JOI Diaries part duex

Part of my goal, my fascination with film, really has to do with the, sometimes minute but very real, differentiation between the angles of incidence. How nobody can see my view exactly. And I can’t see anyone else’s either. It’s really rather mind-blowing if you think about. This variation, this parallax view that always guarantees, no matter how closely intertwined, everyone has a slightly different story, a slightly transverse interpretation on things. Even standing right next to each other and witnessing the same events, will bring discrepancies when the retelling happens in isolation, the two not being able to corroborate and fill in the narrational gaps for each other and thus form a more complete story, which I imagine is a trait good writers have. Myself, I’m too precise and veridical for that and so I stick to lenses and to a lesser extent tennis, which I was never more than good at and so use the latter in a to date satisfactory attempt to, with the Academy of course - understanding that no matter how much I tried, trained or concentrated on bending the court to my will, I’d never make it to The Show - support the former. 

But back to parallax; I always thought that it was a rather disappointing phenomenon and, at its core, essentially responsible for every disagreement ever. Secondarily, and therefore deemed far less important, I want to disprove my burgeoning theory that the only reason anything at all exists, or ever existed was and is because of my own very tangible and corporeal presence in this three dimensional world; perception is limiting and very well can veil truths, be they slight or consisting of enormity. Oh no not the shallow truths that anyone can discern but the real fundamental truths that make life inherently worth living; those truths that are so hard to define without circling back and using the very word or words in the explanation of what you’re trying to define. Am I being clear or is what I’m trying to say; is it becoming more diffuse and randomly kaleidoscopic with every word? I can’t really even tell anymore but I’d sure like to rectify that so no part of what I or you see is left out and abstract to each other. We should both concretely agree just how the striations differ; how far they are apart and of the exact binomial nomenclature of the trilobite fossils contained therein. The primordial make up must be agreed upon if we’re ever to advance to anything more than polemic stasis.

It might just be me trying to stave of my descent into pure, unadulterated solipsism but I’m hoping it’s something a little deeper and more profound than that. I’d at least like to think it is anyway. And wouldn’t it take an outsider’s point of view to figure that out anyway? In most cases yes would be the answer but in my particular situation I don’t have the luxury of being able to create a fantasy with which I, my very own self, can be satisfied is an adequate justification for existence on this plane, or any other, for that matter. And, of course, given my gift (curse) of not being able to take anything that could even be called the most rudimentary solace in any shoddy, half-through, thought-out traditions that most people believe in wholeheartedly, I can only take comfort in the seemingly real fact that I do in fact exist. Being apparently here, and able to feel and think and have a modicum of self-awareness is the only thing I’ve come to totally believe in so far. 

Might it be as simple as DNA? That the apogee of the helix is known only to the present (X) minus one plus some random decimal that goes on ad infinitum all the way back to the primordial stew where it all began as some random happenstance or was absolutely directed with intent in mind? It’s hard to tell. What is it that makes uniformity so apparent on the surface but doesn’t quite hold together when you look subcutaneously? Or maybe that’s the reverse; differences are easily discernible upon a scan of the outside but when you look inside, that where the real variations lie. It’s hard to tell and maybe Einstein was right; that it’s all relative and a matter of perspective no matter what. What you see, think, hear and feel is all just a matter of what frame of reference you’re looking through. He said that that’s the case except with light; which seems strange and counter intuitive given that light seems to be part of the universe not a part from it and should conform to the laws just like everything else apparently does. Unless, of course, the whole picture hasn’t quite revealed itself to us yet. But science can be a filthy prostitute too. It portends to be the truth but if you corner any true scientist and ask them they should tell you that all science is a statistical probability and that outcomes are only what happens a majority of the time and that there is in fact a certain amount of latitude for other unexpected outcomes. And it might be some tiny sliver but in said sliver lie infinities.

All the way back to Galileo at least and probably way before that; and I’m only considering current recorded history, not those that may or may not have been completely erased by their own doing or some natural disaster - and surely evidence is all around us in the form of abandoned or decimated civilizations that at some point in the past (our future) there was technology that they had common knowledge of but is now lost - lenses, even the most meticulously manufactured ones have had slight variations in the chips that constitute them and even when all those splinters are melted and uniformity is achieved through the smelting process there will still be slight differences in the molecular structure of the viscous liquid that’s created and that always ends up in the final product. Again both a curse and a blessing, our willingness and or ability to forget and move on. And the ‘five fingers’ is the only thing, lately, that helps me dull the overwhelming hum that is the oscillation; the very vibration of ‘inanimate’ and live objects. That seems to be the real symptom of all things in the universe. This ‘Brownian’ motion that seems to be the only predictable signature of all things both living and non. And well just how does parallax affect that one may ask? If everything’s always moving than every moment of observation will yeild a slightly different result. It’s all about the instrumentation and the level of sophistication of the observer and the ability of said observer to relate what he or she sees to the average, ordinary mindless citizen in a way they’ll understand while at the same time not making them feel dumb…

Even though that may be contrary to any human that can actually think. I’m not exactly sure what it is; why people get all inimical and defensive when they don’t understand what people say. But they do most of the time - back to the probabilistic nature of science and how all my experimentation leads me to believe that it’s all some weird circle we’re stuck in in this lifetime. My medium, of late, has been film and I strive over and over to evoke the same emotions, illicit the same verbal responses but so far I’ve only every come close. And this in no way indicates that I want same ness in all things. If we were all cookie-cutter versions of each other, we would never have to speak to each other. We would just inherently know. It’s not the variety I’m trying to quell; just the uniform interpretation of events I intend to foster. Or die trying…

IN RE: HSSS 8 - Apropos Peru - Dr. Who? - begin a new

‘Oh Pox, I never knew, you hated Peru, do you?

‘I get all silly and my brain all willy nilly and sometimes I feel like channeling Dr. Seuss an inimical moose on a rampage and inevitable meeting with the proverbial noose on subject of import.

‘That dirty wraith, I had a girl once.’

Pox, as always, trying to follow, though heaven knows why. Sometimes Darius was a conundrum, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in an impregnable - yet well known - box that was further hidden behind layers and layers of muddy, viscous (and always rather superfluous so she thought) nonsense. ‘You had a girl?’

