My name is Darryl (*HI, DARRYL!*), and I used to be a doctor. See, I was finishing my residency, when I ran afoul of a little bureaucratic bullshit. I was kicked to the curb, and just like that, I ended a glorious career as a surgeon before I even began it. Now I’m a telemarketer, but that’s not really relevant to what happened. What’s relevant is that I’m living with a drug dealer.
Oh, no, not the gangsta kind, who wants to put a cap in yo ass and all. E’s the best fucked up father figure a fucked up kid could ask for. He’s a chemist of the old school, who believed you could drop a few tabs of acid, and see through time or whatnot. I can’t really complain about the morality of what he does, because it’s meant food in my belly and a roof over my head ever since I was ten. I try to stay out of his way most of the time, and lend a hand with a few unfortunate OD’s. People live their lives before they come to E’s, and if they’re already fucked up when they pass his threshhold and don’t tell him before stepping into the shooting gallery, then that’s just really unfortunate. I’m not passing judgement in any direction. E provides a service and does it in a fair and honest manner. I can’t fault him for anything.