Dean sat at his computer with an energy drink in his hand. The cold can bent in as he tightened his grip and retracted when he set it on the table. Dean shuffled some papers in front of him: music lyrics, old school papers, computer game cheats, and directions from MapQuest. The papers were trash now, but Dean never threw them away. He was lazy and the papers didn’t need to be thrown away anyways.

With the wooden table mostly clear, Dean rested his heavy elbows and began to update his blog. Slowly words began to fill the screen. The pace quickened and then halted once he had finished. Dean posted the update without proofing – he was going for the “real” style where punctuation and grammar weren’t so important.

Dean checked his Google Analytics and FeedBurner. Nothing was new; there were no recent hits or subscriptions. Dean couldn’t imagine how people made money by blogging. Maybe he would hire a guest writer to spur traffic. A little investment is exactly what small businesses need, he thought.

Dean sat back, reclining with his hands dangling at his sides. He noticed his reflection on the computer screen and flattened his hair. Dean’s sausage fingers adjusted his glasses. One page of directions caught his eye and he picked up the page. It showed his city, a series of grids that reminded him of a waffle. The waffle recesses curved where roads rounded the hilly outskirts of town.

The directions showed Dean the way to a cigarette store that sold salvia. He remembered going with his friend instead of driving there alone. Dean reached down and pulled open the drawer next to his knee. Inside were his pipe, some bud, and the salvia.

Not now, he thought; but, he still picked up the pipe and began to fondle it with interest. His cousin gave it to him as a late birthday gift. The pipe as shaped like a scorpion, with the murky grey bowl in place of the abdomen. A deep red tail stuck out where the abdomen ended. The legs were broken. Unfortunate, thought Dean. He had knocked it over too many times. He placed it carefully back in the drawer.

Dean pulled himself back up to the computer. He grabbed the energy drink – the metal bent in and out. The cool caffeinated liquid poured into his puckered mouth. Dean swallowed and the liquid made a satisfying burn as it ran down his throat. He set the drink back on the table. The can made a soft metallic noise. Dean brought his attention back to the computer – an instant message from his cousin.

The can stood there impersonally. It read “Double Strength” across the top; and, indeed, it had a presence that was not ordinary, though perhaps not double strength. The blue and silver glow from the computer was bent and reflected on the black and red can. It stood there with the opening facing its owner, ready to be used at anytime. It wanted to be used, drank, thrown away, and bought again. However, the can was not responsible for that – it was only there to hold the goods.

The can began to melt.

Dean noticed the movement and was startled. The aluminum can was sinking into the wood. A round pool of black expanded outwards. Dean moved his mouse out of the way and let out a moan of worry. He starred at the melting can. The liquid looked like thick syrup as it ran over the directions to the cigarette store.

The can finished melting and the syrup began to bubble. Each bubble released a puff of smoke. The smoke was murky grey and seemed to glow. Dean began to worry and stood up to find a towel to wipe up the mess. The bubbling continued and the smoke became noticeably thick in the room. The computer screen’s glow was softened, and the cloud blocked out light. The room became so dark that Dean wasn’t able to find anything to clean up the boiling syrup on his desk – not that he would be able to find his desk now. He became disorientated and knocked over his chair, which fell down softly on the smoke and dirty clothes. The room was now enveloped completely by the smoke.

Dean coughed. The smoke burned his eyes and throat, but he wasn’t suffocating -- yet. Dean started to feel very hot and panicked. He struggled to find the door. His hands brushed against the wall. A sharp pain ran down his finger. He jammed it in his mouth and tasted his warm blood run over his tongue. What was that? thought Dean. He coughed and carefully felt the door knob further along the wall and was relieved. He remembered about his collection of knives he had hanging on his wall. They were knives of Native Americans – Samish hunters -- knives of survivors. His mother thought they were inappropriate. The pain from his finger intensified as he imagined his sausage finger swollen, red, and throbbing in his mouth.

Dean opened the door. Nothing changed. The next room was just as dark and smoky as the one he was in. Dean collapsed. He felt cold and hopeless.

Dean gave up.

Dean was not the hero type, besides this didn’t make any sense to him. The room heated up to an unbearable temperature, but Dean took a seat on the floor sucking his finger. Why wasn’t anyone helping him? Where were his parents? Dean’s shirt was sticky with sweat, so he took it off.

Dean sat there sweating and panting in disbelief – it didn’t register at all. His instinct to survive was gone. Dean felt the soft carpeted ground below him and found a quarter. It was warm in his hand. A quarter, thought Dean, why a quarter? His soft thumb ran over ridges and Washington’s sad profile, but the coin slipped out of his sweaty hand when he tried to grasp it. He lay down, now breathing heavily.

Dean wasn’t sure what to do. He thought he might be dying, but how could he be sure? He coughed hard after taking in a deep breath of hot grey smoke. Yes, he thought, I must almost be dead.