Darius mused and muttered almost inaudibly  ‘Weh shearel’ on all his past relationships but there was only one that ever really mattered outside familial and friends. He loved the latter two, it was true but not that way. The way he loved her. The oneness she helped foster that made him whole. 

He would gladly die for all three though and Pox too; maybe it was the only way to show her that he really did care. Would she finally understand as D’s fleshy portion of life was ebbing away on a train to a dimension right here but still far away. Incommunicado in any case.

‘What, Darius? I find it rather precarious and in my more lucid moments hilarious, of which I’m currently not having one, you’re not making this any fun. I thought we’d have a hell of a run musing upon DFW songs he hadn’t quite sung. But off you had to go to Peru, to rescue who and just when I was feeling sedate you come along and yank me out, which wasn’t bad enough but your ostentatious obliviousness, Mr Man, I’ve had all I can stand. And now I’m extremely irate.’

‘Good thing you’re lying down, no need to frown unless it’s upside down.’

‘For the love of O.N.A.N. can you please shut up for once. I need you to be serious, you’re so immature and ridiculous.

‘I’m trying to comprehend. Waiting for that message you’re trying to send.’

‘Who am I kidding, she had me. For anyone who looked it was plain to see. She was in my brain whether I was on a tree or in a plane, it was here in my mind she reigned, she held the reins. I was at such pains near the end, there’s no use in trying to pretend.’

‘What’s your problem, D!’ Pox as always concerned about whether there was any self physiatry behind the prepubescent psychology.

‘Michael Valentine that martian swine.’

‘You grok it too? That Heinlein, he knew,’ even in her agitated state still trying to humor D for Gentle knows what reason.

‘But only in that one book; he wasted all his brain power etching out that nook and felt like a crook; the homeless guy from the idea he took and at only a cost of a two-dollar bottle of thunderbird wine, the filthy swine. What a tragic loss.’

‘Ugh that shit! you can’t even call that real vino even if you're getting it intravenously and your tremens of delirium put you in need mode and there’s no denying because there’s feelings worse than dying, at least you think so at that time. In fact, death would be good, better and tragically misunderstood. Are you saying Heinlein stole the idea?’ 

‘Given what else he wrote, I’d say it’s a good bet. One that on my mind’s pretty much set. After reading ‘Stranger In a Strange,’ I tried all his other tomes and I couldn’t get through any of them and you know me, I usually keep reading no matter how much I can’t cognate, how much I seem to not relate, hoping for a nugget of good, I’d read almost all and everything I could. But not him no sir E ma’am, I just had to stop, He seemed such a flop and though I felt bad, a bit rather sad, I just couldn’t go on reading that swill no matter how many pills -.’

‘D! Please enough. I’m still quite taken aback, the mental stamina I currently lack, no neither one of us should feel they need to be on the attack.’

‘Of course, you’re right my dear, as you are almost always.’

‘ALMOST?’

‘Stay calm and I’ll explain and soon you’ll see you have no qualm with me. 

‘Now about Peru, I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I missed you and wanted you back in this realm, your editorial expertise at the helm, the phrases that you turn and churn so well. Blame it on my inherent lack of trust if you must but I didn’t see any way in hell that anyone in all of O.N.A.N would lend us a hand without having something beside your continued well being to sell and now here you are so not very far and soon to be on the mend and everything kind of reset and inchoate again.’ 

The wraith smiled wider was pleased and dissipated, probably only temporarily; true genuine caring is all it (he) ever wanted out of every one and especially those who felt a driving, insatiable need to take on the - some would say unrealistic - almost insurmountable task of trying to channel him in a tribute blog.

Jovial now, ‘Could you stop trying to ape the good doctor, already. If I must say and you know I must, you’re doing a terrible job.’ 

Darius stopped talking, that smug satisfied grin wide on his chin. He was sure Pox got it and, despite his joker face, she understood with what gravity he took this particular conversation and that was rare indeed and only made him smile wider.

 Pox knew he was being serious but for just a second she second guessed his genuineness but that moment quickly passed.

‘Now get over here and give me a hug, you big lug.’

Soon, hand in hand, both fell into a long, deep and untroubled sleep. It was dreamless and reinvigorating.

HSSS 8 - Apropos Peru

'Jaysus D.'

'What now, Pox?'

'Well, ya know....I had this idea of how our blog was like totally adhering to DFW's storyline and all that, and now you have magically moved us to Peru, of all places. I mean, look at those weird constellations! How am I supposed to navigate to NY from here? Sheesh. Unless my few remaining brain cells have somehow atrophied due to being in that blasted cartridge IJ8 for so long and thus am irrevocably mistaken, there is fucking nothing in IJ even remotely reminicent in there of South America.'

'Jaysus yer own self, Pox. I'm surprised you can even get out of bed in the morning, you're all nascent rigor mortis-ish and I wonder sometimes, is all this palaver helping our situation?'

'I have no idea what you're saying or implying, as usual, you fence-sitter, D. All I know is you always claim both sides of every equation as your own which leaves nothing for me to work with. I'm not stupid ya know. I've read everything from Freud to Jung to the limitless psychobabble crap online.'

'Well, I know you're super smart, Pox, '...Darius reverts to placation mode here but she is getting close to being onto him...so Darius fidgets uncomfortably thinking of how much he needs her support, because, after all, how many other people does he know personally that could hold a candle to his partner in jest? It just would not do to alientate his best female friend and supporter. But wtf, he's not known for his E.Q., so he plunges ahead into foreign territory-- in more ways than one. 'Just don't outsmart yourself again, Poxalicious. Don't underestimate the power of an ayuhuasca initiate...'

'I would never.' Pox senses him dithering but decides to confront just for the hell of it, so unlike her usual self. 'Listen up, senor mano. The world you live in, it only exists in your own head. Me, I live from my heart, if only because I'm older and know that the mind can play wicked tricks on its owner. If somehow the two of us could accept the other as is, and learn from each other's mistakes, we would be unbeatable as a team. I am not getting that sense of concession from you yet.'

Darius is conflicted. In his lofty mind he thinks Pox is sometimes a head case and doesn't want anything more to do with her at those times, and probably could benefit from an ayuhuasca session herself, but still...he does keep looking after her in his own ersatz way. From afar, till now.

'I get it , Pox. You don't like Peru. So okay, we'll go back to the USA and Enfield and Tucson and slog through the rest of this blog. It's not really worth arguing about.'

DFW as wraith looks down at them and smiles enigmatically into the blogosphere. He holds two thumbs up. At who though? Pox thinks he just likes the melodrama. She knows anyone who could dream up crazy shit like IJ in the first place would like to see these two butt heads until one of them gives in. Is this like Avril and James, redux?  DFW hovers near the writers, adjusts his headband so it covers his ears. It's chilly in the Andes.

'Nay', Pox says, kind of archaically, or mythologically. 'You brought us here, Darius, to Peru, and you know, I honestly do appreciate your massive efforts to get me out of those close quarters, but just for laughs, I could maybe get in the spirit of making the trip home a nightmare for you and the woolly warm Sherpas who got us here.'

'Oh come on, Pox, be raisonable. It's what DFW would want. You know, hugs, not ughs, hugs not bugs, and hugs not drugs. well...maybe drugs.'

'Hugs right back at you but....game on, senor'.'

The Extraction, Pt 4, Pox and Darius Are Born Again

Finally, after what seemed like forever, we made it to Ollantaytambo and the Temple of the Sun. The temple served as both a church and a military fort back in the day when this place was a thriving metropolis; back before the Spanish raped and pillaged the land. Some say it was even before the Incas were any more than an afterthought in their father’s upper thigh. All Darius knew is that it was beautiful and amazing and somewhat insane that, even today, the meticulous architecture of the place could not be replicated despite all our 'advanced' tools.

Amazingly, they had arrived early but only had to wait ten minutes before the shaman showed up. He was jolly and happy; he didn’t seem to have a care in the world and what was even more astounding was that he was white. He looked a lot like Terrance McKenna. The sherpas (guides) spoke briefly to him in what Darius realized was some bastard hybrid of the Portuguese and Spanish languages and then fled not long thereafter. It seemed they had no real relationship and Darius felt a little deflated that he had not acted on his rude impulses earlier. He could have had and should have had a lot more fun with them, especially on the road, driving. Admittedly, they were all a little worse for wear after that bone jarring plane ride they had all just barely survived. Except for Pox, she had been silent basically all day today. Speechless from anticipation, bored, preoccupied or terrified, Darius couldn’t really tell. He had tried to talk to her a few times and he was pretty certain their link was still there but nothing but dead silence in return. 

‘Pox, we’re here. Pox?’

‘Let me be the first to formally welcome you two to Ollantaytambo, the Temple of the Sun,’ the Shaman bowed low in a some local cultural tradition that Darius had, until now, somehow missed.’

‘What? Oh…Thank you!’ Darius was stunned because he had put the tape in the knapsack that was currently slung behind his back but quickly regathered his moorings and bowed in return.

‘What?’ Pox finally decided to communicate. 

Darius , a half-formed word on his lips, was just about to make it auditory but the Shaman piped in just ahead of him.

 ‘Pox! Welcome. We are so glad you are here! Unfortunate that your circumstances are as they are but we’ll be on top of the Temple in just a few moments and we’ll see what we can do about getting you out of there and into here again.’

‘Hmmmppph.’

’You do want to come out of there, don’t you Pox?’ The Shaman’s countenance was as jolly as ever as he asked but foreshadowing too as if he was sensing her thoughts.

‘I haven’t really been up to thinking about anything else.’

‘But…?’

‘I have to admit that by the time Darius found me I was already convinced I was never getting out of here, Trying to make the best of it, I was trying to do all I could to get used to it. I was basically resigned to being stuck in here forever or until the tape got tossed in a landfill, pissed on by a dog and then gnawed on by a rat until it’s exposed to the sun and all the rest of the elements so who knows what would happen to me then, or at least what currently passes for ‘me’ now. And even though I tried my best to embrace my fate,  every now and again I sent out frantic signals in every direction I could think of, hoping beyond hope that, I don’t know, someone, somewhere might hear me and know I was stuck in here. And maybe even a little hope too that that someone might be Darius and even if he couldn’t get me out maybe he would watch the tape and somehow get trapped in here with me. But I kind of knew that the last was just some sort of selfish flight of fancy. ’

‘Oh, Pox. You poor darling.’ Darius said, full of empathy, sadness and a quixotically ironic sense of anticipated elation all swirling around in him all at the same time.

The Shaman went on undeterred, ‘Well there's a good chance we CAN get you out Pox. And if it’s any solace the experiment involves both what you’d call ‘real’ science AND the ‘meta’ physical. Some of us have come to realize that there really is no distinction between the two and any such categorization is really just the taxonomy of Illusion (Darius’ eyes scrunched up in recognition of something so familiar but not quite placable as the Shaman said this, he really did look like Terr…)- which works fine for short term survival but can have disastrous on the longevity of a species and may in fact lead to extinction on such a large scale that it has yet to be seen on earth.

‘Forgive my digression, that was a subject I studied long ago and there's no need to bog you down in the details of , but what we’re going to attempt has never actually been done before.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t worry, Pox. You’re not the first person to ever have been inside a tape, you’re just, how can I put this best, the least initiated. That’s why, knowingly or not, Incandeza’s attempts to make the perfect ‘entertainment’ were foolishly ignorant at best and fiendishly nefarious at best.’ Just then the wraith began to swirl around Pox’s electro-magnetic signature, taunting and mocking but not saying anything. That Pox could even sense it gave her a feeling that there was so much more out there that she and everyone else, corporeal or not, for that matter, just didn’t know. Couldn’t know. Like dark matter, dark energy and how many other dimensions existed outside the three that most could perceive? Surely, that she still existed, in whatever conscious form that might be, was proof that there had to be more than just the three most could sense and see.

‘Most folks who used to go messing around with magnetics, not many do that much anymore given that this particular medium, the VHS tape, is a rather outdated technology. It’s all blu-rays, wifi and to some extent quantum crystals now, which is just burgeoning for wide spread dissemination.

