These Dogs Have Better Halloween Costumes Than You

Every Halloween, New York City opens itself up like a hellmouth, spilling out creatures and drunks and parties by the thousands. Sesame Street characters eat cart food at four in the morning. Wasted Princess Leias slump over in the subway seats. And dogs, oh the dogs!

This year, VICE sent photo and moving image team GIFRIENDS to capture some of the chaos at both Tompkins Square Halloween Dog Parade and the PUPkin Dog Costume Contest in Fort Greene, because who doesn't love puppers cosplaying as Princess Mononoke? They brought back collages and diptychs of the dedication behind some of these homemade creations.
Elizabeth Renstrom, VICE Photo Editor

All photographs and GIFs by Marisa Gertz and Alex Thebez of GIFRIENDS. You can follow their work here.

Halloween Is Fine

Photo by Taj Bourgeois

Today, thousands of Donald Trumps will take to the streets, shouting "pussy" jokes and demanding treats from strangers. Hundreds of Hillary Clintons will follow close, trying to remember a catchphrase. Ken Bones will be there, too, wondering where they can use the bathroom. Harambe the dead ape will rise from the grave, as will David Bowie. You may catch Prince and Willy Wonka making out, or puking, or crying. I'm tempted to stay in.

Like most reasonable people, I do not love Halloween, but I'm not such a spoilsport as to hate it, either. I think that Halloween is fine. It's obviously better than St. Patrick's Day and Valentine's Day (if you're single), but not nearly as nice as Christmas (if you like family) or New Year's (if you use "party" as a verb). It is the median fun holiday.

The main problem with Halloween is that it lacks a central purpose. There are costumes, yes, but unless you're a child young enough to trick-or-treat, the holiday is missing a culminating event. It lacks the mission provided by Thanksgiving dinner, Christmas presents, or the shouts of "Happy New Year!" The most exciting part of Halloween is seeing what people are wearing; if you go to a Halloween party, this happens at the very beginning of the night (if it's not spoiled ahead of time on Instagram). The rest of the party is anticlimactic.

Halloween doesn't really have food, or even a special drink. (Candy is great, but you're an adult and can already buy all the candy you could eat for like $6.) To make matters worse, costumes turn everyone into a slightly or even seriously more awful version of themselves, either emboldened and obnoxious or self-conscious and uncomfortable. Plus the entire night they're all thinking about going to another party they heard about, or maybe a bar. Meanwhile, cabs are scarce, Ubers are surging, and there are dudes dressed like the Jared Leto Joker on the subway.

This is what happens when a day for children to pretend is repurposed into a night for adults to binge drink. It's an awkward transition. Halloween is fun for kids because they get to dress and eat the way they wish they could every day; adults don't actually want to look like superheroes or eat only candy. Halloween forces grown-ups to pay lip service to their inner-child, leaving everyone feeling (and acting) like morons.

Photo by Flickr user Ed Yourdon

Halloween can suck, but it doesn't have to. What our spookiest holiday has going for it is that it's an occasion when people try to do something with friends. The importance of gatherings shouldn't be discounted. Actually planning to hang out with people can be an arduous task. Large gatherings can be tedious, but when they do work out, they're way more memorable than staying in or seeing a movie or whatever you do on most nights. On Halloween, people at a minimum aspire to have fun. Compare this to the group of holidays collectively known as "the Mondays." These days—when banks are closed and you might not have to go to work—seem like they'd be good for a barbecue or a trip upstate, but they're usually treated like surrogate Sundays. Halloween might be full of annoyances, but at least it's not just another day for errands.

To make the most out of Halloween, try less. Don't spend too much of your night trying to find the best possible thing to do. Halloween is when "good enough" truly is, so just pick a party and stick with it. How many people's costumes can you remember from last year? No one cares what you wore, either. Unless you were in theater or a sorority, your best bet is to just wear something simple. Elaborate costumes are expensive and time consuming; if you don't get some personal satisfaction from dressing like a woman giving birth to herself, don't bother. Don't try to for anything political; avoid memes and topical gags—they're not original, and you'll feel embarrassed and sick of the joke before the night even gets started. Unless you want to end up in a cautionary listicle, be careful about anything that may be construed as racially insensitive. Dress up as something obvious that people will recognize, like a mime, or buy a thrift store overcoat and be the guy from Twin Peaks. It doesn't matter if it's not clever. Your costume can be as sexy as you'd like, but Halloween is usually the first truly cold night of the year, so try to bring along a scarf or sweater if you're going to be outside much.

When Celtic pagans or early Christians (the holiday's origins are fiercely debated) held feasts to celebrate the autumn harvest, they couldn't have imagined that one day a man dressed as an Italian plumber created by a Japanese corporation would commemorate the night by peeing on my stoop. Halloween, then, is evidence that our culture is a living, breathing dialogue across centuries and continents. Isn't that reason enough to celebrate? It might not be the coolest or the most fulfilling of our holy days, but that's fine. After all, something has to be in the middle.

Follow Hanson O'Haver on Twitter.

What Defense Will Walter Scott’s Killer Use at His Trial?

One morning last April, a South Carolina police officer named Michael Slager pulled over a Mercedes with a busted brake light. Walter Scott, the 50-year-old forklift operator driving the car, quickly took off on foot. Millions have watched cell phone footage of what happened next: Slager fired into Scott's back eight times as he ran away, killing him.

Slager was fired and arrested on murder charges that same month, and jury selection for his murder trial finally began Monday. There is, of course, plenty of precedent for white cops getting away with killing unarmed black men in America. But this case—even more than the Samuel Dubose police killing going to jury selection in Ohio this week—seems pretty cut-and-dried. Slager shot an unarmed man in the back, over and over again, as he fled, and the shooting was captured with video evidence. What could the former cop's lawyers possibly say to convince a jury this wasn't murder?

A series of motions recently filed by Slager's defense team—which did not respond to a request for comment for this story—offers some insight. For starters, as the Associated Press reported, the attorneys asked that the jury not be made aware of the civil settlement the city paid out to Scott's family—some $6.5 million—or of the fact that the ex-officer faces federal civil rights charges in a case that's set to begin next year.

The defense has also asked that the jury not be sequestered because the lawyers fear taking people away from friends and family over a long period of time might make them resentful toward the trial process—and the defendant in particular. (The prosecution might counter that a lengthy period of isolation didn't seem to hurt OJ Simpson, whose 1995 not-guilty murder verdict came after the longest jury sequestration in California history.)

But perhaps the most illuminating defense motion was the one asking that the legal system be brought outside the courthouse. Essentially, the defense wants to take the jurors on a field trip to see where the incident took place, which could be key to bolstering Slager's version of events: that Scott attacked him and even tried to use the cop's taser against him. (Scott's DNA was, in fact, reportedly found on the device, though Slager picking it up, moving it closer to the dead body, and then re-holstering it—as seen on the cell phone video—raises a whole bunch of other questions.)

Eric A. Johnson, a professor of criminal procedure and evidence at the University of Illinois law School, says the technical term for jurors checking out a crime scene is a "jury visit." Typically, he said, the visits are silent and the jurors do not speak to one another. It's unlikely that there would be any sort of demonstration or re-enactment of the shooting, he added.

Johnson went on to note that it's unclear what the defense attorneys hope to gain from the visit, since the video itself is pretty clear in showing the scene and the distance between Slager and Scott when the shots were fired. The judge would have to determine if the visit's potential usefulness to the defense outweighed the risk of a reversible error—that is, some event or development that might bias the jury and force a mistrial.

"You'd also want to make sure there weren't protestors milling around the scene, shouting things to jurors," Johnson told me. "So judges are going to try and execute a lot of control over the jury view if it happens."

But Colin Miller, a law professor at the University of South Carolina and expert on criminal procedure, says the trip is probably integral to the only strategy any reasonable attorney in this position would pursue––trying to show that some kind of altercation happened before the shooting, even if it didn't go viral.

It's unclear what, exactly, at the scene might serve to illustrate such a struggle. But inserting even a hint of reasonable doubt is "pretty much all they can do," Miller said, to possibly spare Slager of the 30 years to life sentence he faces if convicted.

"It's always possible something could come out," he told me. "But a guilty verdict seems a near certainty."

Follow Allie Conti on Twitter.

