Diary of a Drug Fiend

The Gatto Fritte 127 I felt sure that the “ Sir’ would do the trick, and the “'V.C., K.B.E.” could hardly fail to impress. I’m not a bit of a snob; but I really was glad for once to be of some sort of importance. The clerk ran out of the room with the paper. He came back in a moment, beaming all over, and called the attention of the commissary to one of the morning newspapers, running his finger along the lines with suppressed excitement. My spirits rose. Evidently some social paragraph had identified us. The commissary changed his manner at once. His new tone was not exactly sympathetic and friendly, but I put that down to the man’s plebeian origin. He said something about ‘“ Consule,” and had us conducted to an outer room. The clerk indicated that we were to wait there—no doubt, for the arrival of the consul. It was not more than half an hour; but it seemed an eternity. Lou and I had nothing to say to each other. What we felt was a blind ache to get away from these wretched people, to get back to the Caligula ; to have a bath and a meal; and above all, to ease our nerves with a good stiff dose of heroin and a few hearty sniffs of cocaine.