Friday, May 1, 2009

Day 3: The Worst Acid Trip Ever

I drifted in and out of sleep for something like a day and a half. Every few hours or so, a doctor (or a guy who looked like a doctor, anyway) would interrupt my dreams and bring me some wannabe drugs, present them to me through the bars of my prison cell, and, with a sympathetic smile, assure me I would be ok soon. And while the drugs did help to kill the pain ringing in my skull, they did nothing to kill the real pain - the fear and loathing burning deep in my guts.

During my time cruising the CK in search of evil, before the Mormons brought me back to life as a twenty-one year old in the year 2009, when my existence still made some sense, I ran into Achilles (yes, the Achilles) at a party. We spent two days avoiding Jesus and his angelic entourage of douche bags, snorting coke off the back ends of prostitutes, talking philosophy, and hunting Wild Celestial Boar. We talked about how we'd both take being regular, working class stiffs on Earth, over being a celebrity in the CK. Heaven isn't all it's cracked up to be. Life on Earth is far more interesting. Kolob is goddamned boring. Unless you spent a good portion of your life imprisoned. Those who had suffered imprisonment, for any period of time, seemed perfectly content with the CK. I was beginning to understand why.

The doctor came to the bars again wearing the same shit-eating grin, with the same plastic dixie cup, containing the same weak-ass drugs, as he did just a few hours before that. "How are you doing this evening, Hunter?"

"What the fuck am I doing here, doc? This is, like, an acid trip gone all wrong, man. Did someone give me some bad drugs or something? Are you really Gabriel in disguise, you douche bag, here to punish me for all the drinking and whoring I've been doing? Am I still in the CK? Am I in hell? I promise I won't drink or whore on the Sabbath anymore, if that's what you're worried about. Just get me the fuck outta here, man."

The doctor looked pleased and offended by my schizophrenic rant. "You're your old self again, I see," he said, trying to hand me my drugs.

I grabbed his arm and pulled him close, to where he could see the madness in my eyes, like an avalanche of sorrow powerful enough to consume him and make him insane with rage, become like Isaac, and attempt to murder his firstborn son, and he started flailing wildly and screaming for help.

"What's wrong with you?" He yelled, demanding an explanation.

"I need a cigarette," I spat in his face. "Bring me a cigarette."