‘Anyway, it’s good that you brought Darius because we need a vessel for the Ayahua - metaphysical part of the experiment. My technical advisors have already placed the magnets at just the right spaces and angles for maximum success and extraction probability - we hope -. As I’ve said this is the first time we’ve actually attempted this and planning will only take us so far in a venture this nascent but just to reassure you again; people do go into tapes and other things all the time; and maybe they’re a little dazed for a time but they do always eventually find their way back to this realm.’

‘Okay. You’ve convinced me and I’m ready to try,’ Pox thought aloud.

The Shaman closed his eyes, crossed his thumbs and brought the tips of his index fingers together in front of his face. ‘OOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHMMMMMMMMMMMMM,’ His voice was all at the same time deep, light, ancient, ageless and guttural. When he opened his eyes again they had all been transported to the top of the Temple of the Sun even though there were no stairs to speak of, none that Darius could discern anyway.

The acolytes were feeding a fire over which rested a rather large stone caldron of water that was just beginning to boil. Beside it was a heaping pile of what Darius could only assume was the Ayahuasca root. It certainly wasn’t something he’d ever seen before except in pictures. It seemed like a lot but he also knew that most journeys of this type were strictly for purposes of a very personal introspection and healing (even if it could benefit everyone; not one where more than one cooperating with each other were integral to success of the proposed mission.

‘Darius, are you ready?’

‘Yes, but can I ask you one question first? Are you Terrance McKenna?’

A strange, almost quizzical, confused look washed over the Shaman’s face. ‘Huh. Well. That’s a name I haven’t heard in a very long time but I really don’t know. I can tell you this, though, I’m not not Terrance McKenna. I may once have been him I suppose but I’ve rather transcended the limiting notion of being now.’

‘Fascinating! I’m ready whenever you are.’

‘Slowly feed the root into the cauldron and when you’ve put it all in there, wait until it’s good and steaming and put your head over it and inhale deeply.’

‘No drinking or smoking of anything?’

‘For our purposes the drinking is not needed. Smoking is harmful and inhaling the vapors has the same basic effect.’

Darius fed the branches in one by one as instructed. About an hour later he put the last branch into the pot which was now a brown, semi-viscous soupy bubbling mixture. The steam began to rise and he stuck his face above the pot. He could feel the warmth as his nostrils and lungs began to expand and fill with the steam. He felt like a child trying to clear his sinuses in an exercise that every old-school doctor on the planet guaranteed would work. After three inhales, the inside of his head felt rather woozy and then he was gone. He blinked out of existence and into the tape. 

Darius wasn’t quite sure what to do; he only knew where he was and that Pox was there. He instinctually wrapped his ‘arms’ around her and they were thrown/flung far out into an inky-black place that was somewhat familiar to Darius but was utterly foreign to Pox.

Darius tried to be as reassuring as possible. ‘Pox, don’t worry. This is just another part of the universe that our limiting eyes don’t normally let us see and if we encounter any beings just remember their intentions are benevolent and they won’t bring you or me any harm. And shoot at least we seem to be out of that God-forsaken tape now.

Just then, they heard a large, all encompassing sucking sound and looked toward it. There was a tiny sliver of the brightest white light that either of them had ever known and it grew with every moment as they floated toward it. The closer they got the more shallow their breath became until they couldn’t breathe at all - the notion of breathing here may have been moot but so many years of involuntary, reflexive habit was hard to break.

Back on top of the Temple the viscous liquid inside the cauldron was rolling and boiling. The Shaman and his acolytes stood around the rim of the pot chanting in some ancient language. 

One big ectoplasmic, placenta-like bubble began to form and expand out of the caldron. It was pink and fleshy looking with splotches of crimson-blue smattered throughout. It began to expand and stretch over different portions of the surface of the bubble. The Shaman instructed that the cauldron be tipped on its side.

The Ayahuasca ‘mud’ and thinner liquid spilled on to the floor at the top of the Temple and then out rolled the writhing bubble. The Shaman ran over and quickly tore it open with a deft insertion of his fingers and freed the heads of both Darius and Pox.

Darius was fully awake and breathing but Pox wasn’t moving. He quickly wiped the placental fluid from her face and then slapped her gently.  She started to inhale deeply as the acolytes began to pull them from the membranous shell that encased them.

The Extraction Pt. 3 - Those Grinning Sherpas

The Avenida Hermanos Ayar was long stretches of straight road followed by tight and terrifying hairpin curves. There were 13 of them (hairpins) and after rounding the second one, Darius demanded that the Sherpa who was driving (the breadth and depth of the knowledge of their proficiency in multiple tasks always amazed Darius) pull over and let him take the wheel.

Darius felt so alive today. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it but it was like he could breathe more air into his lungs and everything around him - life itself - seemed more vibrant, the colors more stark and…well everything seemed a bit more real. Like he had somehow arrived just now at this very moment. He pushed the gas pedal down a little more as he neared the curve. The wheels squealed and he could feel the gravity force trying to pull him into the passenger seat as he sped around the turn. Then another long stretch of building momentum and a harrowing curve. Nine more times and Darius was nearly jumping out of his skin.

Then the sign. The fucking sign. It read:

Welcome to Machu Picchu Preserve. The fucktarded Sherpas went the wrong way down the Avenue. He looked over.

‘What’s this? Why are we here again? How much time have we wasted?’ He grabbed his smart phone from the console before the guide in the passenger’s seat could even formulate his answer in English - regardless of how broken it was - and turned it on. It was only 8.18am local time. Hardly any time at all had been wasted due to Darius’ risky but excellent driving skills.’

‘Si Señor. But we thought you wanted to ride this road.’

‘You’re right but not if it meant backtracking to where we’ve already been.’

Suddenly Pox was in his head talking.

‘Darius? what’s going on? Is there some kind of problem? Everything in here seems kind of weird and earth shaky.’

‘Sorry, Senor.’

‘It’s no worries, we haven’t lost that much time. We’ll be fine. 

‘Pox, the Sherpas had us driving back toward Machu Picchu but it’s okay. We WILL make it to the Sacred Valley in plenty of time to make our two o’clock meeting with the shaman. It's not even a slight setback, really.’

Pox could tell Darius was rather miffed and so didn’t say anything. Better not to exacerbate the situation if at all possible.

