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Journey Through Living-Room Walls

by Doctor Beard


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I think it was about 7pm on that mentally fatal Saturday evening that we dropped the first lot of LSD. The music was blasting, distorted from the speakers positioned on the floor. The room flooded with soft dimmed lights, candles creating just enough extra light for your mind to really go to work on you. We sat about, smoked, ranted, waiting for the drugs to hit.

An hour passed. Boredom and frustration set in.

"This was supposed to be strong." I said, "I say we do the rest, I'm just not getting anything"

Now this statement was not entirely true, the arousal of faint double vision was there and the copper mouth too, lurking on the edge ready to bite you in the neck when you let your guard down.

The toilet trip was the ultimate test.

"I'm going for a shit, okay?"

Vale, then we do the rest, no?

Si.

The toilet was uninspiring. This toilet was no good I thought. No cheap tiles with patterns on, no stark light, just a maroon bath, chipped and flaking and me sat shitting. It came quick and fast cleaning my insides, that's always a good sign, more with ecstasy though. The carpet began moving, faint Aztec and geometric patterns pulsing and turning into more of the same.

Check the mirror.

All seemed well, I look normal.

Flush chain, wash hands, Leave toilet, take more acid!

Within ten minutes the living room took on orange and red hues soaking everything in it. Red and green neon darted over walls, furniture and people; there are people in the room.

Guapa Morena began dancing. That would be the last I would see of her for a while, things were rising pretty damn fast. I was on the floor. I made an attempt to move crumpling into a heap on the futon managing to acquire what could have been a strewn duvet. My body felt like it weighed a ton; the legs weren’t going to take it. Talk was not happening, mouth betrayed me, believe me I tried but it just came out the same, a strange slurping noise.

I checked the clock; it took a while to aim at it but my sight broke through in the end.

Jesus Christ, I thought, We only dropped the second lot twenty minutes ago. We may be in trouble.

The music had become drunken, I think it was Ween, but I couldn’t be sure.

The TV spilled images of green and yellow women onto breathing floors, stretched pallid skin with blue veins spat golden sparks of ozone from ruptured warts. Wondrous squirts of stars absorbed by Arabic carvings. Pillars of gold and stone rose up to dark wooden structures, vines and fruit clung to gazebos, high above North African buildings that framed the swirling clouds rolling high above the ceiling.

Primitive caves in terracotta stone restrained snarling Dobermans held back by their ferocious owners on dirty ropes. Drooling froth and blood filled mouths of twisted teeth, which lay beyond lips of broken wooden branches.

Reality struck hold for a second, I was lying on the sofa, covered in the duvet pulled up to my chin, I couldn't see Guapa but I knew she was there somewhere.

There was a massive rush, I remember images of massive freight trains hurtling towards me and then everything was green and alive.

Spanish women danced in circles of green and red, three and four arms stretched out their blue hands. Black skinned legs covered in elastic metal twisted and spun; leg's swapped sides and melted together into thorny structures glistening like eel skin. Red sky's filled with green and purple swirling clouds. Foreign skies, strange planets rose just off the shore of crashing alien seas. Jesus God, where's Jodie Foster? A cracked Earth of plain, dried, sun scorched yellow earth.

Green and white iced terrain spun off into space. Abandon ship goddammit, every man for himself. Then everything fell silent, hanging in a vast black hole pulling me into another vast universe; stars passed by at high velocity. I could see the void opening up before me, into our universe, the star patterns were recognizable to me, I seen this sky before. Dark asteroids passed on close by, smashing into discarded space junk; I wonder how long they have been there I thought.

From behind me Earth rolled into view. Clouds clinging to it's surface, hanging over North Africa casting a vast shadow down the continent.

Raining in North Africa.

It's raining.

The music had stopped. The sudden realization of such abrupt silence rocked me, was this the point in the movie where you see the silhouette of the killer in the kitchen doorway, your own knife in his hand. There was no one in the room, or even the house it seemed, but me.

The rain lashed down outside I could here it spilling over the gutters and splashing down to the concrete patio area.

Guapa Morena walked back into the room, the biggest grin on her face I had ever seen, I was laying on the sofa still, the duvet and several layers of clothing discarded. I was in the sweats.

The silence was shattered by an amazing chorus of Redneck jive that spiraled me off into signs of burning crosses and nazi signs; fast cars and booze fueled rides. Down dark country lanes at high speed, the stereo cranking out Robert Mitchums Thunder Road. It was around this time that the hopelessness of the situation became apparent. Then the uncontrollable laughter started.