Peter Thiel Goes to Washington

Peter Thiel, the Silicon Valley billionaire and Facebook board member, appeared today at the National Press Club in Washington, where he gave a short speech defending his support of Donald Trump and answered journalists’ written questions about his decade-long campaign to destroy Gawker Media. His answers revealed a deep-seated hatred toward Gawker and its staff, and in at least one case contradicted his past statements about the defunct site. The event ended with Thiel exiting the building as his security detail manhandled reporters, including one from Gizmodo, who tried to speak to him.


The Ordinary Things That Terrified Us as Children

Halloween: the time of year in which we temporarily let go of modern life's perpetual, banal horrors and indulge ourselves in simpler spooky symbols: jack-o-lanterns, ghosts, ghouls, witches, a black cat or two (although, really, most of them are quite nice), and our favorite horror movies and TV shows. But sometimes—especially when you're a child with an impressionable mind—the entertainment that scares us the most are the things that aren't meant to scare us at all. Some of VICE's finest employees shared tales of what irrationally spooked them the most as children—so take off your mask, turn off Poltergeist, and read on for the things that scared us silly that probably shouldn't have...

Teddy Ruxpin was an animatronic teddy bear you put an audio cassette in, and it would tell stories and sing. It's easy to imagine why that might scare kids, and I was very much one of them. That's because I was an infant during the Teddy Ruxpin craze in the mid-to-late 80s. By the time I was lucid in 1988 or 1989, kids a little older than me all had one, but the batteries were dead and the cassettes were lost, so it just sat there like any other teddy bear. I didn't know there was anything else to it.

One day at daycare, our teacher was sick of us all running amok or whatever and was like, "OK, kids, story time!" She plopped a fully loaded Teddy Ruxpin down in front of us, and I was like, "Are you serious?" But then it fucking TALKED. It actually started telling a story. I was fully one of those surprised kids from the first Teddy Ruxpin commercial, except instead of being delighted, it sent a chill straight to my soul. One minute it was this inert toy, and the next minute, it was an orphaned alien telling me about a treasure map it found.

After a couple minutes, I calmed down. Even a four-year-old can figure out there's a tape in there, and the face is motorized. But the initial shock kinda never wore off even if over time it turned from fear to melancholy. All because there was that moment when I fully believed this living creature with hopes and dreams had been sitting there awake, staring at me from across the room, and I'd been ignoring it. - Mike Pearl, VICE Staff Writer

When I was a kid, HBO scared the living shit out of me. I'm not talking about old Tales from the Crypt episodes (although I also had a more serious and more rational fear of the Crypt keeper, too)—what really spooked me was the intro that used to play before the Saturday night movie. Truthfully, watching it as a 29-year-old still gives me the heebie jeebies: The family in the window settling down to watch some HBO stokes my fear of what other people could be doing at any moment, the dramatic orchestral music sounds ominous and then terrifyingly bombastic, and the gigantic HBO logo that comes from the sky like a glowing scion of televised humanity makes me feel like HBO is coming to invade my town (or, at least, my dreams). Sadly, I was subject to this intro hundreds of times even after it was taken off the air, as my parents had taped a showing of The Pope of Greenwich Village on the channel and watched it many times with me, subjecting me to my most recurring nightmare all for the love of Eric Roberts. - Larry Fitzmaurice, VICE Senior Culture Editor, Digital

I used to suck my thumb a lot, so my dad would read me this 150-year-old German children's book called Struwwelpeter, about a boy who gets his thumb cut off with giant scissors because he won't stop sucking it. The only other time I have ever seen this book mentioned is as Dwight Schrute's favorite book on The Office.

I also used to regularly have nightmares about this fire alarm commercial, and have spent my entire adult life regularly waking up with a start, convinced I'm dying from smoke inhalation. But I guess that's also meant to be scary. - Jamie Taete, VICE Executive West Coast Editor

Close Encounters of the Fuck Nah. Photo via Columbia Pictures

This is something that STILL scares me, but when I first saw Close Encounters of the Third Kind, I was completely terrified of it, especially the ending, when the aliens, those bizarre big-headed silhouettes, take that dude away in their spaceship. Are we supposed to be cool with that outcome? Like, oh good he is joining a higher life form or serving as the Earth's ambassador to the stars? FUCK no. Five minutes after he walks into that light inside the spaceship he is at best being splayed open like a frog in biology class and at worst something horrible is happening to him that we can't even comprehend. Most horror films to me lose steam once it's revealed that the mysterious masked killer/evil presence is actually just a deranged drifter/Mayan curse/whatever. But Close Encounters never reveals the menace that hovers over everything—remember, this is a suspenseful movie about a dude losing his mind. There's no resolution.