As soon as he could, Darius slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel hard to the left, tires leaving rubber in a short straight line and a semi-circle and then jammed the accelerator down leaving more rubber until the tires gripped the road again and the forces of friction leveled out and the tires were allowed to do their job properly again and the car began to accelerate.

The Sherpas faces were twisted in terror.

Maybe they really had underestimated Darius’ outburst from yesterday and what he was capable of. Darius on the other hand had already gone on to other things in his mind and he really was a gentle soul. Though quirky, he was a veritable Jainist at heart; if it wasn’t for his hate of pretty much all bugs that bit, scarred, infested and sometimes even killed that is. For some reason, he just had to kill those damn things even though he understood that they were integral to the cycle of life and was pretty darn sure that without them things would go hideously awry pretty quickly. It was kind of weird because he didn’t feel any such angst toward sharks, tigers bears and like. Maybe it was because with those animals it was easy to discern that if you got to close they would eat you but bugs on the other hand always appeared innocuous whether they were or not. And mostly they weren’t, they’re like vicious little micro-triceratops with a nasty bite or sting and, contrary to appearances, really rather hard to kill…

Darius drove a little faster down each straight and got only as crazy around the hairpins as staying in his lane would allow, but definitely pushed the car and tires to their limit. The Sherpas’ white knuckled grip on the dash got tighter around each turn until their fingers were virtually bloodless. Darius drove with an air of nonchalance, using basically one finger on the steering wheel the whole time.

The Sherpas were silent. Their faces stressed and tense. When they were finally done with the zig-zagging portion of the road, Darius let off the gas and slowed down to a reasonable speed. When there were mountains on either side, he stopped.

‘Sorry about that. Had to make up for lost time, you know,’ Darius smiled, pearly whites shining in the sun.

They both smiled big huge fake yellow-brown teeth filling the expanse, smiles. Apparently, oral hygiene wasn’t as much of a priority in certain parts of the world as it was in others. Oh well, halitosis didn’t seem to be a problem but Darius didn’t get close enough to find, nor would he after this display and certainly he would do all he could to avoid it and he definitely would suppress anything in the future that he thought might make them show their teeth again. 

‘Si. Senor. No problemo. Entendemos. Um. We understand.’

‘Good. I’m glad. Now it’s your turn to drive.’ There it was again, that big dumb fake smile. ‘You do know how to drive, don’t you?’

‘Si. Senor.’ Darius was out of the car and on the passenger’s side before the sherpas had even begun moving. He stepped side to side impatient as ever. These people were slow slow. Come on, hurry up would you he thought to himself but stayed silent, contrary to his usual demeanor. They still had about an hour’s drive before they got to the little town, Darius forgot which, where there was a single-engine, old-fashioned prop plane waiting to take them the rest of the way to Ollantaytambo. It was the only way to get there from there, besides the river; and though he tried to cover all bases and would’ve loved nothing more than to spend a  meandering time riding down the mostly lazy, winding river, they just didn’t have the time. Highway 28B was another way to get there but since that way would’ve precluded seeing Machu Picchu and they were already going to be in a plane soon, there was no point in that either.

Finally, joey the sherpa - Darius wasn’t sure why he had come to view this nameless guide ‘joey’, whether he reminded him of someone he once knew or his awkward, yet somehow still sure-footed walk/hop around way reminded him of a short kangaroo, Darius couldn’t tell - got out of the car and Darius immediately got in the car behind him, suddenly itching to get moving again. Plenty of time before eschaton, no need to be so tense. Darius reclined the seat and realized it was a hell of a lot more comfortable. As the car made it’s way languidly back onto the roadway, Darius took his shoes off, rolled down the window and rested his feet just outside the window. He felt the on-rush of all that oxygen being mass produced all around him. It was all so beautiful and amazing as he tried to take in all the different shades of green that passed slowly by him and he didn't let his brain get frantic looking for patterns that weren’t there as his eyes saw half-distinct shapes and he let his instinctual mind try to make sense of them.

Darius was so thoroughly enjoying himself that the time on the road, a little over an hour seemed like only a few minutes. H was so relaxed, that when the car took a left and he saw the dilapidated old airplane that sounded like a 1968  v-8 coughing, spitting and sputtering from running too rich on air it made his chest bump like a dryer with shoes in it. 

Darius loved flying, it was one of the only things that that seemed unnatural to him, just something he felt a human wasn’t built to do, that he also absolutely enjoyed. But that never stopped him from feeling a few moments of trepidation before he set foot in that huge aluminum tube and hurtled through the air at around 600 miles per hour over which he had absolutely zero control. The condition of this tinier, far more ancient, tube just made his natural response just that much worse and longer than normal. Eventually, he got in the plane but now he was the one white-knuckled; eyes closed and gripping on to the tape (Pox), scared like a little boy on lock down, for dear life.

On the ascent, he opened one round blue eye open for only a moment and those evil viscous sherpas' rotting maws gaped and grinned from ear to ear, which disgusted Darius, the shaking of the little plane was so bad he was waiting for the fillings in his teeth to come loose and brains to scrambled like aborted chickens in a frying pan. He closed his eye again and didn’t open either of them until the plane leveled off and then only looked out the window opposite the other people on the plane. He couldn’t be rude to them or even do much that would even appear to; plus he figured he had done his fair share of pushing his luck in that direction on the drive earlier with his driving and his somewhat curt and outlandish demands. He was lucky that sarcasm didn’t translate into other languages well. Well, except maybe French, a lot of French sounded inherently sarcastic, or romantic, depending on your disposition at the time. He didn’t really know their connection to the shaman and didn’t want to ruin Pox’ chances before they even got a chance to start, and anyway, Darius really did sort of respect the sherpas. He knew for sure he could never live the kind of life they did…

the Extraction, pt 2 (a night at the Belmond Sanctuary Lodge)

The Andes were an awesome sight as the earth spun on its axis bring the current location away from the sun. 

