WIP it out

It was 4:18 on a Thursday afternoon when the acid kicked in, 23 minutes after he’d dropped 5 hits of high powered blotter with tiny pictures of Robert Anton Wilson on them. He was peaking hard by 9:30, but by the time midnight rolled around his corpse was already stiff, the whites of his eyes blood red and rancid with the sweet smell of trichloroethane. The detective  hovered over the body, delicately balancing himself above the remains, sniffing at the deceased’s neck and mouth. His tongue flicked out, licking at the sclera, before sitting back against the overturned dresser and lighting a cigarette.

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