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News & Features » May 2013 » “Amp is the First Word in Amphetamine” by Joseph Mattson (from The Speed Chronicles)

“Amp is the First Word in Amphetamine” by Joseph Mattson (from The Speed Chronicles)

Amp is the First Word in AmphetamineThe Speed Chronicles
by Joseph Mattson
(from The Speed Chronicles)

I was awakened at six a.m. after a long night of serious drink chasing down seven days of too much speed. Anvil head, brain ready to splatter, body wrought with ache and despair. Wanting nothing more than some shut-eye, against the ghost-white face of an unforgiving, barbaric narco-crash, I was brought back to the shock of life by a telephone call from an LAPD detective looking for my best friend.

“No,” I croaked into the receiver.


“Yes, hello, yes.”

“Is this William O’Sullivan?” His tone had the seriousness of a doctor with very bad news.

“This is he.”

“This is Detective Roy Mendoza of the Los Angeles Police Department.”

I looked at the clock, the numbers blurry and hopeless. I began to sift through the bitter fog of my consciousness, trying to piece together any broken frames from the grim cinema that had been the past week.

“My lawyer’s name is . . .” I said by instinct, but gravity stopped the sentence as I fell headfirst into the closet door, catching the corner of my right eye socket on the knob.

“I’m looking for Jim Grace,” he said.

“Jim Grace?” He and I had parted just hours before. But Grace would take a bullet before doling out my telephone number to the police. My paramount amigo—a true brute hero, rare and holy in the order of what is sacred. Sacred in the sordid world of those who walked our line.

“He’s not here,” I said.

“I figured. It’s just that I can’t . . . get through . . . to him.”

The way he said it—get through—made me nervous. I noticed blood draining from the spot on the side of my face that took the doorknob. “He’s not . . . here,” I said, adding my own emphasis to see what kind of level Detective Roy Mendoza was on. I’d vicariously become a seasoned veteran in playing blue-boys and criminals, cops and fuck-ups—mostly in the shadow of Jim Grace.

“We tried his phone, but it’s a dead end. Perhaps we have the number wrong.”

“Look, Jim Grace and I share a mutual distaste for the telephone.” I scrounged the floor like a suckerfish, looking for something to compress the wound, the red now rolling down my neck and soaking into my white A-shirt, my face already swollen from the indulgences in modern chemistry, unable to sort out the pain.

“It’s in his and your best interest to get back to me. May I give you a few numbers, in the event that you see him?”

“All right, Detective Mendoza, give me the numbers.”

“Call me Dozer.”

“Dozer. Yeah.”

I took off the shirt and clamped it against my eye, stumbling like a drunken, bucking mule through the house until I found a roll of duct tape. I tore off a long piece and wrapped it around my head to hold the makeshift bandage in place. Then I crawled back to bed.


“He’s just pissed because I have a pair of his wife’s panties.”


“Yeah. Long story. Another time. Help me with this,” Jim Grace said, wrangling a huge yellow tent, trying to stuff it into a little nylon bag. “I’m thinking about taking a trip.”

“Good God, you didn’t lay a cop’s wife?”

“Shit no. Although she is quite a dish. But I hate that bitch. His wife ruined my life.”

“Jesus . . .” I mumbled.

“Forget it. I don’t have time, nor do I want to explain. Dozer—fuck. He lives perpetually in the past. It’s just sad. Two percent?” he asked, handing me a quart bottle of milk.

“Thanks.” I grabbed the thing.

“Coat the stomach.”

“Grease,” I swallowed, “the wheel. Where do you keep them?”

“Keep what?”

“Them. The underwear.”

“Underwear?” Grace asked, as if there had been no mention of women’s underthings.

“Mrs. Dozer’s panties.”

“Oh, those. In the freezer.”

“Freezer? Why for?”

“Why what? Why not?”

“Keeping a cop’s wife’s dandies in the freezer is rather creepy.”

“You got a better idea how to preserve them?”

“Preserve . . . ?”

“What happened to your face?” Jim Grace asked, as if he’d just noticed it.

“Roy Dozer beat the shit out of me trying to get your phone number,” I said. “Why do you need to preserve them?”

Grace lost color in his face, then it returned to its regular bluish flush. “He went to your house?”