Darius rested on the balcony overlooking a dense copse of forest. The colored yellows, pinks and purples as the wavelengths of light had to stretch farther to greet this particular patch of earth were intense. It all looked rather like an oil painting masterpiece that the ‘happy trees’ guy with the big Afro had done. He tried to burn it into his memory as he felt that snapping a picture, even with billions of pixels, would somehow taint and pervert the picture and not capture the real essence of the scene. The birds were silent as dusk fell but there was unseen but heard movement in or under the brush. He rested his feet on the rail of the balcony and tipped his cowboy hat - not that he was in any sense of the word a ‘cowboy’, albeit the ruggedness and elevation of endurance the journey he is currently on had brought him, he just found it the most practical, being a full brim, source of covering for his bald head and rather weak constitution in the face of unadulterated sun, not to mention the all sorts of creepy crawlies he suspected were everywhere in these climes - forward over his eyes and rested. And listened until the dregs of sleep were upon him and taking him, distorting that thin barrier between waking and sleep. Between consciousness and that magical place where all dreams are nascent and half formed silhouettes of what reality could and perhaps should be; what will be if of course you’re not harangued, belittled and made to feel guilty about your existence and consequently unable to have the time and to be sure what you want to do; who you really want to be. And usually no matter how vivid the dream; its real meaning is lost behind thick layers of veils.

Just as he was getting to the real deep part of sleep, Darius was awakened by what he thought was a tiger’s loud roar. He opened his eyes, sat up and looked around the dark, starlit night. His eyes scanning left, right and down. All was still except for the wind rustling the leaves through the trees. He saw the Sherpas resting down below on their makeshift cots; off the ground, of course. Anybody with any shred of intelligence knows that sleeping on the ground in such places is anathema to health and longevity. It was a good rule to go by but it was a must in places like these. Why they hadn’t gotten a room like Darius, he didn’t know. Perhaps $700 a night was out of their economic means but he sure wasn’t going to pay for it for them. 

Darius got up, and realizing there were no wild tigers indigenous to this part of the world and he hadn’t heard about any escaping from any zoos and even if he had they were too far away to have any tigers around here anyway, and wondered at what the noise might have been that disturbed only him. 

He looked up at the sky for the first time since arriving in Peru. All the stars looked more luminous than he ever remembered seeing them before. Darius attributed this to there being virtually no light pollution. The stars also looked odd and foreign, like nothing he had ever seen before. He stood looking at them and pondered. Did he somehow slip into another dimension or universe? Was he hallucinating? Was he even awake? He was pretty sure he was but still the sky, though brilliant and mesmerizing, just didn’t look the same.

Just to prove he was awake, Darius rolled a nice fat, dank duBois. He had never smoked in a dream. Lighting it and inhaling deeply, he held the smoke in his lungs for a long time. He sat back on the reclined seat and exhaled and looked up. It hit him then, the differences he noticed in the stars. This was the southern hemisphere and so off course there’s a whole different night sky than he’d ever seen before. Crazy. ‘Darius the dumb ass,” he half thought and half mumbled out loud.

Satisfied that he had figured it out, he was getting up again. As he set his feet on the ground he became light-headed. What a lightweight. After only one draw on the good ol’ Hope he was pretty near wasted. He attributed it to its high quality and the fact that it was his first draw since the day before he found the tape and realized Pox had somehow got herself stuck in it 10 days ago. So 11 whole days without Hope. The frantic pace of everything from the time he found the tape lying in Pox’s empty living room, realizing poor missing Pox had somehow gotten herself stuck in it, researching via internet , telephone and previous investigations, setting up travel arrangements, to flying here and then making the sojourn through the Andes to here he hadn’t really had time to think about Mr. Hope at all. Then, of course, there was the inherent paranoia and unsureness of any and all substantial trips that everyone has after reaching a certain age.

He had watched IJ 8 a couple months before that and hadn’t told Pox about it. He wasn’t quite sure why, them being pretty much inseparable partners and all but he didn’t. 

The tape didn’t have anything but the slightest draw on him, despite the rumors. Seven hadn’t either. It was weird. Darius would’ve liked to think it was his strong mental capacity but as with everything else he could never be 100% sure. Whether it was his youth with no reinforcement that contributed to anything even close to what would be called self-esteem, or the fact that in some circles he was known as Special K (not ketamine thank you very much) or the Crip (no gang affiliation intended), he couldn’t tell. He was just glad that something that would so heavily influence and control others had no effect on him.

So finally understanding that it wasn’t striped uber cats that had awakened him from his slumber and realizing that the night sky he was looking at was the southern hemisphere’s heaven, he was ready to turn in. He looked down and there was the tape on the ground. He picked it up and looked at it. How did it get on the ground? He was sure he had placed it right next to him when he sat down earlier. Was it Pox’s voice that had aroused him? Darius wasn’t sure, but what else could it be? He thought he heard a muffled voice coming from it but really couldn’t be sure it wasn’t his own sleep and MJ addled brain messing with him. He started flipping the tape over and over in his hands. Pox was silent. 

‘Don’t worry Pox. It’s 2am local time and we won’t get on the road until about 8am but you’ve been next to me this whole time. I promise I won’t leave you until I get you out, even if I have to come in there myself and rip you out. Now I need to get some sleep. We still have a long way to go. Good night, Pox.’

Darius opened the French-style doors, glided out of all his clothes in the dark and slipped under the covers of the ultra comfortable king-sized bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.

The Extraction, Pt 1

Well Pox, you finally did it! Dragging me where I’ve been telling you I’ve wanted to go, but couldn’t afford to go, since around forever ago. Too bad your body’s basically a zombie and the rest of you, the crazy, cool, sexy part of you is trapped in a video and can’t appreciate the beautiful scenery here. Well, hopefully on the way out, you’ll have more of your senses about you. We’re in Peru you incorrigible minx, passing through Machu Picchu, to hopefully meet a Shaman and get you back to your body. Pox?
 

'…'
 

Come on, Pox, you know I’ve been able to bounce in and out of different dimensional realities for a long time now. You’ve also known that it’s something that, until now, I’ve had very little control over and thought - well I didn’t really know what to think other than I was mildly hallucinating and extremely enjoying going to a mind space that I thought only I could own. But that’s obviously not the case Pox, with you in there and the grand design to put you in there formed and well thought and planned out in the mind, bordering genius as some say it may have been, of one JO Incandenza and who knows how many others before him. So much for originality, hey Pox?
 

When do you think you lost yours, Pox? I think mine probably happened six milliseconds after hitting the light. You know, birth. Everything’s done under the sun and all that.

