Walking along the historic East Hastings Street in downtown Vancouver, I’ve just bought enough fentanyl to kill myself. Paying a mere £15 for each “fat point” of the drug they call Murder Eight here, I have enough collectively for someone to fatally overdose.
“For a guy like you, who has no tolerance, our fentanyl will kill you,” Les Vans, once a successful chef and now hopeless addict, tells me after dealing me some drugs.
“If you were to smash [inject] that, you too will become another statistic.”
