Prologue

It went by many different names. Mighty Calico, Pimp’s Breath, Jack-Be-Nimble, and Bluegrass Holiday just to name a few. It’s true name was lost somewhere in the throes of medical textbooks around the country, and ever since 2009 when it was first invented (popular legend says it was an accident caused by a 15 year old science student) it has been smoked, drank, snorted, injected, and inhaled by millions every day. To the feds it was BHE, but to the dealers, users, and most other people, it was simply called “the sugar”.

The interesting thing about the sugar was that it was the first drug that could be easily processed into different forms, and therefore different ways to get it from the unassuming blue powder it came in, into your blood. Anyone could Kiss the Pimp (a popular street term) no matter what your preference. The alcoholics mixed it with rum; the cokeheads sorted it raw or mixed it with brown sugar to make it go up easier. But cyclopsing was the newest rage. It took the same principles of needle injection and put it into a brand new place: straight into the veins of the eye. The high came after just 5 seconds, as comparably 15 seconds from snorting or 30 seconds from injecting. And in an age of instant gratification, speed was important. Besides, the injection tool, usually called Calico spools, just plain looked cool. There was something futuristic about using it, and by the time 2030 hit it was probably one of the few futuristic things that existed in 21st century America. China was the one who had all the cool gadgets and advanced technology. China was the one who had all the jobs and the money and all the stuff that America used to have. But America didn’t need that crap; America didn’t need any of it. All America needed was the sugar. Nothing else mattered but the sugar. This is what made Harland Marley a very happy man, and made him, above all things, very rich.

The summer of ’33 went by like any other in that millennium. Ancient tunes buzzed dully in the people’s ears as they listened to pirated songs regurgitated by the dying music industry. Religious war consumed entire continents in lands far, far away that nobody seemed to care about anymore, not after the pseudo-end of the Long War two decades back. It was a summer to not care about the world’s problems, and a time to lay back and chill, just like the summer before that, and the summer before that, and the summer before that. It was a summer that people wanted the good comforts at a low price, and Harland Marley could give it to them better than any other Sugar Baron in the Tri-state area, and as long as religious war still raged on continents far, far away and ancient tunes buzzed dully in people’s ears day in and day out, Harland Marley would continue to supply them with all the comforts of a millennia. He always had and he always will, such was the norm.

The sounds of battle raged over the dying XM radio feed that echoed through Marley’s basement. The radio had been going into disrepair for some time, but that didn’t matter. A Shiite victory with ten thousand Sunni’s slaughtered didn’t interest Marley. He simply spat at the dust covered floor and continued to mix and match chemicals to make the latest batch of sugar. “Got to do the thing I do, Got to make my witches brew,” he sang with delight. His notes echoed sweetly against the grain of the garage, giving his head a small space of happiness amongst the crammed equations and formulas. He scolded himself, that deviation from his work might cost him a shipment, or even worse the trust of his customers. THAT would be devastating. “No. I must concentrate. Marley delivers better than the best.” It was his mantra that he lived by, breathed by, and would most likely die by. But if he does…we’ll you’ll see in the end.