LITMIR.BIZ

      Original title: Synchro, the end of drugs

      First edition: Febrero 2020

      © 2020 Editorial Kolima, Madrid

      www.editorialkolima.com

      Author: JMS Guitián

      Translation: Araceli Guillamón

      Editorial direction: Marta Prieto Asirón

      Cover phototypesetting: Sergio Santos Palmero

      Book phototypesetting: Carolina Hernández Alarcón

      ISBN: 978-84-18263-01-9

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      Any form of reproduction, distribution, public communication or transformation of this publication can only be undertaken with the express authorization of its owners, except in the cases permitted by law. Contact CEDRO (Spanish Centre for Reprographic Rights) for requests to photocopy or scan any fragment of this work (www.conlicencia.com; [+34] 91 702 19 70 / [+34] 93 272 04 45).

      Trust that which you can achieve on your own; ask, read, verify; think that others’ ideas are as worthy as yours and, most importantly, whenever you fail, which you will, learn.

      For Jaime

      1. Human

      From Latin, ‘humus’, meaning ‘earth’, and the suffix ‘anus’, which indicates a relationship of origin to something, a belonging.

      Those who belong to earth.

      He brought his thumb to his lips and bit his nail tentatively, without tearing it, like a rodent checking the hardness of an unripe nut before discarding it. Reaching up, he gave his light, straight hair a tug and then pulled his earlobe. A conjunction of nervous impulses that he repeated over and over again, as he worked on his two fifteen-inch computer screens, or whenever it was time to revise final details. Three nervous reflexes that made his body move quickly, repeatedly and uncontrollably. He bit his nails, tugged at his hair and pulled his ear; considerably normal actions when done separately, but together they had become an indivisible part of his nature. It had been two years since Julián started developing the nervous disorder, but the impulses had become even more pronounced in the past few months. He hardly noticed it himself, and whenever Anthony mentioned it, he blamed it on stress. Anthony, his business partner, calculated that his spasmodic loops had increased to a rate of one hundred repetitions per day.

      There was less than an hour left until the testing and Julián Konks was still going through the lines of source code that they would use. The young man worked in front of his computer screens in a dark and dingy office, alone for the time being. Every time he typed a modification in the shape of a letter, number or symbol on his left screen, the other screen, which had an image of his face, an infographic, altered its expression in response. The emotional states that passed through that face changed, influenced by a few lines of text. The graphic representation of Julián reacted to every alteration of the programmed code; shifting from desperation to laughter, sadness, fear and joy. He licked his lips and glanced at the door where they had hung a poster of Rosalía. He was waiting for Anthony, his business partner and friend.

      Anthony Somoza left Starbucks carrying two cups with white plastic lids that he placed inside the front basket of a bicycle plastered with stickers. He cycled through the city’s busy streets right at the time when everyone left work, avoiding the avenues that got busiest during rush hours. The glimmer of a yellowish sun dropped long shadows on the deteriorated pavement. He turned into an alleyway, a shortcut he took to reduce the two miles that separated him from his office.

      In a corner, hidden behind a rusty fence, two men with drawn faces shared a syringe with heroin. They did not bother lifting their heads even as the cyclist passed just a few feet away from where they stood. Neither did they try to hide when one injected the liquid into his pale, callused skin.

      The cyclist left the alleyway and continued through one of the main streets. On the sidewalk, a woman in a black cardigan leaned out the window of a white car while a man gave her a sachet of cocaine in exchange for worn out pesos.

      Anthony continued his route and finally arrived at the doors of a neglected-looking office building. He was pushing his bicycle to the entrance when a couple in bright clothes left the building. The girl smiled and showed her boyfriend a small plastic envelope with what he recognized as crystal meth (methamphetamine). Anthony placed his bicycle against a column and secured it with a large chain and lock.

      Julián repeated his little impulsive ritual, stood up and checked the clock that hung on the wall; an old advertisement clock with the Bananas Tech logo. He had needed to go to the bathroom for a while, but reluctant to waste any of his invaluable time, had resisted the urge. He could not put it off any longer now, and the bathroom was only next door to their office. It had dirty-white walls, was illuminated by long fluorescent tubes, and stank of urine.

      The bathroom looked empty. Julián chose the third urinal, undid his zip and finally relieved himself. Behind him, from one of the cubicles, came noises and a woman’s laughter. Julián lifted his eyebrows and turned his head to stare at the closed door. Clearly, he had caught a couple mid-business.

      He heard a female moan and Julián, keen to leave the place, hurried to wash his hands at the sink.

      Clang!

      Something metallic hit the floor and the whole room went still. Water kept running at the sink. Julián turned his eyes to the tiled floor.

      A gun had slid under the door where, a few seconds ago, he had heard laughter and muffled whispers. Julián closed the tap, his eyes fixed on the gun. At the same time, a man’s blue sneaker appeared under the door, dragging the object back into the cubicle. Julián shook his head as he left the bathroom and returned to his den, wiping his hands on his jeans.

      The corridors of the lower floor were crammed with piles of paper and old folders. Anthony stepped around the mess, still carrying the two cups of coffee. On his way up, he bumped into two young men who were leaning on the wall and chatting, holding two cans of Pepsi.

      “I’ll be seeing you both in a bit”, Anthony reminded them.

      “You bet, we are so up for the challenge”, said one of them, giving Anthony a thumbs-up.

      Anthony hurried into the office, the coffee’s white plastic lids were tightly closed.

      “Your caramel macchiato latte”.

      He left it on the small side table next to Julián, almost spilling the contents over the open notebook as he jumped into the red chair with the missing armrest. Anthony had removed it so that his right arm could hang off the side and reach the wheels at the base with his fingertips. Sixteen hours a day typing codes has its consequences in the realm of strange fixations acquisition, especially with programmers.

      “You should be happy. Your fucking caramel machiatto latte has made me waste 20 minutes of my precious time… the place was packed; seven o’clock and you can’t imagine the number of addicts to this shit there are. And we were all there, standing in a line like fucking zombies”.

      “That’s the way with vices, güey”, said Julián, as he went through his little routine again; first the nail, then his fingers tugging at his hair and the final pull of his earlobe. He looked at Anthony, who was scanning his fingerprint to get his computer started, and smiled. “When you are addicted to something, it’s always like that… pure drug this caramel stuff… Speaking of which, just a moment ago, there was a couple going at it in the bathroom”.

      “No

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