Crisps, twiglets, cocktail sausages, coke, fanta, beer, J.D., vodka, orange juice… hmmm what else?  Shit.

Martin quickly ran his finger across the top of his lip to catch the leakage from his nose.  He needed to blow into a tissue, but just couldn’t be arsed.

What else?  Girls were coming, single girls, so there would be a good ratio.  He wouldn’t get any complaints about sausage fests, or whatever excuses people came up with these days to ditch a party.

For those who weren’t bothered with girls, there was the ps3, and not to be sexist, there was Rock Band.  He made sure to hide all the fighting and football games (at least until all the girls had left).

He had the mac ready with a fat catalogue of the latest tunes.  Of what he imagined everyone would like.  He had left youtube open as a backup.  He was going to be a good host.

However, there was something missing.  Parties were fine to go to, but nightmares to organise.  It was like staging a play, you put in all the hard work, but it only takes one selfish but obviously successful guy to say this is shit, and everyone just leaves.

How to keep people in?  How to make people remember it was great, that they had a great time?  Dancing? Snogging?  Drunken fun?… oh that was it.  A guarantee of fun. Crazy fun. Fast, blood pumping, whooping fun. There was only one way:

Drugs.

He could feel the mucus drop to the top of his lip.  He sniffed it back up, but his sinuses were at their limit.  It was time to spit or swallow, or, er, just blow.

In the bathroom, as he blew into some bog roll, he looked into the mirror.  Wiping away the flecks of what-the-fuck-I-don’t-know, he checked his pupils.  They seemed okay, of regular size, in a kind of hazy way.  Not quite of Cheshire cat proportions.

Meow meow.  He waved a paw at himself, and paused.  He had the opportunity to… be a lot of things… but most importantly – the host with the most.  A peddler of smiles and good times, without charge.  With a swift wipe of his nasal passages, he scrumbled up the tissue and walked out, not bothering to get a fresh one, keeping the used one in his hand.

Back in the living room, he reflected.  Coming up.  Coming down.  But there was no come down, he was fine, he thought.  A bit spaced out, a bit tired, but that’s normal after rockin’ it a full night with no sleep.  Christ, he needed sleep.  No!  Gotta keep on rockin’.  Not old yet.  Not tired yet.  Not really.

A bit of burn; everyone crashing, socks missing, wallets down the back of the sofa.  Would they remember it as a time, that time, a time to recall as an expression rather than words, something like… fuckin’ A?  How they would look back on it, knowing they were having a great time only ‘coz they were high?  Waking up Saturday afternoon, zoned out.  Not hungry, dehydrated, full of regrets… nah, they didn’t think deep enough about that stuff, did they?  Weed made you think, not the other stuff.

Wasn’t it?  His head wasn’t clear enough, and he couldn’t quite pinpoint which drugs did what, not to mention the blame for his current condition.

And then if he only bought a bit, they’d be sore for more.  If he bought a lot, then they’d just have to finish it all.  And if he had any left after that, then he’d have to do it all himself.  Crap, I don’t need this shit everyday, he thought.  Just for the party.  Just to make it good, just to guarantee…

He looked into the mirror.  He felt shitty, just not in a physical way, he convinced himself.  What, he wasn’t good enough without a boost?  Couldn’t he be interesting or lively or witty?  Yes, but he still had to force everyone to match.  How the fuck was he supposed to do that?  What the fuck man.  What the fuck.  He was surrounded by introverted losers.  Or just introverts.

He picked up the phone.  Wait.  There wouldn’t be any paranoia at the party, as this was a legal drug, at least it still was, who knew what would happen tomorrow?  Probably some kids would die from god knows what, the papers would blame, and as usual, it all gets shut down, prices go up… and it becomes that much more special.  The thrill of illegal drugs.  Dammit!  There was too much to consider!

A double take.  No, he wasn’t tripping, that was the sound of a synthesised siren – it was coming from the phone.  He placed the receiver back down.

Alcohol would be enough.

He pictured his mate tottering around, swearing uncontrollably and throwing up in the sink.

He felt his left hand fidget, reaching into his pocket.  There it is.  He rubbed the plastic of the bag between his fingertips and pulled it out, towards the light, counting the grains of powder, sizing it up in his mind as a line across the cover of a vinyl.  It wasn’t coke but it felt like… like he could afford a proper class A substance, for once.  Perhaps he should just get more of this until it  became illegal and then, well, whatever – it was a good party while it lasted.  Yeah.  He sniffed.

He picked up the phone but the number of the guy was on his mobile.  He dropped the tissue onto the table and picked up his mobile to get the number.  He added 141 to make sure he wasn’t traceable.  He knew he was contradicting himself on the legality issue but fuck it, better safe then sorry…

As the phone on the other end began to ring, his fingers skimmed the table surface, wandering into the discarded tissue.  Balancing the phone between his shoulder and cheek, he peeled back the folds of tissue and peered inside.

There, in the middle, somehow floating amongst the soaking yellowish mucus.  He blinked, then zoomed in to double check.  There.  A miniscule, yet proudly significant, dark speck of blood.

Shit.