Every movie about aliens making first contact with humans assumes that these races would be so advanced that they would basically hold humanity in the palm of their hands. In Independence Day and Mars Attacks, the aliens are antagonistic; in Mission to Mars and Contact, they're basically benign. (I've seen all these movies in theaters by the way.) In Close Encounters we don't know what they're about. They're just floating out there in the nothing-y blackness, watching, inscrutable. Some people are comforted by idea of an unknown omnipotent force hovering out there. At 12, I sure as fuck was not. -Harry Cheadle, VICE Senior Politics Editor

When I was about eight or nine, my dad or my mum—maybe both—got me a subscription to National Geographic. Which I read religiously and adored. Until one issue had a piece on the Black Death (bubonic plague) that swept through Europe in the 14th century. I think there was an illustration, or maybe a reproduced etching, of one of the plague doctors in their fucking awful beak masks and goggles, with their long robes, which utterly terrified me. I started getting extremely worried that the new subway lines they were at that time digging in London would hit a plague pit, and that the city would be full of dead bodies on carts and mass graves, and of course that my family would all die with pustules and swollen armpits and waxy faces. I vividly remember sitting at the top of the stairs in my house at night, a few times, crying, hoping my parents would hear and come up and tell me that it was definitely not going to happen. I can't remember if they did, but I do remember sitting there. - Bruno Bayley, VICE European Managing Editor

Relapse: Facing Canada’s Opioid Crisis: How North America Found Itself in the Grips of an Opioid Crisis

This post originally appeared on VICE Canada

The story of today's prescription opioid overdose crisis didn't start this year, or ten years ago, or even 100 years ago. It starts with a plant—the opium poppy—that has been a part of human civilization for thousands of years.

Papaver somniforum, literally, 'sleep-bringing poppy,' is the scientific name for the type of poppy that produces opium, which humanity has relied on since before history was even a concept. Along with wheat, the opium poppy is one of the world's oldest cultivated plants, with some estimates suggesting that humans have been growing it for 10,000 years or more. It's been cultivated so widely we don't even know where it originates. Some think it's indigenous to the Eastern Mediterranean or the Swiss Alps, but frankly nobody really knows. What's clear, though, is that the relationship between humans and this strange and hardy plant (it can grow basically anywhere) goes beyond curiosity and into the realm of symbiosis.

There's a line from Lars Von Trier's Antichrist: "Nature is Satan's church," and perhaps there's no better example of the curious and uncanny relationships that form across species and time than the one between humans and the poppy. Opioids, the chemicals produced by papaver somniforum, somehow fit perfectly into the human body's opioid receptors, which are scattered throughout the brain, spinal cord, and digestive system, and this precise fit makes them exceptionally effective at suppressing pain. The geometry is so exact that some experts theorize that the opium plant and our neural architecture is the result of symbiotic co-evolution (some even think opium poppies shaped the development of human consciousness). The mystical pain-dampening plant on the one hand, the upright ape on the other.

So when we talk about today's opioid crisis, we're really talking about just the latest chapter in an inter-species relationship that spans millennia. That's important to remember because for all their potential harms, opioids are a critical part of human civilization given their unique capacity to numb our pain. The issue, then, isn't so much how we stop people from using opioids, but instead how we make sure that these drugs bring us the most benefits with the fewest harms.

Unfortunately, over the past few decades it seems that the harms of opioids are increasingly outweighing their benefits in North America, to the point where governments are declaring public health emergencies in response to epidemics of opioid overdose deaths. In Ontario, one in eight deaths among young adults are the result of opioid overdoses, while drug overdose—driven primarily by opioids—is the leading cause of accidental death in the United States. But how did we get here? The answer is a cautionary tale about the power of Big Pharma, the unintended consequences of government intervention, and the tenacity of drug markets.

Purdue Pharmaceuticals. Photo via Doug Healey/Associated Press

OxyContin has been widely hailed as a wonder drug and in many ways, it is. A prescription drug with billions in R&D behind it, OxyContin was put on the market in 1996 as a fast-acting, controlled release formulation of oxycodone, which is an opioid used to treat moderate to severe pain, and which was originally designed to treat cancer patients. In its first year on the market, OxyContin sales reached $48 million; in 2000—just four years later—annual sales had reached almost $1.1 billion, representing an increase of roughly 2,200 percent. It remained among the top 20 best-selling drugs in the US until 2013, when it was taken off the market. By the conventional metrics of the pharmaceutical industry, then, OxyContin was a massive and highly profitable success.

