(Read ~6 minutes)
Snapping out of the acid trip, shivering at the foot of a bed in a dimly lit room, naked, except for my socks, I lifted my head and saw Wildberry and the friend cuddled under a blanket at the head of the bed. A bubbling lava lamp on the nightstand lit up one side of their faces, the rest lost in shadow. My movement aroused their interest.
“Hey, he’s back with us again,” Wildberry said.
“I’m freezing,” I said as my body spasmed to warm itself up.
“We tried to give you a blanket, but you called yourself a sex machine and claimed you needed to cool down,” Wildberry responded.
“And you kept asking us to keep you properly lubed,” the friend added. “It was amusing at first, annoying after a while.”
In the background, over my chattering teeth, Clem sang from an unseen speaker in the room.
Good and evil,
one and the same,
depending on blame.
They are, you are,
we are, so far.
Still shaking in the chill, I asked the time. Wildberry shrugged. “Probably around twelve.”
“Shit! Really?! I’ve been spaced out for like nine-plus hours, then.”
My assessment elicited a laugh from them both. Wilberry shook her head. “The day is tomorrow already. You’ve been tripping since yesterday afternoon, over twenty hours.”
“What the hell?” I exclaimed, rolling off the bed, trying to stand up and cover myself at the same time.
“No need for modesty, sweetie. We’ve opened the package already,” the friend joked.
“How the hell did my trip last twenty hours?”
“You asked for another dose. So you got one.”
“Not cool, I don’t remember asking for more acid.”
“Actually, you didn’t ask. You insisted,” Wildberry clarified.
“Damn it! Where’s my underwear? I can’t find my underwear,” I whined in a panic. “Where the hell is my underwear?”
“Calm down, all is well. We tossed your clothes over here.” Wildberry pointed at an armchair next to the nightstand. She whistled at my package as I approached. Clem continued singing.
Shed the guilt,
laid upon you,
for what they do.
They are, you are,
we are, so far.
My jeans were strewn on the chair, without my underwear. Putting my pants on quickly without them, I felt the pockets for my wallet and phone and breathed a sigh of relief to find them. For obvious reasons, my messages stayed unchecked, specifically from my wife, although a story to brush off any of her concerns was already forming in my head. Until then, I needed time to find my underwear.
“The rest of your stuff is here somewhere,” Wildberry said. “You whipped your shirt around, helicopter style, convinced you could fly. Where did he say he wanted to go?” she asked her friend.
“The moon.”
“Always a fun choice, especially the dark side.”
Pushing aside the heartwarming stories of my acid-induced idiocy, I interrupted to find the bathroom.
“The pisser is through there.” Wildberry pointed at a door across the room. My pace quickened to the sound of catcalls from the ladies. Before rushing inside the bathroom, one last lesson came from Clem.
A reason to live,
an urge to kill,
exists, always will.
They are, you are,
we are, so far.
Shutting the door quickly, I swiped my hand against the wall, feeling for the light switch. When the overhead light turned on, I nearly had a heart attack. Another person, a woman, was already in there, facing the mirror with her back turned towards me. I dropped my eyes and apologized, turned and tried to open the door. The knob spun in my hand and the door wouldn’t open, no matter how much I yanked. Twisting back for another glimpse of the woman, I gasped when La Bohème smiled at me. Rainbows swirled inside her eyes and her hair puffed in a plume of white. I’m certain she levitated above the ground.
“Just so you know, I’m definitely still tripping,” I warned her. “Took a second to realize who you were. Really, anyone could be in here, because Wildberry is a freak; you already know. And by the way, speaking of freaks, you really should lock the doors on this building.”
La Bohème didn’t speak, so I kept talking quickly in a pitched volume. “While researching prophets, I’ve realized being controversial and failing to take proper precautions is dangerous. Have you ever heard about the Bàb? His enemies in Persia put him up against a wall in front of a firing squad. But, every bullet missed. Can you believe it? In divine intervention, the bullets actually cut the ropes used to bind him to the wall, temporarily setting him free and allowing him to run and hide. But, his enemies eventually found him, tied him back up and shot him; no one missed the second time. A mob ultimately threw his dead body in a ditch for wild dogs to scavenge.”
La Bohème listened without commenting on the Bàb.
“I’d hate to see violence happen to you. Stay strong, stay weird, just be careful in the process. Of course, if you do get killed, come back and appear after you’re dead, pretty compelling to a lot of people.”
She cocked her head to the side as if thinking, eyes still spinning, hair still poofy. Silently, she extended her left hand and unfolded her fingers, exposing a fortune cookie in its plastic wrapper, which she held out to me. I took the offering and lowered my head to get a closer look, taking my eyes off her for only a few seconds. “Awesome! Wasn’t sure I’d get an actual fortune cookie from you.” I raised my head to look at her again, but she was gone.
What the hell?! Where did she go?
I turned and opened the bathroom door without issue and stuck my head into the bedroom, peeked left and right. La Bohème wasn’t there.
“Who were you talking to in there?” Wildberry asked me.
“Did La Bohème just come out of the bathroom?”
“No. Of course not.”
Just then, cops kicked in the apartment door with their guns drawn, flooding the room, yelling, “Hands in the air! Don’t move!”
I was blinded by a bright flashlight and a cop threw me to the floor. A hand on the back of my head pressed my face into my missing underwear. The cops cuffed my wrists behind my back, and I lay there for a few minutes until being lifted off the ground by my elbows and stood on my feet. I couldn’t help myself and asked the cops what the hell was going on, figuring we were busted for acid.
“Shut the fuck up,” one of them growled, while pushing me out of Wildberry’s bedroom with a shove in the back. We walked through her living room and out of her apartment into the common hallway, down to the parlor. Wildberry and the friend were herded in behind me, crying, their hands cuffed behind their backs, unable to wipe the streaking makeup from their faces. A motley group of people rounded up from around the apartment building joined us in groups. Once in the parlor, everyone stayed silent like the cops warned.
In the hallway, one cop muttered to another. “Happened at least eight to ten hours ago.”
Their meaning became clear to everyone a few seconds later when a stretcher carrying a zipped, black body bag rolled past the parlor and out the front door to the street. The room erupted in howls and moans. La Bohème was dead. There could be no other explanation for the feeling flooding out of the apartment building.
Arlo Gust 