From bike tyres to car tyres.

Rebel was out of ball pumps so he had to settle for a bike pump instead and, while he wasn’t sure what the difference was, he believed that something in their different sizes meant the pressure would change so the results were different.

Pumps were much cheaper than his alternatives.

And he was sure this would work.

He had decided nine days ago it was more a physical malady than an emotional one, something his body was germinating without his permission and so he opted for a physical remedy. He would have done it the weekend prior but he had felt too lethargic to even leave the house to get into the car to drive that short way to buy a cheap pump.

He’d endured another week and found himself awake early on that Saturday morning ready and able and willing for the first time in too damn long.

He opened the box back at home and took the device from its wrapping and he slipped the needle straight into the space between his index and middle fingers and, with his other hand and the thing on his kitchen bench, began to pump.

And as soon as he slipped the needle between his fingers he pumped and he felt a strange relief. His skin inflated a little but the air bubbled his blood and his heart seemed to shift it around his body with more verve. He spent the rest of the afternoon pumping from time to time, refreshing that new speed throughout his body, his blood hyper-oxygenated.

He simply ignored what he suspected may be longer term ramifications for the sake of solving today’s problem. You understand. While’s not a drug, per se, anything external that you lean on for support can become one. And he was predisposed to addiction.

So an afternoon became a weekend and a weekend turned into a habit that he snuck into the office. He knew it was antisocial to duck off so regularly without explanation but he also felt more social afterwards so he decided it balanced out.

He wore a glove to cover the small, weeping hole in his hand left hand.

And then he found the dragon to be fresh and clean and cool, and swelling around his knuckles, and he gave fervent chase. He followed it out of focus, to the edges of his old life, where his staying still meant everything else moved on.

When he did venture out it was in short bursts, for only a few hours at a time.

But an upstairs neighbour had heard the strange hollow music of the pumps and told their landlord, who stole his pump after they let themselves in and found it on the dining table with the needle dripping blood. Then they emailed local sports supply stores with his face and a description of his condition. They described it as a ‘heart-breaking affliction’ and appealed to them for a ban on him.

And it worked when he tried to buy a new one.

So he drove out of what he thought would be the catchment and, on the way, found a divine idea. He picked at the wet scab in his loose, pink hand. He pulled into a service station. He parked before the storefront. He double-checked his tyres before strolling in to purchase straws.

And then he walked out of the store, past his car, and towards the air and water pump.

Through one of those straws he poured 25 psi straight into his forearm and it exploded. All they could talk about afterwards was how he managed to get the straw inside.