Drug Stories, Vol. 2

This story takes place in the same house as the last installment. It was late at night, tripping off of blotter acid on plain, white paper. Ric and I climbed up onto the roof of his house. Sitting up there, among the branches of the huge trees that overlooked the house, we hit the bong and looked out over the suburban street. On College Station Road, a cop pulled a speeder over. For the sake of safety, I assume, they pulled off of the main road and parked directly in front of us. And yes, it was a perfect, childish indulgence of transgressive impulses to sit on the roof of the house, tripping our balls off, smoking a bong, watching a cop write a ticket a few yards in front of us.

After they left, we laid back on the roof and looked up at the branches above us, finding patterns in the leaves. I began to make out a shape directly above us, where the branches of two large trees overlapped, of a man, arms and legs outstretched. "Look," I pointed out, "You can see the figure of Superfly Snuka doing a flying body slam off the top ropes onto us." We laughed at this a while. The more we looked at it the more clear it became, and the funnier it was. Then it got to the point where we couldn't not see it, not think about it, and I began to feel distinctly uneasy. Imagine spending the rest of eternity with the knowledge that Superfly Snuka's body is going to come crashing down on your face in the next moment. I believe this is the fate to Dante assigned to "heels." We became so wigged out by this that we had to go inside.

Later that night, I crashed in one of the beds in the house, but I couldn't get to sleep. Even though I was in doors, I knew that that sonofabitch was out there, above the house, ready to bodyslam the entire structure to splinters.

For reference: