The Kratom Demon is Real, and He’s Driving My Car

Frank A. Fiorello | May 29, 2026

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The sky over Michigan that day was a dismal shade, reminiscent of a bruised lung, as I finally dragged that battered car back into our driveway. It sat there like a rough piece of shrapnel, a stark reminder that some battles are not waged with bullets and bombs, but rather with the cheap, green dust sold in flimsy packets next to the beef jerky and disposable lighters at the corner store.

This vehicle bore the scars of a different kind of conflict—one fought in the shadows, where the stakes were high and the currency was desperation. There was a sense of defeat, as if the very atmosphere conspired to weigh me down, a heavy blanket of regret and lost dreams draped over the remnants of my once-ambitious journey.

I didn’t merely lose a vehicle; I witnessed the slow, agonizing erosion of a man’s very soul, all thanks to a so-called “supplement” that is as far removed from nature as a toxic waste dump.

This was no ordinary loss; it was a tragic spectacle, a grotesque transformation where the spirit of an individual was replaced by a hollow shell, fueled by synthetic concoctions masquerading as health boosters. The irony is thick enough to cut with a knife—here was a man, reduced to a mere caricature of himself, all in the pursuit of an elusive ideal sold to him by slick marketing and dubious science.

The person he once was now replaced by a vacant stare, a testament to the insidious grip of these artificial substances that promise vitality but deliver only despair. It’s a cautionary tale, a stark reminder of how easily one can be seduced by the allure of quick fixes, only to find themselves spiraling into a void where authenticity is sacrificed at the altar of convenience.

We embarked on a journey anchored in the profound teachings of the Word, a foundation I believed could guide him toward a deeper understanding of faith. My intention was to light the path to the Lord, to reveal that true serenity isn’t found in a quick fix or a pill, but rather in the embrace of grace.

In my efforts to provide him with a semblance of stability, I let him take over car payments, hoping to offer him a tangible lifeline amidst the chaos. Yet, as I endeavored to construct a bridge to his soul, the sinister grip of the kratom demon was relentlessly carving out a chasm, pulling him deeper into a shadowy abyss that threatened to swallow him whole.

Watching a friend descend into the murky depths of addiction and deceit is akin to witnessing a car crash unfold in slow motion, each moment stretching into eternity. It begins subtly, with the eyes—once there and engaged—now heavy and unfocused, as if he’s peering at you from the bottom of a deep, dark well, struggling to connect.

The first signs of trouble emerge when money starts to slip through his fingers like sand,

disappearing into the abyss of addiction. He begins to sneak away, pilfering from the remnants of his life to feed that insatiable hunger for the green sludge that has ensnared him.

The domestic chaos that follows is nothing short of a waking nightmare, a symphony of shattered trust and crumbling relationships, leaving behind a trail of emotional wreckage that is both heartbreaking and infuriating.

It was a peculiar situation, to say the least. His wife, with her sharp gaze and a heart full of suspicion, had zeroed in on me as the supposed instigator of her husband’s nightly descent into oblivion. She believed I was the one enticing him into the haze, coaxing him to drown his sorrows in a bottle, but I had to meet her gaze and firmly deny it.

The truth was far more complicated; how do you convey to a distressed spouse that her husband is ensnared by a substance deemed “harmless” by the very laws that govern us? He was a master manipulator, pitting us against one another with his deceitful whispers—painting her as a warden, while casting me as a thief in the night, all to safeguard his precious addiction.

It was a twisted game of smoke and mirrors, and I was caught in the crossfire, trying to navigate the murky waters of addiction while the world around us spun wildly out of control.

The stillness hung in the air like a thick fog, more deafening than any sound. When the messages ceased and the phone calls were met with the cold indifference of voicemail, it became painfully clear that the man I once considered a friend had vanished from my life.

The moment he dispatched his mother—his own blood, a living testament to his existence—to deliver a meager payment along with a crumpled note, I was struck by a chill that had nothing to do with the biting Michigan wind. It was a stark reminder of the void he left behind, a haunting echo of betrayal that reverberated through the silence, leaving me to grapple with the unsettling reality.

Then I saw the car.

It wasn’t just some faceless entity that had wreaked this havoc; it was him, my friend—or what remained of him—completely overtaken by the grip of the kratom. The car key sat in the ignition, a grim reminder of a life choked by addiction, like a bone lodged in a throat, refusing to budge. The battery lay lifeless, a cold carcass, but it was the interior that truly told the tale of despair.

He had unleashed a frenzy upon the passenger seat, carving it up with a knife in a series of wild, erratic slashes that seemed to echo the chaos in his mind. The radio and dashboard had not escaped his wrath either; remnants of a manic episode fueled by desperation and delusion.

Even the hood bore the scars of his fury, buckled and twisted as if it too had felt the brunt of his internal storm. This was no mere wreck; it was a grotesque reflection of the decay festering within him, a brutal testament to how he had turned his anger against the very lifeline I had offered him in a bid to help him survive.

In his twisted narrative, and in his mother’s mind, I have become the embodiment of all that is wrong, the scapegoat for her son’s descent into a drug induced existence. She clings desperately to the illusion that he is merely lost, a specter haunting the edges of reality, rather than confronting the stark truth that he has unraveled into something unrecognizable.

In her eyes, I am the flaw in the intricate machinery of their lives, the unwelcome variable that has disrupted the delicate balance she once believed was secure. It’s a tragic irony, really, that in her quest to shield herself from the harsh realities of his transformation, she has chosen to vilify me, casting me as the villain in a story that is far more complex than she is willing to acknowledge.

There are moments when I catch a glimpse of him, a mere wisp of a man drifting through the neighborhood like a ghost, his head bowed low and his gaze fixated on the ground, as if he’s searching for something lost in the dirt—perhaps a map, a compass, or even a flicker of hope.

It’s a heart-wrenching embodiment of despair that sends shivers down my spine. I find myself in silent prayer for him, hoping that he might stumble upon a path that leads him back to the light, for in that kind of suffocating darkness, the only salvation lies in the Lord. The streets whisper his story, a tale of a man adrift, and I can’t help but feel the weight of his struggle, a reminder of the fragility of our own journeys through this chaotic existence.

Michigan is finally taking steps to outlaw this wicked substance, and frankly, they can’t act fast enough. Proponents of kratom tout it as a harmless herbal remedy, but I invite you to take a closer look—just glance at the chaos in my passenger seat or the hollow gaze of my friend, who has been ensnared by its grip.

The facade of safety is crumbling, and the truth is evident. This isn’t just a matter of personal choice; it’s a public health crisis that demands urgent attention. The time for complacency is over, and the lies that have been spun around this so-called miracle plant are unraveling before our very eyes.

“Peace, love, and a loaded gun”

—Frank A. Fiorello