I didn’t like the way it sounded, in on the kill, same as the cop. Or was I just paranoid, askance from becoming a consistent dope-huffer? Jim Grace was possibly the only person I trusted in this old, bad world. “No, he didn’t come to my house. I got coldcocked by the closet doorknob.”

“Oh. Put some steak on that thing.”

The flashing thought of a cool, thick cow shank slapped against my head, the iron scent of bovine blood and juices sopping my cheeks, dripping slowly down my face, made me feel chilly comfort in addition to horrible nausea.

“Are you coming with me? Jeez, these things. They come in these little yellow bags and once you take them out it is damn near impossible to get them back in.” Jim Grace started punching hell into the tent, shoving his foot in, trying his damnedest to make it fit. “You want a Tecate?”

“Yes. What’s it for, anyway?”

“Limes are in the fridge.”

“What’s the tent for?” I asked.


“Pico-Union? You turning vagrant or something? What do you need a tent for to go buy speed?”

“Man, how deep in are you?” he asked.

“How deep in are you?”

“Deep? This is just in case,” he said.

“Just in case what? In case we wander into the imaginary gnome forest behind the Food 4 Less, or decide to make a nice little home under the freeway overpass?”

“You smartass. It’s to throw them off. You never know when the eye is out.”

“Well, it’s not like we’re going to buy crack,” I said.

“Man, fighting with doorknobs really fucks up your brain. You’re not thinking right at all. We have to expect that they are always looking. We have to be safe, and we need to blend in.”

“Blend in? How are we blending in lugging around some huge tent in the middle of the day down in some poor-ass neighborhood with barely any grass to even pitch the stupid thing?”

“That, my friend, is exactly how we blend in. If we were hauling a tent trying to score, say, near the Arroyo hills or Griffith Park or Runyon, we’d be done for. There are reasons to have a tent around those places and we’d be worked over like two-dollar strumpets. But they aren’t looking for anybody camping down by Pico-Union. There is no reason for it, precisely why we’ll blend in. The obvious becomes the unobvious.”

He had me. Drug rationale. Still, it was a little extravagant.

“Still,” I said, “it is a little extravagant.”

“Bah. Stay here if you want. I’m going to do this thing.”


Don’t go to Pico-Union.

Not because of the general odds of being caught in gang-war crossfire, or because it’s one of the poorest neighborhoods in Los Angeles, policed by the notoriously corrupt Rampart Division, beset by crime and hopelessness, but because the best shit is down there, and by best, I mean worst. The kind of wicked stuff that simulates ecstatic invincibility to its most superlative, supernova echelon—while swiftly as a calculating eagle it grips in its icy talons your heart, your skull, still pumping, pumping and gritting the amp dance, and carries them off for the final sacrifice. Harv holds there. He’s a rich mother, playing both sides of the border, he knows the game. He deals two floors subterranean in a squalid slipshod tenement built into a small slope, keeping south of the radar, and also has an estate in the Hollywood Hills, a mile above Franklin. But hell. If you’re going to go get drugs, then really go get your drugs. Have some guts about it. Forget the Hollywood Hills. Go to Pico-Union.

Here, you don’t have to deal with the crummy debutante princesses hanging around Harv’s Hills house, the ones who mistake speed for even more ego and pageantry than they were already bequeathed from their knotty-assholed, smug Black Beauty–gulping Industry parents before them. The cycle, it just does not end. Not only those godforsaken women who drape themselves ridiculously all over the place, but worse, their Chauncey boyfriends who can’t even hold their drink, let alone their amphetamine. The only thing worse than people who call the stuff “spizz”—naïve fools who can’t come to terms with what they’re doing and try to sugarcoat it as if it were kiddy candy, when it is exactly what it is: speed—are the inane, rich parasites who try so hard to be “down” by snorting with the proletarians, when what they really should be spending their easy money and family handouts on is holy pharmaceutically clean Dexedrine and Methedrine, or just go the other way and score some pure pressed opium, or, if they must go up, unadulterated Bolivian cocaine at the very least. Leave me and my drug of choice in peace. For my money—if I had any—I’d stick with the program.

Harv must’ve been up in the Hills, and Nettles, his skeleton wife, wasn’t keeping shop down at Pico-Union, which meant she probably found out that Harv was banging some Westside Debbie back at the ranch. None of his “lieutenants” were there either. Nobody answered. Normally, someone is always there.

By this time we’d caught the urge and were facing irate collapse, due to expectation.

“What now?”

