SCOTT: Skag. White Horse. Mexican Mud. . . . Guys, I cant write about being addicted to heroin. Ive
never done it. Dammit, Dirk, of all the drugs to get me addicted to, you had to pick the only one Ive never tried.
DIRK: Youre a fiction writer, Scott. I thought that was your thing. Dissociation of sensibility. Out of body experiences. In other shoes as it were.
SCOTT: But arent I supposed to write like about what I know?
DIRK: Youre a writer. You dont do much at all. Your life is boring. Write about drugs.
SCOTT: But why heroin?
DIRK: Need I remind you of THE PUBLICITY?
SCOTT: What the fucks heroin got to do with publicity?
DIRK: Its in now. Have you not heard the term heroin chic?'
SCOTT: Isnt that some kind of feminist reappropriation of patriarchical fairy tales?
DIRK: ? Look, if youre really so concerned about verisimilitude, get yourself a few grams and a needle. I got some right here, matter of fact. You should do it. Vollman did it.
WILLIAM: Fucking Vollman.
SCOTT: I dont know Dirk, I dont know.
DIRK: LISTEN TO ME. Youre feeling very tired, very, very tired and . . . and now youre feeling relaxed, very relaxed, so relaxed, you can feel the tension dissolving, its like oozing into a primordial bog, all becomes formless, shapeless . . . so relaxed . . . the whole world seems to be melting away.
SCOTT: Melting away . . .
DIRK: Let me see your arm. Pass me that needle, William.