The kick, the kick, the kickthekickthekickthekick.... It echoed inside his head, and it made him angry/hungry. He needed it. Didn't they understand that? That was the irrational part of his brain talking, he told himself. Of course they understood. How else did he think they got their money, he scolded himself. He knew that going in. He saw the addicts in the streets, tossed out once they ran through all their money and possessions. But he'd also seen the testimonials as to the benefits of it, the sober-faced, healthy men and women swearing up one side and down the other that the drug had no dangers for those who didn't have a fatal weakness of will. He no longer believed those testimonials. If he--he!--couldn't kick the kick, then he doubted anyone else could either. He'd bet if he looked up those testifiers, he'd find them on the street as addicts, or hooked up to a lifetime supply in thanks. He knew he'd say anything if they'd just give him--


Inspiration: Eh, not sure.
Story Potential: Medium.
Notes: Politician, drug, somehow overcomes, conspiracy, etc., blah blah blah.