“I have to piss,” Jim Grace hissed, and stormed off behind the tenement.

I leaned against the building, nauseated by the idea of going up into the Hills, when I heard a fiery “Hallelujah!” burst from the urination.

“Look at this,” Grace said, returning. “Perfect.”

“Your fly’s down.”

“Thanks. Okay, so check this out . . .”

Jim Grace had found a nice baggied chunk of ice in his customized underwear—a secret pocket sewn beneath the hangar for his testicles and padded against ball sweat with maxi pads—that he’d forgotten about. We sliced and crushed it even, two fat crystal caterpillars the size of joints, and snorted them behind a dumpster in a trash-ridden alley adjacent to Union. Instantly, my heart jammed itself up into my throat, my eyes blew wide. All dials and switches cranked. The raspy throat of the city screamed like ancient iron daggers against my eardrums and somehow it was sexy, invigorating, a mountainous delight. Compound wizards rewiring the brain to the tune of Armageddon. EVERYTHING GOES UP. I could hear a cricket jerking itself ten miles away. I was locked in.

It was a sun-destroyed four p.m. when we made for the bus. We walked dozens of blocks in swift minutes, the deltas of our chests soaked in long, wide Vs.

“We need your wheels.”

“Wheels, yes. And MUSIC. WE NEED MUSIC, NOW!” I yelped.

“NOT SO LOUD,” Grace said, loudly.

“Yes, you’re right, push the catheter in . . .”


“Never mind. We need to get to the number 4 bus if we want the car.”

“We can’t take the bus all the way,” Grace said.

“Into the Hills?”

“Yeah, that was all I had, for sure. We got lucky. I haven’t changed my underwear is all. Shit, I’d have washed that chunk later this evening. Lucky, damn lucky.”

“Let’s get the car,” I said.


We made it to the car in good enough time, just before the bus ride from downtown to Hollywood, to my house, might have made my cranium explode. There were bad vibes squaring us from all sides: plump brown mamas hauling bags of groceries and the tender elderly clutching lotto tickets—entirely evil in our peculiar state. Grace and I beyond tense, our innards gnashing at the walls of our skin, probably looking to our fellow passengers like two deranged deviant gimps who’d worked each other into a spastic, primordial lust fury and couldn’t wait for some serious fornicating in the privacy of our own home. Or in the tent, perhaps, which Jim was clutching like a bomb whose lit fuse was about to expire. It didn’t help that we were constantly whispering gibberish into each other’s ears.

After about an hour I located the keys—I’d hidden them from myself during the bad run the week prior—and we were doing fifty on Franklin, feverish for the turnoff up into La-La Land.

“There it is!” Grace screamed over the wail of Neil Young’s “Cortez the Killer” spun up to earsplitting decibels.

“I know.”

“Man, fuck Cortez!” Grace howled, slapping his knees.

“Look,” I said, pointing out the windows at thick chaparral climbing up the rise, houses disappearing into the shadows of oak and rocky crags. “Old Mexico.”

“Fuck Spain! Fuck the United States! Goddamn goldbrickers! This is Mexico! Glorious Mexico!” Grace cried, now a hardwired demon full of fast rage.

“You’re not Mexican,” I said. I leaned into the left turn going at least 45 mph. After a good fifteen-minute bounce up the mountain we reached the gate and were buzzed in.

“Better leave the tent in the car,” I said.

“Right,” Jim Grace agreed.


“Gents,” Harv greeted us as we walked up the three-hundred-yard stretch from parking to the house. There were about ten cars in the lot, meaning the place was going to be a scene.

“Harv, que pasa,” Grace said, extending his hand. I simply nodded, keeping my clenched fists in my pockets.

“Come on in. Mi casa su casa and all that.”

We went into the den—the business room—and as we passed the kitchen I caught a glimpse of Nettles slunk against the stove smoking nothing but two inches of ash from a beaten cigarette. She had a lake of purple around her right eye. I reached up and patted my own bruised orbital plate. When we passed the sliding glass that opened into the courtyard we saw a half-naked blond girl prancing around the pool in a fried haze. She looked no older than sixteen.

“That’s Tabby,” Harv said. “Her and Nettles are getting . . . acclimated.”

In the den Harv measured up two very generous sixties, even though I was just along for the ride; not buying, necessarily, but knowing that Grace would part me off a kind freebie.

