Eddie and Venom Get High as Shit
Okay, so—once in a while, maybe, if they have the time, and if Eddie is feeling petty enough, maybe, perhaps, occasionally they might sometimes loot their food.
They’ve acquired some knives in pretty good condition that way, and a sick ass jacket that Eddie can’t even wear outside or sell because he doesn’t want to be arrested for murder. And two guns that they keep in the apartment, but Venom won’t tell Eddie where he hid them. And a decent amount of cash.
And now, an unopened packet of gummy bears.
“Awh,” Eddie says when they find it, because gummy worms are the superior shape, and now this guy is too dead for Eddie to explain that to him.
“Do you think it’s gonna work on you?” he asks as he rips the bag open. “Because this is really, really different to alcohol.”
THIS IS STUPID, says Venom. WE ARE ALREADY HUNGRY AT ALL TIMES AND OF ALL THE THINGS WE COULD EAT RIGHT NOW, YOU WANT TO EAT THE THING THAT WILL MAKE US HUNGRIER.
“Okay,” says Eddie, “but you wanna eat ‘em too.”
Irritation trickles down the back of his skull.
It is not even ten fucking minutes before Venom says, OKAY.
Eddie continues to scroll through the List of Times People Died in Amusement Parks page on Wikipedia. “Okay what?”
OKAY YOU ARE IN THE PROCESS OF GETTING HIGH.
Actually, he, yeah, now that Venom brings it up, he does feel a little familiar something. “What the fuck?” he says.
THAT WAS THE IDEA, WASN’T IT?
OUR METABOLISM IS PERHAPS WHAT YOU MIGHT DESCRIBE AS “BANANAS,” Venom explains. I ASSUMED YOU KNEW.
“I—I knew—“ A very small pocket of Eddie’s brain is gearing up for full-blown panic. He sits up and looks at the trash can in the kitchen. “I figured there’s two of us so it‘ll act twice as slow and be half as strong.”
OH, says Venom. NO, THAT DOESN’T SOUND RIGHT.
“Well, why didn’t you say something about it before I ate them all?”
YOU SAID YOU COULDN’T DIE FROM IT SO I QUIT PAYING ATTENTION AFTER THAT.
Eddie contemplates for a minute, lies back down on the couch, sighs, “we’re going to fuckin’ Jupiter, I guess,” and resumes the amusement park death list.
Eddie unfocuses and refocuses his eye on the digital clock’s LED display. “I kinda feel like we should be at the beach for this,” he says. “You getting anything now?”
NOT THAT I CAN TELL. Venom swirling around in his body feels real nice, especially when he rubs up against the inside of Eddie’s face. It’s like stretching muscles he didn’t even know he had. Eddie puts his hand against his face and does his best to rub Venom back.
THAT IS NOT HOW OUR PHYSIOLOGY WORKS, Venom says, BUT THANK YOU.
“We’re gonna rock! Down! To! E-lec-tric Avenue,” sings Eddie, “and then we’ll take it higher!”
“We’re gonna rock! Down! To!”
EDDIE, I WILL STRANGLE YOU WITH YOUR OWN HANDS AND WE WILL BOTH DIE.
“E-LEC!-tri-caa-ven-oo! And then—“
CAN WE LISTEN TO ANYTHING ELSE.
The hunger comes on gradually. It kind of occurs to him and then he forgets about it, and it occurs to him and he forgets about it, and then at a certain point he pries his teeth off of the arm of the couch and says, “Is it dinner?”
“I think maybe so.” He pulls out his phone and looks at the numbers. Those are numbers, alright.
EDDIE, IT IS ONLY THREE FORTY EIGHT.
“That is close enough!” declares Eddie, vaulting himself onto his feet and rounding toward the kitchen. A pile of black goo congeals at his hip and anchors him to the corner of the couch. “Hey, what.”
NOT HUNGRY YET, says Venom.
“Don’t shit me,” says Eddie, “you’re hungry always.”
NOT NOW. I AM FEELING PRETTY NICELY FULL NOW, ACTUALLY. I WANT TO SAVOR IT.
“Absolute bullshit,” Eddie insists, and then he sticks his finger in the goo. Huh. “Huh,” he says.
He presses until it’s knuckle deep, hooks it, and drags a trench down the middle of the mass. The mass repairs itself almost immediately. Eddie grins and grabs a whole squirming handful.