‘…’

Oh pox pox pox, I don’t know how you get yourself into these things. That fucking Incandenza  just couldn’t leave well enough alone. Made the 7th cartridge perfect and just had to go about trying to reinvent the wheel, which really makes me wonder about his said genius. So but no worries. Even if you don’t want to speak to me I know you’re in there and we are on our way to where, if anyone anywhere on this Godforsaken-rotting-frozen-mudball can, someone will be able to get you out.

‘Oh Darius, I’m sorry, I just had to…had to know and now that I ‘m discorporeal I really don’t feel it was worth it. And I wish I could take it all back.’

‘…’

‘D? D? Come on.’

‘It’s always the same. With you with everyone. Always trying to communicate after it’s too late. But it’s no matter, we’re here and we’ve got quite a trek yet through the jungle, until where we’ll be able to attempt the extraction.

But Pox, aren’t you at all even curious as to why, how I can even communicate with you at all? How I even know you’re here, inside this Godforsaken tape? Especially when all your family, the authorities, friends and other interested parties (a.k.a. bill collectors) think you’ve up and vanished from the face of the earth.’

‘The thought had crossed my mind, whatever or where ever that might be right now, but I was just thankful that you’ve found me and right now I’m just grateful that you’re at least trying to help me.’

‘Well you can blame Buddha and DMT.’

‘Buddha and DM what?’

‘DMT Pox. Dimethyltriptamine.’

‘And what pray tell is that, Mister Man? Why do you always have to come out with these esoteric, cryptic subjects that I know nothing about. Wait? What? Did you Say Machu Picchu? Are you serious? Come on. I don’t believe you.’ Darius smiles wide and laughs out loud. The two sub-tropical sherpas and shamanistic emissaries on each side squint their eyes and point them toward Darius in the middle, saying nothing but heightening their alert a few notches, not even noticeable, after all a somewhat loose-marbled tourist was nothing they haven’t seen before and most turn out to be as harmful as lambs. It was usually more that the reality of this journey was realized as the culmination of an obsession that had been building and building…for Years.

‘It’s true, Pox. We’re in the middle of the Andes and headed toward the Sacred Valley.’

‘Oh. You. You’re not being very nice, D. I see what you’re doing, you're just teasing me, because I’m blind, stuck in this fucking loop of this boring ass tape and you're being your practical joker self. You. Sir. Have a cruel cruel wit. Wait! What! You magnanimous bastard! you’re good at fiction but even you couldn’t come up with something like this. You shit. Are you saying that we’ve already been through the Temple of the moon? The temple de la luna?’

‘In fact we have. When we get through Machu Picchu, we’re all on burros now, by the way, we hiked for a while but now I’m tired. They’re not very comfortable and they might even be more ornery than me. We’re going to stop for the night at the Belmond Sanctuary Lodge. Tomorrow morning we’ll get a car and drive on this long winding, scenic road called Carretera Hiram Bingham, or however the hell you pronounce it, which should be pretty fun since I am not driving until we get to Avenida Hermanos ayar - some sort of avenue I guess, I’m not sure, I’m not really good at Spanish or Portuguese. It looks more like a highway from what I can tell from the map, but it should lead us to the Sacred Valley and more specifically, Ollantaytambo.’

‘Ollanta..what.’

‘Oll - An - Tay - Tam - Bo.’

‘ Really, D? How in the Double H hockey sticks did I get myself into this mess. I want to see what you’re seeing now, so bad.’

‘Don’t worry, Pox, though it is probably one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen in my life thus far. It seems hardly touched by humanity here and the Incas looked to have been good stewards for the most part or it’s been so long that all traces of the scars they left have long since been healed by mother nature. We will have plenty of time to travel back this way after we see the Shaman.’

‘’Do you think it’ll work? Do you think I’ll ever be free from this filthy magnetic prison I so foolishly trapped myself in? How could I have been so stupid, D?’

‘Not stupid, Pox. Just curious and maybe a little naive is all. Also, not as prepped in certain aspects as me. And as, a not so little aside, far as I know it will work. They basically guaranteed it, Pox but, me being me, I’m a little apprehensive about it. It took a lot of time and effort, not to mention money to get here, not that that matters, but we paid them a lot so of course they’re going to promise us the world. Now, will they deliver? Which brings me back to DMT.’

‘Oh, here we go again. Can’t you just drop it? I’m stuck in here and all you can do is prattle on about this bullshit stuff.’

‘Well Pox, the way I see it is I watched both version 7 & 8 of the tape and I’m neither drooling catatonically or stuck in the reels. They both just seem like elaborate parlor tricks to me. I’m walking and talking and still interested in people, places and things and DMT just might be the reason why. I mean I don’t see any other reason; you’re probably a lot smarter than I am Pox and you damn sure have way more experience living on this tiny blue marble than I do. And what’s more you also seem a lot stronger minded than I do.’

‘We’ll isn’t that obvious? But why are you always bringing up this DMT. I have only just a vague notion of what it even is and you’re talking about it like it’s something trivial and some get wasted, good-time party drug that you know like the back of your hand.’

‘None of that is true, Pox. About DMT, I mean. I’m a total novice and I never use anything for strictly recreational purposes any more. I’m far too old for that now and I stopped doing that in my mid-twenties, anyway. But I’ve done some research into it, Pox. And the little I’ve done has told me, has shown me, that there’s just so much out there we currently can’t perceive. Part of it is because our eyes are probably more limiting, by necessity, than they are helping us perceive. But I’d like to think it’s just because we’re so nascent as a species and that eventually we’ll get to a point where it won’t turn our minds to mush if we actually get a whole view of the things that surround us.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Nothing, Pox. Nothing at all.’

‘Oh come on, D.’

‘…’

‘Darius? You know I’m stressed out. I need to stretch my legs and I don’t even know where they are; I thought this Great 8 tape was gonna expand my mind but the exact opposite is happening. I feel constricted and smothered.’

‘Well then, Pox, please just be quiet and listen for a few minutes and I’ll try to explain why I think DMT may have the answers we need. Deal?’

‘Deal, Mister man.’ 

