by Fishspit

     I was sitting outside the cupcake shop with R.B. The cupcake shop’s me and Virgil the Okie’s regular spot; but I wanted a fucking cupcake . . . so I went on without Virg, and went with R.B. instead. “Fishspit!” said R.B. “You sold out! I remember when you’d drop ten hits of acid and throw a brick through a plate glass window and whoop like a mad-man, and now you’re sitting here eating a fucking cupcake!” “I know R.B. . . . I know. I’ll be the first to admit it. I’m washed up. I’m done. All I gots left is my stories . . . old ones . . . useless ones. I don’t have any magic left. Nothing new to tell anymore. Scared of the cops, scared of the hoodlums, scared of the jails . . . I’m done . . . it’s over. I just want quiet . . . a nap.”
     “You used to have such fire!” he continued, “Remember that time you pissed off them twenty or so people . . . and they were chasing you . . . and you came upon some dude’s wood pile and you started hurling logs at them?” “No.” I said . . . “I don’t remember that. You handing me a line R.B.?” “No! It was beautiful! . . . well . . . at least until they gave you a good thrashing.” “OK R.B. if you saw this incident . . . which I don’t remember a bit of . . . which I’m sure you’re making up to show me off as the dumb-shit and the ‘mouth and trousers’ that I was . . . well, why the fuck weren’t you helping stop the beating these thugs were giving me?”

     “Christ Fishspit! You deserved everything you got back then! Christ almighty! You sure knew how to make enemies. It was almost a talent with you!” R.B. was giving me a pain. “I couldn’t of been that hated. I had a friend or two.” In all honesty, the five year period R.B. was talking about I don’t really remember.
     I wanted to change the subject. R.B. telling me what an alcoholic, flunkey, reject I’d been was getting me down. To tell the truth I was worried. I wasn’t dying fast enough for my tastes. What more can you do? A case of Hep C . . . scarring of the liver . . . cirrhosis making a little noise . . . noodle cooked; I’d sure done it up beautifully . . . I just needed a quiet place to croak . . . and hopefully enough people left who’d still take the time to carry my casket to the hearse . . . so my poor mother wouldn’t have to do it alone. It wasn’t just for me I had no hope for . . . it was for the whole shebang! I gave the whole lot of us less than fifty years . . . a pack of murderous lunatics! R.B. didn’t agree with me . . . certainly it wasn’t all over. He still believed in the great “cult of humanity.” “Humanity’s the worm filled anus of a dead dog R.B. . . . it’s done.” “You and your pessimism Fishspit!”
     I decided to throw in a little more hatred to get rid of the little pederast. I wanted to finish my cupcake in silence. I had nothing more to add to the world. R.B. and his ultra-humanitarianism . . . his great and beautiful society . . . the New Jerusalem! So much hope! I only had my worn out stories. Reminiscences were my thing. Sitting on a chair outside a cupcake shop and remembering. My little tales. When there’s no life left in you, you relive the moments that really zing-zung you. Good ones . . . bad ones . . . ones that make you cringe. The more terrifying the memory the more possible it will be that you’ll have a coronary . . . and be off this shit-hole. It’s gotten so dull . . . so tiring . . . most of the time it’s harder to finish your cupcake and soda than it is to just fall over dead.
     R.B. and his fucking “New Jerusalem” . . . There he was . . . babbling on about the beauty of the human soul (“filth encrusted” I interjected.) . . . the possibility of great things! It’s magnificence! It’s grandeur! It’s possibility of making earth a heaven! I wasn’t listening anymore. Humanity was a pair of grunting pigs in the middle of fornication. My mind had other places to go. Fuck humanity! Like I said, I wanted to reminiscences . . . I wanted to get rid of R.B. . . . get on with my little memories. 
     “R.B.” I interrupted . . . “Humanity is a cesspool . . . there is no humanity! It’s a word that doesn’t even exist! All is done for one’s own ends . . . everyone else be fucked! Christ! I’m sitting here listening to you babble your hogwash not because I like you (I don’t), but because I’m a pussy . . . I can’t say ‘no’ . . . I’d have rather smashed your face in as come out here and sit on the promenade with you . . . but I’m a wuss! You, your ugly puss, and your suck-fucked humanity! “ 
     R.B. didn’t care for this chatter much. It was awful unusual coming from the usually gentle and polite yours truly. He had one hell of a hurt look on his face . . . but I’d had it with his humhumhumanity . . . with his chatter boxing . . . with his fucking hope. As his dumb look started to molecularize into anger, I added, “Hope’s a teasing bitch! Once you get taken in by that charming thigh . . . that luscious frame . . . the sooner you’ve sold your soul and become a jabbering simp like you R.B. There’s nothing left R.B. . . . there never was anything to begin with. . . tricks and mirrors. . . youth was a fraud! All is absolutely nothing! There’s cupcakes and there’s sleep . . . and a few reminiscences . . . I’d tell you one if you weren’t such a yabbering jerk.”
