He steps through the communicating door. The sleek, squarish box is plated in 
gold, the interior blue velvet. The pneumatic injector is mirrored chrome. Ohara 
doesn’t usually like to avail himself of narcotics so early in the evening, but
tonight is a special case. He pops a vial of Dee Vine into the base of the 
injector’s handle. It’s just like loading an automatic pistol. Insert the vial,
pull the latch, press the muzzle against his left upper arm, and pull the 
trigger. He feels a sudden gush against his arm like a burst of icy pins and 
needles, but then the flood of sweet sweet pleasure begins.