Posted by Anonymous on 2019/01/31 under Life The addict needs more and more junk to maintain a human 4 consumer, he sells the consumer to his product. He does not improve and simplify his merchandise.
form… buy off the Monkey.
Junk is the mold of monopoly and possession. The addict stands by while his junk legs carry him
straight in on the junk beam to relapse. Junk is quantitative and accurately mesurable. The more junk
you use the less you have and the more you have the more you use. All the hallucinogen drugs are
considered sacred by those who use them — there are Peyote Cults and Bannisteria Cults, Hashish
Cults and Mushroom Cults – "the Sacred Mushrooms of Mexico enable a man to see God" — but
no one ever suggested that junk is sacred. There are no opium cults. Opium is profane and
quantitative like money. I have heard that there was once a beneficent non-habit-forming junk in
India. It was called soma and is pictured as a beautiful blue tide. If soma ever existed the Pusher
was there to bottle it and monopolize it and sell it and it turned into plain old time JUNK.
Junk is the ideal product… the ultimate merchandise. No sales talk necessary. The client will
crawl through a sewer and beg to buy… The junk merchant does not sell his product to the
He degrades and simplifies the client. He pays his staff in junk.
Junk yields a basic formula of evil virus: The Algebra of Need. The face of evil is always the
face of total need. A dope fiend is a man in total need of dope. Beyond a certain frequency need
knows absolutely no limit or control. In the words of total need: Wouldn’t you? Yes you would.
You would lie, cheat, inform on your fiends, steal, do anything to satisfy total need. Because you
would be in a state of total sickness, total possession, and not in a position to act in any other way.
Dope fiends are sick people who cannot act other than they do. A rabid dog cannot choose but bite.
Assuming a self-righteous position is nothing to the purpose unless your purpose is to keep the junk
virus in operation. And junk is a big industry. I recall talking to an American who worked for the
Aftosa Commission in Mexico. Six hundred a month plus expense account:
"How long will the epidemic last ?" I enquired.
"As long as we can keep it going…. And yes… maybe the aftosa will break in South America,"
he said dreamily.
If you wish to alter or annihilate a pyramid of numbers in a serial relation, you alter or remove the
bottom number. If we wish to annihilate the junk pyramid, we must start with the bottom of the
pyramid: the Addict in the Street, and stop tilting quixotically for the "higher ups" so called, all of
whom are immediately replaceable. The addict in the street who must have junk to live is the
one irreplaceable factor in the junk equation. When there are no more addicts to buy junk there
will be no junk trafic. As long as junk need exists, someone will service it.
Addicts can be cured or quarantined – that is, allowed a morphine ration under minimal
supervision like typhoid carriers. When this is done, the junk pyramids of the world will collapse. So
far as I know, England is the only country to apply this method to the junk problem. They have about
five hundred quarantined addicts in the U.K. In another generation when the quarantined addicts die
off and pain killers operating on a non-junk principle will be discovered, the junk virus will be like
smallpox, a closed chapter – a medical curiosity.
The vaccine that can relegate the junk virus to a land-locked past is in existence. This vaccine is
the Apomorphine Treatment discovered by an English doctor whose name I must withhold pending
his permission to use it and to quote from his book covering thirty years of apomorphine treatment of
addicts and alcoholics. The compound apomorphine is formed by boiling morphine with hydrochloric
acid. It was discovered years before it was used to treat addicts. For many years the only use for
apomorphine was an emetic to induce vomiting in cases of poisoning. It acts directly on the vomiting
center in the back brain.
I found this vaccine at the end of the junk line. I lived in one room in the Native Quarter of
Tangier. I had not taken a bath in a year of changed my clothes or removed them except to stick a
needle every hour in the fibrous grey wooden flesh of terminal addiction. I never cleaned or dusted
the room. Empty ampule boxes and garbage piled up to the ceiling. Light and water had been long
since turned off for non-payment. I did absolutely nothing. I could look at the end of my shoe for
eight hours. I was only roused to action when the hourglass of junk ran out. If a friend came to visit – and they rarely did since who or what was left to visit — I sat there not caring that he had entered
my field of vision – a grey screen always blanker and fainter – and not caring when he walked out of
it. If he had died on the spot I would have sat there looking at my shoe waiting to go through his
pockets. Wouldn’t you? Because I never had enough junk – no one ever does. Thirty grains of
morphine a day and it still was not enough. And long waits in front of a drugstore.