“Don’t worry about it for now,” Harv said. “Two for one today, and you’ll make it up to me later.”

A loaded deal to be sure. Regardless, Grace and I quickly pocketed our bounties when we heard a gang of intriguing cheers and whistles explode from the clubhouse out beyond the pool. Harv eyed us cautiously, then fixed a stern, secure gaze on us that warned: You shall not fuck with me.

“You boys want to come out back and ’tend the ceremony? It’s totally cracked.”

My throat clenched no, but the ill-fated notion sank back down to my gut unspoken. I had a bad feeling. I’d only been up to Harv’s Hills house a handful of times, and the place didn’t sit right. It always felt appropriate to leave. I’d never seen anything too strange going on outside of meth heaven and hell and their according crimes in general, mostly just a bunch of paroxysmal, self-entitled eccentric turds jettisoning their brains toward sweet oblivion; rather, it was an aura of badness, and all I wanted to do now was go home and read a thick nineteenth-century Russian novel front to back, or masturbate for four or five hours, maybe.

“Ceremony?” Grace asked.

“Yeah. The New Church of Zoom,” Harv shrugged. “It’s not my thing—pretty fucked-up, really—but they pay me too much to refuse.”

We leaned into Harv’s taster plate and each took a hefty snort. Somewhere deep down inside not wanting anything more to do with any of this, I still couldn’t refuse.

“Well, okay,” Grace said.


Never coming here again, I swore, this is the end, when Harv slid the clubhouse door aside.

“This is Jesus. He died for our—your—sins.”

In the middle of the clubhouse stood a meticulously constructed seven-foot crucifix with a beautiful, sleek, powerfully built, but atrociously dead brown-and-white pit bull terrier nailed to it, flies swarming around the bloody spikes driven through its spread front paws and its bundled hind quarters. A male, his eyes expired shuddered in incomprehension. A dozen people were cajoling in a circle, swathed in sweat, caught in the frenzied, possessed grip of fanatical religious conviction. I recognized one of them as an acclaimed actor who’d been in the papers on drug charges, pornography scandal, and spousal abuse. To the right of the sacrificed dog was a much smaller cross with a fanged marmot crudely driven into it, caught sneering in its death. To the left, an empty cross the same size. On a table next to it sat a tray of pulverized methamphetamine, a giant syringe, the necessary means to fire, and a Bible. There were tufts of hair stuck to the bloody rig.

“You’re just in time. I guess Judas is next,” Harv said, and nodded toward a cage where a handsome white domestic shorthair cat lay apprehensively licking its paw. The dancing freaks of the New Church of Zoom paid us no attention at all.

“Judas wasn’t crucified,” Jim Grace said. “He killed himself.”

My heart sputtered and my gut folded. I have never been one to stomach the slaughter of innocents. I gave Grace a piercing leer, a silent command that it was time to go. He looked pallid, confused, knocked silly from the scene. Before either of us could fully comprehend the massive severity of it: “Now isn’t this a surprise,” someone cooed from behind, just outside the clubhouse door. I recognized the voice but I couldn’t place it. Grace and I turned around and found a thick, sculpted bulldog of a man walking firmly toward us.

“Shit,” Grace mumbled.

“What?” I whispered.

“Nothing,” Grace said. “Nothing.”

The zealots continued, praising the Lord and singing “Blessed All Ye Faithful.”

“What the fuck is going on?” I gasped.

The man offered his hand. “Roy Mendoza. Dozer.”

It immediately struck me that Detective Dozer was doing absolutely nothing to curb the sacrifice—felony animal cruelty to the highest degree—nor making any attempt to bust Harv or anybody else on enormous drug offenses.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. I turned to go.

“Give me a minute, Will, please,” Grace said.

“Ah, William O’Sullivan,” Dozer said.

“You here on a call for domestic aggravated assault?” I asked Dozer, regarding Nettles. Harv hissed a clicked tongue at me and spat on the ground.

“Let’s have a seat,” Dozer said.

Jim Grace, Dozer, and I sat at a picnic table in the area between the clubhouse and the pool. Dozer faced the New Church of Zoom, and Grace and I faced the house, yet I couldn’t help turning my head back to look. The congregation clamored further with song. The detective remained unfazed, and Harv retreated into the angry womb of his manor.

“I haven’t heard from you.”

“Look, Roy, it’s done, man. You can’t keep living in the past, right? You’ve got to move on. I can’t do anything more for you. I’ve gotten on with my life,” Jim Grace said.

