The Fix

Running through the dimly lit streets, slavering, filled with blinding pain, thirsting, unquenched fury yearning to be vanquished, he is addicted.
Luck has it that the traffic on this venue is slow; lest he be discovered before he obtains the elixir for which he so desperately strives.
The man at the end of this block..."or is it the other block?" He has what it is this now primal addict requires. His intestines churn as he struggles to maintain his calm.
Much like a dream where the destination retreats farther and farther away, his destination seemed to get no nearer, but like a desert mirage, seemed only a fleeting hope blurred by need. Finally he spots him, his baleful beacon, shining under a tumescent moon. The dealer, they call him Angel, smiles with rotting teeth at the nearly crazed individual before him. Inside he knows that the only difference between him and the nearly sub-human individual before him is that he has a steady supply from his dealings. Were he to be caught and confined...he shudders inwardly at the prospect of becoming like that which trembles before him, without even the opportunity to sooth the maelstrom inside.
He stretches out his arm, which resembles an alien landscape; the needles have done their damage. The veins collapsed long ago from continued abuse and infection, lie dying from the atrocities they have suffered. He is down to the veins in his penis.
Long ago, in the early stages, he declared with much zeal: "There'll never be no fuckin' needle in my dick!" Words he has eaten many times since. He tells himself that after this one, he will go to rehab, "get cleaned up", and as he utters the words knows that his dying breath may not be but one fix away.
He gives the money, not caring that what he has for a fix looks ominous, much like a dying man's moan, very loud, but heard by few. He runs around the corner, grabbing his spoon as he runs; hands trembling, he almost drops his stash. Oh, the indignity of crawling around in the filthy littered streets which have now become his home.
He manages to maintain his stash, and settles down to ride to heaven, however briefly.
Now locked and loaded, he injects the needle where he said it would never go, and floats away. His body convulses, his airways clench with the poison that has entered his system. He doesn't care, maybe this is heaven. As his body dies unnoticed in the city streets, it is an ignoble death, but for him, he is riding the chariot.
At last he is free.