Drained of life he sits in the dank dark depths of his shit hole apartment, encrusted in a hard shell of various dried body fluids. He turns his head to eye the large Wal-Mart bag on the armrest of his decrepit old lazy boy. The otherwise cheery logo crumpled just enough to look like some satanic symbol. Kind of fitting considering the contents. A veritable buffet of multi-colored capsules line the inner walls of the plastic sack. And all have a very specific use, to reduce pain. A pain that shatters the minds of millions of disillusioned fuck heads much like our little hero. How does one come into possession of said bag you ask? Why get a crafty little acquaintance that takes pity on your sorry, manic depressive ass. Shakily he lifts a frail discolored hand into the bag, every vein and bone clearly defined for grim display. He pulls out a small orange container, studies the label, then with some difficulty opens and empties the contents into his gullet. With only meager interest in what's to come, he lays his head back. As his body starts to go limp, his mind wonders in the deep recesses of his subconscious, unearthing long forgotten memories of his youth. Could this be what has been so glorified in the general media? Could this mean that for all intent and purpose, his end was near? Unfortunately no, the promise of the pill's actions had settled for merely numbing his fragile limbs to a deathly state. Leaving him wide awake and forsaken to live another day in the frightening little world he had created for himself.