“Yeah, getting along well, aren’t you,” Dozer mocked. They talked as old friends gone sour long ago, presently uncertain of what it all amounted to.

“She’s gone, man. Gone for good. How many years has it been? Five? Seven? You’ve got to give up the ghost,” Jim Grace said.

“What the hell is going on?” I burst in.

Jim turned, his face wrung with guilt and sympathy, not for Dozer, but for me. “Shit, Will, I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was going to be here.”

“Just damn good timing,” Dozer chimed.

“Roy—Detective Dozer—was on my case, hard, years ago, when I was a driver. Until he discovered his wife was a lesbian. He found her in bed with Cammy. Strange turn of events.”

Cammy—Camille—was Jim Grace’s ex-wife. He’d talked to me about her from time to time, how he had not known much true happiness since, and about getting into using afterward, but never exactly why she left. At the time he was a high-paid wheeler for the entertainment industry, escorting celebrities to the most exclusive dealers in town, when heroin was making its comeback in the ’90s and speed was mostly for maintenance, and Grace himself had not yet partaken in either.

“They’re still together. They divorced us both,” Dozer said, his face old and worthless. “Back when I was full of piss and fire,” he waved his hand, “and actually cared about all of this. A real star trooper.”

I rubbed my temples and dreamed of simpler times, times that I had mistaken for complex, before my own downfall into this exciting, mesmerizing, and delicious and nefarious, dire, and abusive world. I’d been living disenchanted beyond my means for too long, so I thought, just wanting certain kicks—some sort of adjuvant freedom from the pain of life, I guess. But the fee, it seemed, had suddenly grown too large. You cannot blame it on the drug, only the people.

“Speaking of piss,” I said, bewildered, disgusted, “excuse me.”

I got up from the picnic table, glanced once more at the horrendous scene in the clubhouse, and stormed into the mansion. I went into the bathroom, pulled myself out, but nothing came. I zipped up, flushed the unsoiled toilet, and scrambled through the medicine cabinet for some downers. There were none. I shut the cabinet and looked in the mirror. Alien, a phantom, as if I could no longer place who I was. I produced the sack, crushed the biggest dose I’d ever considered, withdrew a single from my wallet, rolled it tight, and sucked the line dry. I didn’t know what else to do. Moreover, at this point I was full of distortion, blasting like a roaring, gnashing, hot-blooded ice comet through outer space. My throbbing, beaten eye could have easily popped with stroke against the mirror. A. Am. Amp.

I walked out of the bathroom and passed Nettles. I paused, turned, and headed into the kitchen.

“What do you make of this shit?” I asked, chewing on my lips, my brain swelling to the palpable limit within the gripping palm of my skull.

“Mind your own business.”

“Jesus, Net, you should cook yourself up a sandwich or something. You look like hell. Get strong, don’t let the bastard hit you no more.”

“I’m getting the fuck out of here,” she said quietly. “And I’m taking it all with me.”

“Me too. But first I’m going to cook you something to eat.”

I feigned rifling through the cupboards for food, secretly contemplating the options of my exit, until I found a large cast- iron skillet that must’ve weighed ten pounds.

“If I don’t ever see you again, for chrissakes, Net, stick up for yourself. You don’t need to deal with all this just to get some good crank.”

“Why you ain’t got no woman, Will?”

“Hell if I know,” I said. I walked past her and out toward the pool, the skillet firm in my hand.


Dozer went out like a lit match under tap water. I stood over him panting, having clocked him from behind with all of my might. I dropped the frying pan and scrambled through his clothes until I found what I was looking for. Jim Grace eyeballed the piece.

“What are you doing?”

“Did you give him my phone number?”

“No way. He’s a cop, man, it takes him two minutes to figure that stuff out.”

“What kind of deal do you have with him, you a selective narc or something?”

“Hell no,” Jim Grace shot back, offended by the question. “Can’t you tell he doesn’t give a shit about the law anymore? He didn’t even know we were coming. He was up here doing his own kind of business with Harv.”

I almost pointed the thing at him, my best friend. Catching myself, I lowered it. I reached in my pocket for the car keys.

“Go start the car, Jim.”

“Dozer just wants the panties.”

“Go start the car.”

He refused to take the keys. “Be calm, be calm.”

“They’re killing fucking animals in there!”

