Chemicals, they washed through his brain, a flood of misappropriate hormones and ill-disciplined visceral secretions whose tumult sparked chaos, electrical storms to gouge and raze.
Steroids drove him crazy, their interaction a confusing medley of physiological occurrences, each attempting to climb over the others, internecine tumblers all wanting to be at the top of the pyramid, with none prepared to give way. And where the body led the mind followed, collapsing in on itself, attempting increasingly risky rationalizations until there was nothing left but delusion, the worst kind of cure, the drama thereafter to be set on a different stage.
Either that or the acute ward. Drugged and safe. Mechanically restrained.
Pacification…
No. Michael Tomatoes simply accepted the inevitable. By not trying, or pretending to be in control, he fooled his thinking mass into believing it was safe, that no harm would come to it via paroxysm or meltdown, that it was in absolutely no danger of being permanently damaged by either direct physical action (him leaping from a building, say) or indirect mental vacillation. That it was OK. For instance…
Ten: Post Flux