The microdosing was supposed to help with depression.
It did, but didn’t treat Owen Schiddley’s other major issue, which was overdoing everything.
His installation at the Del Torrio gallery was going to be their largest yet. Owen had demanded it.
Owen got his way, the curator both intrigued by his work and intimidated by his hundreds of piercings and facial tattoo.
He had accumulated most of the materials he needed, but done almost none of the construction, when Andi Wiven found him while she was on a photo excursion.
Owen was in a hammock half submerged in a drainage ditch too close to the industrial wasteland of Zug Island to be anything but a carcinogen stew.
“Are you trippin, Owen?” she asked, having a good guess at the answer.
“What day is tonight?” Owen answered.
“Tuesday,” Andi told him. “Wednesday morning, actually.”
Owen splashed from the hammock in a hail of expletives, nonsense words and what might have been a snippet of the Muppets theme, then dropped to his knees in front of Andi.
“Will you help me, Cynthia?” he asked so pathetically that Andi thought she might wind up giving him a ride to detox on the handlebars of her bike.
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