toad’s customers. He appeared rather morose and shook his head as I went inside where Tracy was waiting for me, her long dark hair braided down one side. A greasy L.C.’s Hamburgers Etc. bag sat on the safe next to her. I gave her a peck on the cheek in gratitude for the food, “What’s wrong with Toad today?” she inquired in fawn-like innocence, “He’s usually nice to me.”

Everyone was usually nice to Tracy; her naiveté was part of her charm. “I guess it’s that time of the month,” I shrugged.

I plopped down next to Tracy and watched as the Family Truckster lurched across the street and pulled into the lot. Dustin had been out all night but was at the apartment when I left. He still hadn’t slept.

“Darren! Darren! Hartwood Manor called! We’ve been approved!”

This was certainly good news. I was tired of constantly being harassed by the management of our current apartment. They wanted me to apply for a new lease, since they didn’t allow subletting. I was somewhat resistant to putting my name on legal documents I found too boring to read.

“No shit? When can we move in?”

“As soon as we pay the deposit!”

“Fuck it man, let’s make some charges and move. I’ll cover your island if you want to go pay them now.”

Pixies were easily suggestible, “Alright!”

Dustin managed to pay the deposit without any problem and we spent the rest of the shift planning our move. I even closed thirty minutes early so we could get started. We moved everything in a few loads. I left behind my bed and some other furniture, only bringing along my computer, clothes and a few trash bags filled with miscellaneous junk. Dustin did the same. Once we filled the Truckster with our final load, we sat on the floor of the emptied living room, resting a bit.

I laughed evilly, “Man, these people are gonna be pissed when they find out we’ve moved.”

“They don’t deserve to have us as tenants, Darren. They don’t deserve these cats living here. They don’t deserve Kalyptis.”

“No shit man, they fucked up! I say we evict them!”

“Oh my God, Darren! You’re right!”

Dustin went out to the Truckster and fished out a paper plate and a black marker. He drew a star in the middle of the plate and across the top he wrote, “You are hereby evicted!”

I laughed and took the plate and marker from him and added at the bottom, “by order of Ponch and John, CHiPs Patrol.”

We laughed at ourselves as we taped the paper plate to the outside of our door and left the key in the lock. We hopped into the Family Truckster and headed for our new home.