Benadryl submarine

Joey, Brayden, and Sam Smith sat around an off-brand smart TV, churning their brains to slurry via “car crash compilation fails 2018”, lamenting being sober. Brayden hated it worst of all. He had scoliosis, or ADD or something. Joey and Sam Smith were just bored, really. They took well to long bouts of sobriety, and bobbed their heads to the techno remix babble pabulum background music with a muted glee, giggling as a woman with a “karen” haircut got launched out the windshield of her Lexus. Brayden stood strong, wielding all 5’6 of himself against the grain.

“Are we really letting ourselves fall to bed unebriated, boys? what are we, here, fundamentalists? lunatics? Sam Smith, if you shouted yourself to death in an empty room, would you take solace in the company of your own echo? Well, would you, you blank bastard?” The question appeared rhetorical, but Sam Smith stammered out a stock response, “Uh, Yuh-huh.” Brayden stood up on the coffee table, something he’d by this point demonstrated profound willingness to do. “Samuel Mephisto Smith. Survey your medicine cabinet, and show me something worth noting. You know, I’ve got dozens of friends in this area, friends with alcohol, weed, ice, codeine, 2CB, sauce, percs, ooze, crack, acid, and cheese, kid, you name it. It would be in your best interest to make yourself useful, slash, entertaining to me.”

Sam Smith kind of fucking hated Brayden, but he was confident that he couldn’t find another friend in this climate, and Joey, like, never spoke. You couldn’t really call him a friend, he behaved more like a cat that could drive a car.[1] So, Sam Smith stormed off saltily, getting out the DXM, Benadryl, and a couple moldy Klonopin. Brayden was speaking in tongues up on the coffee table, still. At this point he’d grabbed some plastic plates and cutlery from the kitchen and started throwing them down at the ground just to watch them bounce, entirely unsatisfied with the teenage girl crying after wrecking her dad’s car on the TV. “I’m gonna switch to ceramic here soon, Sam Smith”, he declared, but as Sam Smith displayed his offerings Brayden lost that train of thought. He’d had some bad experiences with DXM in middle school, and had a long-standing distrust of anything that came out of a “pill-bottle.” Benadryl, thankfully, was an old friend. His mom used to give it to him on long road trips, or when he started tearing the pages out of books just to get a rise out of her when he was like fifteen. If he ever really stopped to weigh his options, it’d probably be his favorite downer. He gave the others about a second’s head start before he started tearing into the little individually-wrapped doses like a big zoo panda hopped up on blood transfusers and viagra, swallowing nine before running out in little spirals and collapsing feeble in the foyer. Joey tilted his head back, a little, said “Ah”, and helped Sam Smith hoist the fucker onto the couch.

Brayden looked ball-gagged, like he’d cryofrozen himself. Blood trickled out of a Subaru in the no-scope montage sequence, and he didn’t so much as snicker. sam smith cautiously started maneuvering around the oddly-shaped remote, eventually settling on something tame and regular, like “Squid Games.” Brayden couldn’t have noticed. He was swimming through a thick molasses, and it felt like his muscles and bones had been unjected through something hypodermic. There was a figure in the corner of his vision that resembled the shadow of an official 50’s style man in a hat. Actually, Brayden wasn’t functioning on a symbolic level. there was a man in a hat in the corner of his vision. Brayden was enraged, at the man as well as the highfalutin way of life that he represented, and started trying to push his way toward him, getting weighed down in all directions by some quantum, highly static gravity. He fell to the floor, in a ‘still crawl’ position, and started to cry tears that made trickle streams instead of the big, thick droplets you might be used to. Joey, with a sly grin, propped his feet up on the new ottoman. “Huh, huh huh”, said Sam Smith, as a woman dressed in all white on the tv got sliced in half by cheese-cutting wire.