Part of that success, though, wasn't just a natural result of OxyContin's effectiveness as an opioid painkiller. Purdue Pharma, the pharmaceutical giant that developed the drug, also threw millions behind marketing the drug to its key customer base: medical doctors. This meant, for instance, holding over 40 all-expense-paid conferences for over 5,000 attendees and paying out $40 million in bonuses to Purdue sales reps in the first five years OxyContin was on the market. In some cases, the marketing strategies verged into the ridiculous, as with Purdue Pharma's creation of a promotional song—"Get in the Swing with OxyContin"—to try to entice doctors to prescribe the drug.

Other strategies went further. One of the major breakthroughs in expanding the number of OxyContin prescriptions came with Purdue Pharma's decision to switch focus from marketing OxyContin as a drug to manage cancer-related pain—a relatively stable market—and instead promote it as an effective and safe treatment for the more nebulous class of "chronic non-malignant pain" (aka, non-cancer pain), a market that was exploding in the late 1990s. It was a masterstroke, and it paid off: between 1997 and 2002, there was a near tenfold increase in OxyContin prescriptions in the US for chronic non-malignant pain, from 670,000 to 6.2 million annually. It was the opening up of a massive new market for opioids that would prove incredibly profitable: Purdue Pharma made nearly $3 billion in revenues from OxyContin in the first five years it was on the market.

The true genius, though, was Purdue Pharma's use of granular geographic data to identify doctors with the highest OxyContin prescribing patterns in specific area codes, and then targeting those clinicians with marketing materials that included patient coupons for free 30-day trials of OxyContin prescriptions (as laid out in a American Journal of Public Health review.) The idea was that these techniques would help identify doctors with the highest number of chronic pain patients. Of course, it also opened up the possibility, if not the probability, that Purdue Pharma was pushing doctors who were already over-prescribing OxyContin to ramp their prescriptions up even further.

Photo via Toby Talbot/Associated Press

In some cases, Purdue Pharma's marketing verged on the sinister and even crossed into the illegal. Nowhere was this more obvious than in the pharmaceutical giant's downplaying of the addictive potential of OxyContin, which it did in a multitude of ways. In 2010, two doctors at St. Michael's Hospital, a teaching hospital affiliated with the University of Toronto's medical school (and where I hold a position), started voicing concerns about pharmaceutical industry involvement in a pain management course that was part of U of T's med school curriculum. It turned out that the lecturer for the course, Dr. Roman Jovey, was a member of Purdue Pharma's speakers' bureau and was paid by the company to lecture. Worse, a book on pain management that was co-authored by Dr. Jovey and funded by Purdue had been used as a textbook within the class. In the book, free copies of which were given to U of T medical students, oxycodone (the active agent in OxyContin) was described as a moderate-intensity opioid despite the fact that it is twice as potent as morphine. It was also characterized as having a low risk for addiction among non-malignant pain patients, despite the fact that at the time, rates of opioid dependence among patients prescribed OxyContin were soaring.

In 2007, during a time when the dangers of OxyContin over-prescribing were starting to become clear to public health experts, three top executives at a subsidiary of Purdue Pharma pled guilty to fraud and paid $600 million for "misbranding" OxyContin as a result of the company's claims that the drug was less addictive than other comparable opioid-based drugs like Percocet or Vicodin. In internal Purdue Pharma documents dating to before OxyContin was marketed, company officials expressed concerns that they would face resistance from medical doctors concerned about the potential for patients to become addicted. Despite these doubts, Purdue Pharma went full steam ahead in marketing the drug as having a "reduced-risk" for addiction; in the court case, it was found that this constituted fraudulent and deceptive marketing, and in a guilty plea, Purdue Pharma agreed, with the company stating that "e accept responsibility for those past misstatements and regret they were made."