     Since YOU aren’t such a blubbering simp, my dear reader, I’ll tell you one as soon as I get rid of this asshole. R.B. split . . . not even a word to put me in my place . . . hopped the rail . . . leaving me with the cupcake bill . . . there’s your ‘humanity’ for you. But me! Usually so mild mannered . . . treating him like that . . . wanting to show him his liver on a stiletto blade! But I wasn’t finished! “Viva humanity!” I shouted after him. He turned and hollered, “You’re a bitter old windbag, you puss head, diddlebrain! Go feed yourself to your cats!” That was his response as he hotfooted it down the sidewalk . . . off to preach his hogwash to some other simp. Sure I had the cupcake tab to pay . . . but I was finally alone. I spread my little cupcake wrapper out and folded it into fours . . . and I remembered a story . . . a little something to tell you. Great ideas?! I got none . . . but a tiny something to entertain you and me for a bit . . . make the weary hours a little less weary . . . maybe . . . I don’t know.
     I’ve never really told this story. I’ve definitely haven’t ever written it. Maybe a few times it’s been told . . . it just never seemed I’d ever be able to tell it in a way that’d capture it’s absolutely nutso-ness! Ha ha ha. It sure don’t make me look like a hero . . . ha ha ha . . . no . . . more like a bowl of swill-sour-brain-mash-wang-tang.
     Another tale of misery and insanity . . . but “a mere blip in the scheme of daily horrors” as the master says. Me and a girl. So much tragedy begins with the words “me and a girl.” First, let me tell you a minor detail . . . with this other asshole I owned thousands of hits of L.S.D. we got in Berkeley . . . back in 1986. Me and this girl . . . we went to a nice little lake with the sun and the ducks and the pretty green grass and perfectly yellow dandy-lions. We ate our L.S.D. About forty-five minutes later the girl was getting very high. I wasn’t. Fifteen minutes later I still wasn’t . . . and so I took another hit. Soon she was talking to blue ducks and watching seals fly about and I wasn’t seeing nothing but white ducks going “quack, quack” . . . I wanted to desperately catch up with her so I gobbled about a half sheet of acid . . . about fifty hits or so . . . complete abandon.
     Oh Lord have mercy I certainly caught up with her and passed her on the inside to take the lead! I went way, way beyond where I should of stopped. The girl, god bless her, told me a lot of the details later . . . stuff I couldn’t remember . . . but I recall vividly most of my hallucinations. I could write an entire book on the details and manifestations of the hallucinations, but other peoples acid-logs bore me so I ain’t gonna bore you with mine. You’ll see . . . this isn’t no little acid fairy tale. 
     I was incommunicado with the broad . . . she said she just followed me. I walked about town . . . not cognizant of her . . . I jumped fences, crossed people’s yards, kicked at barking dogs, just meandering about the neighborhoods.
     Now, I do remember coming to this fence. I remember this hallucination vividly . . . like it was yesterday. There was that fence. My poor comrade witnessed it all . . . watching from a safe distance . . . on her own trip . . . baffled how to handle this situation. She told me her perspective on it. Later, after I got out of the hospital I went back to look at it, “wow! What a fence.” But that’s for later. Presently we’re on my bizz bang bomp whacked out lunatic hallucinations . . . ones I got right here . . . in my memory . . . I can bring them back up . . . like it was yesterday. 
     That fence . . . when I hit it I hooked my fingers through the links . . . like one does when they want to be on the other side. I looked about me. I had a gang. I was the leader of the gang. It was obvious to me. But let’s do a little switching back and forth . . . let’s look at what the rest of the world seemed to be seeing. My pal . . . my patient (and scared) tail . . . she told me. I was standing there and there were four or five hobos . . . bums (this was a part of town that owned a lot of them . . . bums and down and outers, I mean) were surrounding me . . . for some reason! Talking to me. My girl, she was too far off to hear what they were saying to me, but they were saying stuff to me.