OKAY, says Venom. ACCEPTABLE.
He’s gnawing on a mouthful of Venom when he remembers Buffalo Wild Wings exists.
“Ogghh m’gohd,” he moans, “you ha’n’t had winggh yet. I ough’a innadooshyu to winnggh.”
I’M STILL NOT ALL THAT HUNGRY.
Eddie shoves the goo aside with his tongue, and it recedes into the flesh of his mouth. “You serious?”
A little loop of goo rises out of Eddie’s chest and writhes around itself like a snake with indigestion, but it’s happy. Eddie can feel it being happy. He half-wonders whether it’s the gummies keeping Venom full, but as a thought it’s just not as interesting as the happy little dance he gets to watch right now.
“Am I still getting higher?” he asks. Bob Ross is painting trees on YouTube and Eddie’s not watching, ‘cause there’s a handful of little black worms sliding around on his chest like ice skaters.
Another little worm slides in an arc over his forehead. Tickles. JUDGING FROM THE BLOOD AROUND HERE, says Venom, YOU SEEM TO BE LEVELING OUT.
“Okay,” says Eddie with several heavy nods, “good, that’s good, that’s good, I feel good.”
“Oh,” Eddie moans, “ohh, no, no, I don’t, I, I don’t feel good, I d—Ve’m, I don’t feel good, I really—I doooon’t feel good, Ve’m.”
THAAAAAT’S OKAY, croons Venom, HERE YOU GO. A tentacle nudges Eddie’s head down between his legs so his barf lands in the trash can. Behind him, the window jiggles open and fresh air rolls over his back.
He stares into the soggy mess of trash. The empty fuckin’ gummy bag peers up at him. “Get that gone,” he slurs weakly, and a black thing adheres to the bin and drags it out of his line of sight. “Thanks.”
INCOMING, Venom answers. Another dish towel, heavy with cold water, smacks against his face and stays there. Eddie sticks out his tongue on it.
The little pile of goo squelches out from between Eddie’s fingers. His legs would be jiggling if he wasn’t on his back, but as it is, it’s just his feet waving frantically back and forth.
He opens his mouth, lines the words up, and dispenses them in what he’s pretty sure is the correct order: “Gihhh... gimme another ice tea.”
Venom snatches another bottle from the shrinking twelve-pack on the counter and opens it for him.
“Ohhhh,” moans Eddie as he‘s wrapping his hands around the bottle, “thannnnks,” and he drinks half the bottle all at once before crashing down on the couch again. A little movement on his chest catches his eye.
Venom’s got another of those worm shows going, but it’s harder to watch now. Eddie shuts his eyes. “Uh, oh boy. I’m, I’m seeing a lot.”
NOOOOO PROBLEM, says Venom. I CAN DO IT ON YOUR BACK. HOLD ON.
There are two wet thuds, and then Eddie’s hovering over the couch, suspended by thick ropes of goo at his shoulders and hips. Their roots, the places where they connect to his body, creep to the left. Eddie rotates in the air like a rotisserie chicken.
“Why are you even doing that, anyway?” he asks.
FEELS GOOD, says Venom. LIKE HOW WE IMAGINE THOSE CATS PROBABLY FEEL WHEN THEY STRETCH THEIR BODIES.
Eddie watches the ceiling drift out of his peripheral vision. “Wow,” he says. “Is this you, high?”
THIS IS ME HAVING FUN NOT BEING HUNGRY, says Venom, and he deposits Eddie on the couch face-first.
The worm dance resumes, on his back this time, like a shitty little massage.
“If I die,” Eddie mumbles into the pillow, “you need to go to the White House and possess the president.”
A flipper of goo strokes Eddie’s scalp from front to back. YOU ARE NOT DYING, coos Venom, YOU ARE SLEEPY.
“Make him a communist or make him shit his pants and die,” Eddie continues.
“It’s all up to you, man. I’ll be dead.”
Eddie’s head jerks up. “Wait, I want the rest of my iced tea,” he slurs.
“Wwwwww,” says Eddie, and puts his head back down. “Why not peeing?”
YOU ARE STILL PRODUCING, explains Venom, I HAVE JUST BEEN PUTTING IT ELSEWHERE.
“Okay,” says Eddie, “okay. Don’t talk anymore.”
Yeah, fair. “Well, then, talk about something nice, then.”
So, for the rest of the night, Venom tells Eddie all about Eddie.