I remember babbling something like "This is the strongest acid I've had since the Double Dipped Red Dragon of christmas ninety one." Then realizing what had happened that fateful night. A case of the shits had jolted me hard, what I left in the toilet I interpreted as my lower digestive system. Everywhere was splattered with blood and I had an incredibly empty feeling where my arse hole used to be. The rest of the evening became a hellish ride in a room that filled with hate and fear.

What the hell is that?

A figure stood on the mantle piece, fat pink worms slipped around his body and over the long trench coat.

Neon, green, red, purple green, red, purple. The figure slumped to the side, catching his step. On his shoulder a crow flapped it's wings frantically. The figure tries to move, he looks down. Two large nails, more like chisels, have been hammered through his feet securing him to a large resin stand. Undeterred, he wrenches himself free, propping himself on his Remington shotgun. He looks up at me.

He's a soldier, I thought, probably First World War, injured too.

Blood covered his bandaged face and the gun was replaced with a cheap dirty wooden crutch. He limped forward a few steps then fell forwards. But he never hit the ground, the motion reversed, he recoiled back revealing a white skeletal face, a heavy black robe hid the rest of his body. He was sat in a great chair, in his right hand a large scythe, five foot long. The mists cleared behind him revealing a landscape that could only appear on a Yes album cover. No! I don't want that, is this all you can give me after all these years of loyalty, fucking Yes album covers. It was then I recognized the skeletal man, the image conjured up thoughts of childhood half dreams, in the time between as you're going to sleep and being sleep, and this guy was there.

"I've seen you too before"

So don't give me that. Did I just say that or think it?

There was a joint, half smoked in my hand. I fumbled around for a lighter. It must be around here somewhere. Smoking could be the only answer; the general feeling was getting ugly. There it is.

I was sat on the floor, now wearing shorts, a T-shirt with cut sleeves and sports sandals, black.

When did I get in these, I thought, I don't remember moving, but I must have cause I'm now down here.

There was a small glass bong in front of me, had I smoked it already, or was I just planning to?

I loaded the bong, smoked it and lay back on the floor. I could see the kitchen, a brown and dirty ashtray. The floor bubbled, spitting fat. It had turned into cheese and began browning under the huge ceiling grill. It was getting hot again. I felt very light headed. There seemed to be smoke everywhere. That copper taste was back in my mouth, a dirty old two pence coin under the tongue.

Music began to creep in again. So did the green and red, little darts of light. The music got louder, the darts of light grow in number and ferocity. What music is that? If you don't know now, you never will. Someone was laughing at me. I wanted to get up and find out who this evil person was who would laugh at a man in this depraved state, but before I could make my move my head filled with numbers, thousands of them. All of them, traveling downwards, almost like they were being pushed. Now images, low resolution, photographs, electrical and digital diagrams. Faster now, texts I had never seen before in vibrant blues that turned into massive liquorice torpedo pills. Pieces of wire frame geometry came from all sides of me, heading towards my central point of vision. As they began to join up, the motion got faster, pieces shot past me at a hundred miles an hour, trails of deep yellow everywhere. The thing in front of me began shaking violently, pieces still smashing into place. It better stop in a minute, I thought, or there'll be hell to pay. Then the last piece, what looked like a fifty-foot long toilet brush, hurtled over head and slammed into the vibrating mass, sparks exploded everywhere. My god we're on fire, do something. The thing in front of me exploded, filling all my vision with white light.

"My Head hurts"I blurted.

How do I get out of this thing, too much data godammit, you must have blown a fuse or something up there.

The skeletal face appeared in front of me. Jesus, he looks pissed. Mouth open, he made a lunge for me, but I ducked.

"Just a minute, you crazy bastard." I said, "How the hell do I get out of here?"

The skull drove his shiny white cranium straight at me,

"Open your eyes you arse hole!"

The room seemed stark, dark. You could feel a vibe in the air. Something was coming. I remembered earlier in the evening, Guapa Morena had said something like, For the coming of it all. I didn't pay much attention at the time but now it seemed like there was something there. Did it mean something? What made me remember that earlier point of the evening, I couldn't remember anything else, just that one point in time. The more I thought about it, the more complicated it got.

Heavy textured imprints spiraled across the walls that seemed to be dripping nicotine. Thick amber lung juice slowly sliding down to the carpet, bits dropping off, it was that thick.

