From Jester To King LXIV
By Simon Barget
LSD is good for your eyes. Well you learn something new every day, so goes the saying. But it’s only now that I remember that it wasn’t even acid I’d taken, it was mushrooms. So there! Take that to imparting information with the utmost of authority and conviction. Take that to saying something and convincing us that what you say is unremittingly right when we hadn’t thought the thing before you said it and now that you do, we do think it. Round one to the wrongly convicted! Boy did her eyes look great though and perhaps that’s what really swayed me. Her retinas, now I never know, are those the big white bits, anyway those big white bits were clear and clean and flawless without any marking or interference whatsoever, and as she looked flat out bang at me from the bench seat of the brasserie, I was thinking, well then, lucky me that I just had some LSD too and my eyes have never felt better. Something about women with bobs that screams WE KNOW BEST.
This drug trip was important for the sole reason that I laid down the law and told Jesse how much I would be having and not a jot more. Else I wouldn’t have mentioned it. And it doesn’t matter where you do the drugs, it all boils down to the same thing. We were at the third seat of Laird Bartoglio-Scooby, and what an impressive pile he presides over. Although we were confined to those little rooms you get at the top of a castle, the ones they tend to convert for the home help with unsightly carpet and ceilings you can’t not hit your head on. Well we were all set up there and Jesse had the mushrooms, and so she made tea and handed me a huge cup of it, and I said thank you very much but I’ll have a teeny bit, and she didn’t demur at the time, and I did have a tiny sip and soon as I set my lips to the liquid I got the sweet, bitter, nasty, synthetic tang and I let in what seemed to be the natural amount and quite literally as soon as I swallowed it I could feel this strange sensation that someone else was looking out from my eye sockets with my own eyes. The drug had taken effect instantaneously. And Jesse was still there and kind of saw my reaction, and I cannot deny that it was a very pleasant sensation, as if the whole difficulty of seeing and processing and making sense of the visual had been circumvented, yet try as I might to hide my displeasure and relief, I think Jesse cottoned to it. There was the tiniest bit of nausea. Fucking can’t stand the fucking nausea. And then I walk out into the corridor to signal my wellbeing, to mingle with the others, John, Clara, Everett Danziger, you know like you do, to show people you’re high too, you’re an indispensable part of the crew, that you’re with them, you’re feeling the same way, and that’s the best thing about the whole thing, the communing and having to take an extraneous substance to prove you’re the same, anyway as I go out amongst the group, Jesse comes up to me with the jug of the potion, and how fucking predictable, she says have a little more, go on, you should, she says, and before she’s even got the words out this time I shout back that I WILL HAVE AS LITTLE OR AS MUCH AS I DAMN WELL PLEASE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH, and that sets her back a trifle, and then it dawns on me, you see it’s like the words precede the realisation, it dawns on me that I genuinely don’t have to do what I don’t want to do, and the only reason I would have done was peer pressure, and now that’s not an issue, well screw Jesse and her big jug of mushrooms.
There’s always a sinister bit. A nice dose of mushroom tea doesn’t do it for some, and as I go past one of the bedrooms I see Everett Danziger cradling Clara setting out heaps of thick brown powder on top of the desk, and Everett Danziger is foaming and furious and it’s not clear whether they’re going to inject it or snort it, but I do hear the word smack amongst all his other furious Glaswegian rantings, and the words ‘smack’ spooks me out and as soon as I hear it I feel I’ve got to get out of there, away from the drug fest, and out over the rolling hills I go, and it’s very hard to find the right direction, the road seems to wind its way upwards but the fields between go down, so I don’t know which way to go, and this has nothing to do with the drugs by the way, and eventually I manage to climb up onto the stile bordering a huge National Trust property, and it’s all closed but I clamber over anyway because where else is the town going to be? Back in London they try to arrest me for dealing - ridiculous – but that’s another story. No doubt Mr Danziger had something to do with it.