“It’s none of our business,” he said. “I don’t agree with it. It’s wrong. It’s terrible, but . . .”

Jim Grace was holding out because this was sanctuary: a place to connect—any bad, otherwise intolerable sin washed away in the name of screwing-it-on, in the name of assured supply, in the name of, well, addiction, I suppose, or at least undeniable enchantment. The same things that had made me tolerate it all up until now as well. The dose I jammed in the toilet shifted into twentieth gear. The blood in my veins was going for the record, racing like a rocket car across a desert salt flat, reckless and proud, screaming for something official. I turned my back on Jim Grace and stomped toward the clubhouse.

I raised the gun and shot three times into the ceiling. Everyone quivered, turned, stood vacillating before me while drywall and stucco from the bullet holes blanketed the room in softly falling snow. I said nothing, but went over to the cage, opened it, and grabbed the cat by the scruff of its neck and held it close to my chest. Back to the door, I turned and piloted the barrel in a straight line across every one of them. They all stared at me blankly in disbelief—the same look Grace and I had on our own faces when we stumbled upon their terrible ritual—as if I were the one in the wrong. The semifamous, Academy Award–nominated actor moved to speak, but thought better of it. I held fast, my finger microscopically humping the trigger, but I did not bring fire on them. Instead, I honed in on the crucified dog and let a single shot go into its chest, rotated slightly, and too symbolically gave the marmot an honorable death. Then I walked out.

When I returned to the picnic table Grace was shaking. The gun had given him a fever. In the distance, next to the pool, Nettles had Tabby by the hair in one fist, and was burying the young girl’s face with the other.

“You coming, Jim?”

“I’m Mexican. By marriage. My uncle. I have a right to care, you know.” Grace nodded his head about, regarding the landscape. He had slipped into asylum, unable to deal with the matter at hand.

“Sure,” I said. “Old Mexico.”

Dozer came to, groaning, the big man curling into a bamboozled little ball.

“Never call my house again,” I said. The detective didn’t answer. His eyes darted about.

I walked toward the mansion, the cat’s claws digging into my shoulder, my ribs. I felt my leg cover in warm wetness. I met Harv coming through the doorway, his face twisted in shock. He saw the gun and moved out of the way. The unmistakable waft of feline ammonia rose from my hip and raided my nostrils.

“What the fuck is going on out here?”

“This is my cat now,” I said.

Harv hesitated. He could see it in my eyes: I had gone off to a place where diplomacy was incontrovertible. “Take good care of him,” he finally replied.

“His name is Raskolnikov.”


“Raskolnikov, you got it? Not Judas, never Judas.” I motioned to go, but paused and faced the feared, respected, worshipped pusher. “No more Church of Zoom, Harv. I swear to fucking God, no more. Understand?”

Harv grudgingly nodded his head in false affirmation, with stark ballooning eyeballs full of guaranteed revenge.


“Will,” Jim Grace bayed, catching up. “Give me the keys. I’ll drive.”

I bent sideways, nodding to my front right pocket, not letting go of the cat or the gun. Grace shoved his hand in and fished through my crotch. The episode on the bus flashed in my head. “We’re queer,” I said. I started laughing, then tears took over, followed by a screaming slideshow in my mind of everything that had just happened—and in the same beat I became quiet, feeling in that moment the terror of cavernous sadness. My eyes dried hard and plateaued on a crux so severe that I was now beyond weeping. We walked down the path.

“How did you get those panties?” I asked.

“I . . .” Grace stammered, struggling not to rush ahead.

“How long have you kept those underwear in your freezer?”

Grace opened the car doors, and the cat, who I’d just named Raskolnikov perhaps for the redemption of us all, trembled on, wheezing against the saturated folds of my sticky shirt. I waited patiently for an answer from Grace, as if our lives weren’t in danger; as if there was no reason for concern of the weaponized mob making their way down the path; as if everything up the hill had disappeared; as if we were simply high on a gorgeous meth run; as if the earth itself had frozen and two tight bros had all the time in the world.


Joseph Mattson


JOSEPH MATTSON is the editor of The Speed Chronicles and the author of the story collection Eat Hell and the novel Empty the Sun (A Barnacle Book), which was a finalist for the 2010 SCIBA Fiction Award. He lives in Los Angeles.

Posted: May 28, 2013

Category: Short Story Month | Tags: , , , ,