The Candyman lied. Ugo suspected as much when he took that so-called Sally Special and it had a bland, dusty non-taste like flour. Sally Specials were sweet. Not like candy exactly, the sweetness was more subtle but it was there. The tablet didn’t dissolve the right way either. It turned into a ball of paste on his tongue and stuck to the roof of his mouth where it should’ve crumbled away and melted.
The real clue that he’d been duped was that he still felt like shit. It was becoming harder every day to deny they were all getting older. The stiffness in all his joints after crashing on the couch in the VIP Lounge was a reminder that even Joy couldn’t erase. But a Sally Special could. A Sally Special made one feel faster and fitter, ten years younger. There was no way he was going to get through the show in this state.
“You’re not even dressed yet?” Robin said from the door, startling Ugo.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Ugo groaned. “How can you be so… alive when we’re all rotting away from the inside.”
“Because I don’t let myself fall asleep on sofas,” Robin said, sneering down at Ugo. “You’re too old for that and you know it.”
“No matter how old I get, I never get older.” Ugo fixed the ceiling with a hollow, unfocused stare. “We’re Davy Hackney’s Lost Boys. You know that, Robin?” His head lulled to the left and his lazy gaze landed on Robin. “We’ll never grow up. There’s no one younger to replace us.”
“Were you so worried about Sally Specials that you forgot to take your Joy?” Robin asked, rolling his eyes. “You can bum one of mine if it’ll quit your bitching and convince you to comb your hair.”
“Come on, Robin. You have to have something better than that on you,” Ugo sighed petulantly. He was slowly coming to terms with the reality that a Sally Special just wasn’t in the cards. “A Phlash will do.”
“I am not your concierge. If you want drugs, you can scrounge in the couch cushions for them yourself. The show’s in thirty minutes.” With that, Robin pulled the door closed hard, just to jostle Ugo’s nerves even more.
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