Why Mr. Kaplan, [it's an atrocious facsimile of a virginian drawl.] I'm just taken aback. [and just like that, kavinsky pops over the counter. rough hands clapping the top, his knee hitting the edge with a painful sound. he vaults right over into designated employees-only space, only to swing his shoes out. he sits down, dangling his feet down.

he pulls his bag around, onto his lap. unzips it.]

Maybe we should go into business together some time, [he suggests, extricating a ziplock bag. the pills within it aren't actually red at all— that color, he reserves for dreamer speedballs. instead, it's a shade of beige that matches the mundane organism that the drug magically mimics-- psilocybin mushrooms. it's one of the least alarmingly-pigmented things in kavinsky's bag.] Bet we could come up with a pill that makes you breathe fucking fire. Regular asking is thirty. [he's generous, with new users.] You wanna negotiate?