Say No To Drugs

I know I'm not the only one that's had this happen to him, and I can't be. I'm sure some of you know what I'm talking about. That moment they hit and you realize something's off. The moment you realize it's not just a bad trip, and what you took has gone bad. You know, like expired antibiotics or Tylenol. For most of my adult life, I did little more than smoke weed with the occasional. You know, acid was my preference, but I wouldn't shy away from some mushrooms if they were easier to find. Three months ago I felt the urge to have another spiritually lifted night, as I tend to call it. So I call up the guy I usually talk to when acquiring my vision quest materials, and he told me something strange. Hey, Bert, I. I don't work tomorrow, so I thought, I'd make my night a little special. Do you have anything available?

Bert's voice travels through the phone and then unusually somber tone. Yeah, I got something for you. But. But what? Some people have been hitting me up saying there's something weird about this batch. Oh yeah, Weird how? They don't say. They don't seem to like it from how they're acting. So. So. I don't know. Maybe it's a strong batch and they just don't like the intensity.

As I said, it's just a guess though. I sat there on the phone letting an awkward silence hang in the air for a few minutes as I thought it over. I didn't work the next day and it had been a few months since I had anything more than some good bud, but it was my only option when it came to drugs anyway. When you're younger, it's a lot easier to find people. The drugs that you're looking for. However, as you get older, everyone just assumes you're a cop. Nobody will sell you anything. Burt cleared his throat at the other end of the line, pulling me out of my head and hinting at me to continue the conversation. Yeah, sorry. Yeah, I'll take my usual three. I'll head out, and I'll make my way over to pick them up for me in a minute. OK, but just realize that I did warn you about this batch.

Yeah, I get it. Don't worry. Warning received. Your hands are clean. With that final statement, I hung up and began to gather my things to head out to my car. Something about the situation. Maybe it was something that Bert had said about the batch that burrowed into the back of my mind. The little mind, leach of an uncomfortable feeling, wouldn't let go and leave the drive over to Bert's house filled with suspicion. On the one hand, this wasn't the first time I had accepted acid he said. Others had thought was too strong. Those times, proved to be just what I was looking for to propel me into a night of speaking with other dimensional beings flying amongst the stars with a heavy trip. Yet on the other hand, that little brain slug of doubt in the back of my mind wouldn't allow my nerves to settle.

When I finally reached Bert's house, my excitement for a good night, managed to overcome the strange feeling I received from our other conversation. Bert and I have been friends for years and years at that point. The two of us had gone to the same high school and remained relatively close after graduation. He only sold weed back in high school, but has since grown his cloak-and-dagger business into providing various hallucinogenics. Typically had either shrooms or acid or sometimes both. Occasionally he would have ecstasy, but that was rare. I often had no interest in that. He once had peyote. It was only that one time, but damn was that intense endeavor. As I walked into his home, he sat at the table separating little paper tabs. His performing this task was in no way odd to me. I had seen him do it hundreds of times.

The part that I found unusual about this particular instance was that he was wearing gloves. Never wore gloves for this, often micro-dosing himself as he separated hits. So in a way, it was a little bonus for him beside the money. Hey, what's with the gloves, dude? I asked, not being able to rein in my curiosity. It's just like a precaution. I told you, man, there's something strange about these sheets. I mean, just look at it. I looked at a small square of paper with a grid of perforations, creating a 10 by 10 sheet of 100 total hits. I immediately knew what he was talking about. Instead of a transparent liquid dripping over a clean white sheet of blotted paper, it was orange. I don't mean there was a slight yellowing as if the mixture was potent or anything.

I mean that it was nearly neon orange and somewhat streaked. Whoa dude, is that normal? Did you get this from a different guy or something? No, I got it from the same guy, but I sat back staring at him for what felt like an eternity just waiting for him to finish his sentence when it ever came. I tried coaxing the rest of what he was saying out of it, but what? Bro, you can't just stop mid-sentence like that. Leave me hanging. He seemed to snap out of his impromptu trance, gathering 3 little tabs that held them out to me before speaking, but he was acting strange and I picked this up from him. Yeah, I said as I held out my hand, letting him drop the three hits in my palm. Strange how I don't know how to describe it. It was like he had a secret or maybe just a little over-paranoid. Come to think of it, his pupils seemed dilated, so he may have been tripping when I got them.

Now that I think about that possibility, it doesn't seem strange. No shit, man. If he was tripping, then of course he's going to be acting a little strange. I don't think that I would read into it too much. With that, I paid him and began to walk out the door to my car. When I reached the door, I realized that the three hits were just sitting in my palm. I had no bag or container to place them in for the trip home. I stood at the door, contemplating how to solve this seemingly minuscule problem. Apparently, I had stood staring back and forth from my hand to the doorknob for much longer than I realized, and Bert called out to me. Hey, Jim, you coo