By the time public health experts started sounding the alarm about the addictive potential of OxyContin, the damage was done. Beginning in the early 2000s the infusion of billions of OxyContin pills into the drug market had caused a seismic shift in drug use patterns, with increases in heroin use and injection drug use among working-class white people in suburban and rural communities across North America for the first time in decades. Purdue Pharma had wedged open a massive new market of people seeking to numb their pain, aided and abetted by a legion of clinicians without the requisite knowledge about the drug's dangers and a lack of expertise in managing the associated risks. But now, the market was out of control. The alarm had been sounded. It was time to act.

There's a phenomenon to describe the ways that trying to intervene in one part of a drug market can make things worse elsewhere. It's called the Balloon Effect, for the way that squeezing one part of a balloon causes other parts to expand, and it's surprisingly common in the history of the drug war. When the US tried to stop cocaine production by eradicating coca leaf cultivation in Colombia, for instance, all that the aerial spraying and destruction of millions of hectares of farmland did was spread production to Colombia's neighbors, Bolivia and Peru. When a sudden drop in the availability of heroin in Australia occurred in 2001,the number of heroin users plummeted, but was offset by a similar increase in the number of people using cocaine and amphetamines. The problem is, basically, that if you don't first reduce demand for a drug, trying to control supply in a global economy only incentivizes drug traffickers to find new supply routes or new drugs to bring to the market.

So it has gone with efforts to control North America's opioid problem, and why it is that we are now facing an even graver crisis than in the era when OxyContin prescriptions were at their peak. Instead of meaningfully scaling up effective treatment for people who became addicted to OxyContin, the major policy change was the removal of OxyContin by Purdue Pharma from the North American market in 2012 and its replacement with OxyNEO, which the company claims is tamper-resistant (i.e., harder to crush up, snort, or inject). The timing of this swap out, though, caused some experts to grow suspicious: in Canada, OxyNEO was introduced just a few months before the patent on OxyContin was set to expire, meaning that it was also an effective way for Purdue Pharma to protect its market share.

Worse, efforts by government agencies and medical associations to reduce opioid prescribing failed to make a meaningful dent. How could it, given that doctors had been acculturated into believing that drugs like OxyContin weren't actually that dangerous, and chronic pain patients had grown accustomed—and in many cases, dependent on—a steady supply of opioids? Instead, with OxyContin's removal, fentanyl, an opioid painkiller 50 to 100 times more powerful than morphine and which carries an even higher risk of overdose, became the opioid of choice to fill the prescription void.

And this is where the Balloon Effect comes into play: without expanded access to treatment, the demand for opioids hasn't gotten smaller. Reducing the supply of opioids like OxyContin, has only served to shift the market to more dangerous ones like fentanyl. As a second wave of alarm has spread about fentanyl, some doctors have become unwilling to treat chronic pain patients at all. The result? The market—this time, contraband fentanyl and lesser known carfentanil (developed as an elephant tranquilizer and 10,000 times more powerful than morphine)—have been filling the void, with deadly but predictable results. The question is, of course, where continuing along this path will get us. If beer was taken off the market, people would drink wine. If wine was taken off, people would drink hard liquor. If hard liquor was taken off, people would drink industrial alcohol. So it goes with opioids, and why we've moved from OxyContin (1.5 times as strong as morphine) to fentanyl (50-80 times more powerful) to carfentanil (10,000 times more powerful).

So how does this cycle stop? Sadly, there is no quick fix when it comes to opioids. Simply banning painkillers would doom hundreds of thousands of people who are legitimately suffering with pain to a barbaric and excruciating existence. And when the problem was caused by a billion-dollar fraud perpetrated on an unsuspecting public via one of the most trusted pillars—medical doctors—the solution is just too damn big to be easily dealt with. What's clear though, is that the cycle of squeezing the supply without addressing the demand for opioids will only get us into increasingly more dangerous territory. Instead, we need a broad recognition that the pharmaceutical market is just one part of a larger drug market that includes illegal drugs and regulated substances like alcohol, and that intervening on supply in one part of this larger market will have ripple effects across the whole enterprise. If we fail to come to this realization, we'll be dooming ourselves to the opioid overdose epidemic becoming a permanent fixture of our society. Do we really want to live in a world where we have to worry about one tiny grain of carfentanil killing kids who are experimenting with drugs? In the long history of our symbiotic relationship with opioids, that would be the saddest ending of all.

Dr. Daniel Werb is an epidemiologist and policy analyst with expertise in the fields of HIV, addictions, and drug policy.

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