     Let’s switch back to my perspective . . . my splendid bit of enchanted realm. I had a gang . . . bums? No, I saw hoods . . . my hoods . . . like hoods from the fifties . . . Lords of Flatbush . . . 1956 . . . blue jeans rolled up over boots . . . white undershirts . . . black leather jackets . . . greased hair . . . a ducktail or two. My gang! I was dressed the same. Hoodlums! That’s what we were . . . and on the other side of the fence was a car-yard . . . and I was to go over the fence and steal a car. My gang . . . hoods all . . . they were egging me on! Their leader! The pack of swine! “Do it man,” . . . that’s what I heard . . . I remember one or two patting me on the shoulder (my gal pal told me later that several of the bums patted me on the shoulder but she didn’t know why.) “Go on!” So I did.
     I climbed over the fence . . . a tall fence . . . heavily barb-wired on the top. I got cut to ribbons . . . but that wasn’t part of the hallucination. No . . . it wasn’t until later . . . there in the hospital . . . under restraint, that it became apparent just how torn up my skin was. But I’m getting ahead of myself . . . my reminiscences . . . digesting a cupcake . . . going a little too far into the future. I gotta back off a little . . . keep you with me . . . my passengers . . . hang on to my dizzy little memories . . . but I remember it just like it was yesterday! Over the fence I went . . . and I made it. Upon reaching ground on the other side, the hallucination changed dramatically. Very, very much so. I found myself in a tropical paradise. Sand so warm! That sun! Such a brilliant sun . . . one to put on a postcard. There I was, all alone in paradise! It was nice. Palm trees . . . everything that’s supposed to be there . . . at least from the post cards I’d seen. I’d never really been to such a place before. Blue reefs! Paradise I tell you! Just like in the post-cards! Endless beach . . . not a soul to disturb such tranquility . . . the water certainly was inviting. I went for a swim . . . a splash about. Me . . . who can’t even swim. I did a little duck paddling . . . a little splashing about . . . flip flopping . . . enjoying paradise.
     Then came the storm troopers! An army of them! Dozens! From every side! Every angle! Thugs! Brown shirts! Black shirts! Some in helmets! Some not! They took me all right . . . and not too kittenishly either. I fought and they beat me some . . . but really not to bad . . . not as bad as I deserved . . . or as they could of . . . had they wanted to . . . mostly, I guess, they just wanted to subdue me. I was strapped down . . . four point restraint . . . on a stretcher and put into an ambulance. They shut the doors and everything went black. I was gone. All was done. 
     Before I tell you where it was I took my flipping about in the water, let’s go to where I came back to some sort of reality. Was it a hallucination? I’ll never know. I was fucked up. I came back to this world with a scream . . . mad dog blood curdling scream as I watched a nurse pull a large needle out of the hole in my pecker. Yup . . . that’s how I came back to you all . . . what it was about I don’t know. No one ever told me. Later some good soul told me they were drawing out urine for a test to find out what drugs I was on . . . so they could treat it accordingly. I don’t know . . . I don’t care to anymore. 
     My new home . . . that’s what I could call it. Ward 4. A hospital . . . for those of us not all there. It was a long time before they let me out of the restraints. They talked to me kindly. For the fuck of me I didn’t know who the fuck I was. This was probably a blessing . . . as I was in a lot of trouble. 
     That water I was talking about . . . the one I took my pleasure swim in, was (if it was your city . . . I ain’t telling which) your drinking water. Yeah . . . I was splashing about in the city water reservoir. Not only that I had 40 hits of 100mg acid in my pocket.
     Let’s just get the legal ramifications out of the way. It’s so unimportant in the long run I don’t want you worrying about me . . . beautiful loving reader . . . I don’t want them mussing up my story here. The consequences? I was found to have been psychotic at the time I was took from my splash about your pond . . . and the psychiatric treatment the court ordered including follow up treatment was to replace any jail time the judge decided. The acid, along with the wet clothes they had to cut off me at the hospital had all disappeared somewhere . . . I seriously doubt foul play . . . who’d want forty hits of wet acid? No one! It probably ended up in some hospital trash can. In any manner, the forty hits of acid were never brought up. 
     It took a while before they trusted me enough to take me off four point restraint. They let one wrist go free first . . . and I got to keep it free. Also they’d changed my position, which was nice, really . . . firstly they had me strapped stomach down . . . but now they’d rolled me over and I was face up. One arm free and face up! Things were looking up! With my free hand I could take my risperdal and drink it down without the nurse having to pop it in as an attendant squeezed my lower cheek and then she’d rub my neck until it went on down. I hated the stuff but I couldn’t trick them . . . they had my number.