Solid visible streams of music poured into the room, they looked like the reflections of a lake a foot above the ground, someone else had seen this trip before, I remembered seeing it on TV. A bunch of university professors got two volunteers to take LSD so they could witness the responses the two men had. One of the volunteers said he could see music coming out of the speaker. In my opinion this guy had done it before, he looked broken already.

Streams of this musical ribbon filled the front room.

There were four giant lizards on the wall playing cards over a crap table. They were all smoking and drinking cheap red wine. The cards were already on the table, all but the lizard at the top of the table.

He leaned forwards, laying down his hand, a royal flush. Top lizard leaned over the crap table to take his winnings; he looked up at me, grinning insanely. He wore a pair of those cheap imitation black Ray-Ban sunglasses, two pounds ninety nine as I last recall.

The other three Lizards lunged for him, loosing their footing. All four tumbled out of the wall and onto the floor. As they hit, they sprouted torn ears, dirty brown fur, worm like tails and huge yellow claws.

Jesus Gods, there's rats all over the floor, nasty looking fuckers too. They instantly started scampering round insanely and eating the carpet. I looked back up at the wall, unable to grasp the idea of four giant rats eating everything in this room, possible even me, they were going to spot me soon enough. There was now a hole in the wall where the crap table had been. Through the hole, darkness. No wait, I could see things moving. Eyes, no, a body, something hairy. Hundreds of huge dirty brown rats began throwing themselves out of the hole in the wall; others clambered down the wall, widening the hole. They were everywhere, fat, foul smelling, eating everything in site.

I jumped up; "Jesus jumping H Christ, this room is full of Rats!"

All the rats stopped eating and turned to stare at me then began talking amongst themselves. They seemed unsure as to whom I was talking about. "You better calm down man," came a voice, "I'd say you lost it right about now. Look at the state of you."

From then on things got very hazy, a resting room filled with bong and pipe smoke, music and the disjointed aspect that life takes at four in the morning when you're high on LSD, hash and marijuana.

The television was on, it spilled freaked out Nazi dustmen, who spoke of loving children and killing any man that wronged him. On the News the London nail bomber, David Copeland had just been caught, a quiet, polite young man who liked to spend a lot of time in his bedroom, it seemed. Classic case, I thought, that's what happens. The good people are in their rooms building huge explosives and then there are the bad freaks like us, wrecked from an acid binge, turned to primeval jelly on a floor being eaten by giant rats. The revelations of the bombers involvement in a Nazi organization and his attempts to start a race war wouldn't be told for another year, but I think people already knew. His targets had been Brick Lane and Brixton, both multiethnic communities and a London Soho Gay bar. He couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen. At that age I had my first joint. A late starter by all counts, no one around to teach me so I guessed I'd have to dive straight in.

By the end of nineteen ninety-three the people, including myself, and the landscape had become very ugly, but the summer of that year was the height of my drug frenzy, quite a good summer by British standards. And not a drought all summer, everything flowed through that fated top floor flat that summer and I took my fair share. It was a time of anger, happy hate and rejection of all society could offer. There was no real culture to it, just a bunch of chemically confused young mutants that took it as far as it could go for the plain and simple reason of why not? Some of them never came back from what I heard.

The world is a very different place now, seven years later, everything dynamic and mobile. A world where business and money control everything, its economically viable to rip that person off, all the men in the office aspire to be the guy in American Psycho, axing your work associates to death for fear that they may be just that bit better than you. Got to have the right car, the right clothes, the right woman, the right position in the office. They all seem to aspire to be the nineteen eighties yuppie ideal, it's now hip to be in Grey business, no matter what it is, you can always ham it up when asked. Everything all your nineteen eighties punk albums told you it would be. Is this what we are supposed to aspire to, is this what adult life is meant to be in the twenty-first century? If so I want no part of it, this gig ain't for me. The only enjoyable thing in the very corporate world of the computer game industry is watching all the other stray mutants crawling out of the woodwork. And you can spot the mutants a mile off, it' s like they look at you and they know. Monsters from the dance and acid generations of the late eighties and early nineties.

I sit in that office most days and it feels like my head is going to burst. I want to dance naked on my desk and hurl the monitor through the window into the building site below. I never did it, not yet anyway. Maybe that day will come, maybe not, but for now things were peaceful, life was good, Guapa Morena sat next to me glaring at the TV like she wanted to kill it. We were stoned, ripped, broken, wrecked and we were more the wiser for it.

 
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