     Soon I was placid and friendly enough that they found me quite co-operative as well as pleasant. Nurses would chat with me . . . doctors would pop in to make quick examinations and jot a few things on a chart I couldn’t see . . . and a gentle social worker was assigned to me, and he’d come in regularly to patiently ask me if I knew who I was yet. You see, there was a big problem I had. I didn’t have a clue who I was! Strangely enough I knew there was a “me” out there doing life stuff . . . going to school, filling out his homework, taking strolls . . . but it wasn’t me . . . not the one laying there in that hospital bed. 
     Two people kept coming to visit me. I knew they were somebody’s parents, somebody I knew . . . but they weren’t mine. It was awful nice of them to come and visit me like that. I liked them. Like the social worker, they just kept coming back, and it always ended up with the same question, “Fishspit? Do you remember who you are?” I wasn’t in any distress . . . I told them I wasn’t Fishspit . . . but I knew the fellow . . . a finer fellow you wouldn’t find in a million universes . . . a regular saint! He was out there doing fine things. It wasn’t an unpleasant experience and I was often baffled but it didn’t seem to bother me too much that I wasn’t sure who I was. The pills probably helped.
     I laid in bed . . . no more restraints . . . the food was brought to me . . . I took my drugs, and people kept coming to visit me. Only one thing bothered me . . . like an itch you can’t get to. I was confused about that fellow out there that was “me” (that Fishspit fellow) but was not the same me there in ward 4.
     Yet . . . at some point it all had to come back didn’t it? Horror can’t be dammed up for so long . . . and it was a bursting down dam with torrents of horror coming flooding through the breach and into my unprepared noodle. Holy tomcats! I let go with a scream! It all came back too fast! Nurses came running! I remembered just who I was! No split Fishspit anymore . . . what I’d done . . . saints preserve me! I knew where I must be too! It was all so dark and horrifying! I recall my vision literally changed. A darkness literally filmed over all I saw . . . like putting on a pair of dark sunglasses. I wasn’t an innocent dolt lying in a bed anymore . . . I was an atrocity! I’d committed more harm than I could imagine . . . I couldn’t . . . it was too big . . . to awful. I know I’m just not that important . . . but to a person locked in ward 4, who just came to the realization of what roughly had occurred and a social worker to begin to fill in the details, it was horrifying! 
     Then as my social worker filled me in on all the gory details . . . and then a visit occurred from the poor dear girl who had to experience my psychotic jaunt while she was on her own dosage of acid, told me her side of the story . . . and my poor parents visited with that sorrow in their eyes I’ll never forget . . . and the public defender with her case work file and the possibilities . . . and . . . well . . . the last bit of any morale I had was squished like I used to squish them flea’s off of my cat Merry-legs. The sorrow ran too deep for one young man. It took many, many months and gob-oblins of treatment and medication trials to get me to where I could even look someone in the eye. I was a shame-case . . . I was destroyed! My confidence was shot! I didn’t need to go to Synanon! I did it all on my own. Broke my personality to nil and a new one started to (I was going to say blossom) but maybe I should say sprung up like rag-weed . . . not too pretty . . . but pretty tough. Of course it hinged on pills . . . and then the discovery of pills mixed with alcohol made the greatest soporific I’ve yet to experience . . . better than “horse”! It was then I forged a new beginning toward a nightmare end . . . but that was some years off . . . decades in fact! I’d begun my long and adventurous love with alcohol and pills. Alcohol! My lover . . . my best friend! My savior! And finally my Judas.
     At my table there . . . remember . . . the cupcake shop . . . where we began this little reminiscence . . . I wondered, “Should I get another cupcake . . . one with white icing and red sprinkles?” My reminiscences were done. I was unsatisfied. All of a sudden I wanted R.B. back. I wanted him to spout his nonsense . . . his whoop de ding boom wonderful “cult of humanity”! I wanted him to tell me about hope. I’d forgot what “hope” felt like. Maybe his little enthusiasm over the brotherhood of man could rub off on me a little . . . all that hogwash. No . . . it was too late. There was no longer a chance of convincing me . . . I’d seen enough of humanity . . . a pack of vipers! I’m too tired of it all . . . to croak . . . nice and easy . . . that’s what I need now.

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