‘DMT, Dimethyltriptamine is a molecule. It closely resembles the make up of certain neurotransmitters in our brains. Some have postulated that it’s responsible for our dreams when we sleep. That our pineal gland releases it when we reach the REM stage of sleep. It is in fact found in almost every living thing; from plants to animals and who knows what else. I tried it once about two years ago, Pox. I smoked it, inhaling two puffs, and it took me. somewhere. It was a total onslaught to my senses. I couldn’t fathom all it was telling me, all that it showed me. Every now and again, I still recall something new. It felt ancient, Pox, like the age of the universe was just a moment to it. It felt like it knew me better than I know myself; it was sagacious and benevolent. I am sure there was absolutely no hateful intent. It was like it took me to another dimension and gave me a glimpse into the inner workings of everything. Not that my minimifiscent [sic] mind could ever completely understand, mind you. There were shapes and ancient writings and fractals and so many other things. I’m not exactly sure what it was but I am certain it wasn’t just some ordinary everyday hallucination; an amateur trip, where the walls were breathing because my pupils were involuntarily expanding and contracting. It was something far deeper than that. I felt that I was meant to be there and after it was over there were no lingering effects except that I was happier and more kind. And what’s more, Pox, what’s important to us now is that I think the Shaman we’re going to meet will somehow use DMT to help facilitate your extraction.’

‘But how is that even possible? How am I going to smoke anything. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I don’t currently have any lungs to speak of. I’m also lacking any kid of lips, hips or windpipe.’

‘I’m not sure about the mechanics, Pox…I just have a feeling is all. And I don’t think they smoke it either, I think they see it as a facilitator that helps them get in touch with the great Creator of all things and I think they brew up a tea called ayahuasca and see in smokeable form the liver synthesizes it so fast it doesn’t last longer than a few minutes; but it could have been hours, days or months when I did it. I really had zero sense of anything called time. And what’s more, I hear it tastes absolutely disgusting and more than likely it will trigger a purge.’

‘A purge?’

‘Yes. They say it happens sometimes and it’s part of the cleansing process. Both ends from what I’ve read.’

‘EWWWWWW.’

‘We’re almost at the lodge, Pox. And I’m beat.’

‘D? Darius, don’t leave me alone in here.’

‘Pox, don’t worry, I’ll keep you close. But I’m switching to a rest frequency so just be patient for a little while longer and I’ll let you know when I’m rested and were on our way again.’

Shit Happens

'Are you shittin' me, Faxman? How the fuck did you get a'hold'a 37,500 Dillies?' Gately stares at Fackelmann, shaking his massively square addict's head when he spies the plump lump in his crim- colleague, Fack's, bulging back pack. The product that pack packs glows kind of blue under its nondescript thin nylon translucence.

'Found 'em in the NA head, you big moron. What, you think I got any kinda dough to buy this amount of awesome shit?'

'Coulda robbed a drugstore,' Gately speculates, 'maybe intercepted a drug bust in progress...'

'That's a goddman lie.'
'...'
'I SAID, it's a goddamn....'

'Whatever,' Gately says in his most conciliatory tone. He does not like to argue. You don't survive the drug scene if you are contentious toward your supplier in any way. Gately is nothing if not contentious. He is way beyond mellow, and on the scale of non-confrontational attributes (if such a scale there even ever was) he would score kind of somewhere between laconically inept loser and Jaysus the Krispy Critter on a Cross. Gately is like Wonder Bread spread with a teensy bit of low cal dollar-store mayo, untoasted, pressed by fingertips until sippy and soft and yet still able to absorb without dripping all over everything in sight without a napkin, basically any old thing anyone puts on him. Or in him. He's a blank slate of an unwritten map still awaiting a visitation from the powerful entities that bestow beings with personality. Whatever. He takes up virtual and sort of abstract real-time space and that is enough for him, for now. Maybe even ever.

The two men glare at each other, then when the brushed-stainless steel elevator doors open and they see nobody inside, they make the short trip upward to their latest, illegally obtained luxury high-rise condo in downtown Boston. It's late but they're not so much tired as wired. Fack has indeed scored some serious shit and they are about to take the trip of their lives. It will not end well for Fackelmann, but that may be his Plan A: a heist of $250,000 blown on illegally obtained Dilaudin will surely land him in the clink, but if he can forestall that a while, well then, what a way to go.

'You got a key?' Gately eyes the door nervously, hoping there are no narcs patrolling or living on the floor.

'Relax, bro, I got the key code in my head.' Fackelmann punches in a few numbers and the door swings open. The living room, whose huge unshaded windows face north, is pretty much empty except for a large teleputer hanging on one wall. Fack has already sold the rental furniture he recently had gotten delivered under false credentials, the immediate illegal resale of which garnered not nearly enough cash to buy this current embarassment of riches -i.e., blues - Dilaudid - Gately knows, but he is not about to question his luck and get himself thrown out before the party begins. Fackelmann tosses the back pack in a corner and flips on the teleputer while Gately takes a look-see around the spacious apartment.

These two very bad bad boys situate themselves in one corner of the large empty room. The teleputer is programmed to display flames of all sorts, none of which can cook the product, but it really doesn't matter. Fack has dumped a mountain of blue Dilaudin capsules on the oak hardwood floor, just beyond the boundary of the tattered blanket he'd wrapped them in, which blanket now serves as their grassy picnic-like spot. Contrary to popular opinion, the Blue Mountain of Dilaudid was not the cookable powdery kind that can be injected, but the kind that must be inserted into the patient's rectum. It was ass-grade Blue. Both Fack and Gately stick it up their assholes as fast and as far up as they can, before the high wears off.  Once in a while they swallow some but you know what, it does not taste all that great. They loll around, high, low, high, low....they fart some capsules out, and sometimes thin warm, thin brown ooze will like ooze out onto the floor and make Rorschach-test patterns that they don't bother to try to interpret. The Dilaudin high is too quick to dissipate (hydromorphone, yes, the same stuff that gets non-addicts in trouble with some people's medicated pain management sanctioned by doctors who apparently do not know or care that Blue is not only as highly addictive as H but has a half-life high that deteriorates exponentially fast). And like that.

At some point maybe 40 some hours later, a small dent shows in the conical Blue Mountain of Dilaudid on the floor. Neither Fack nor Gately can realistically imagine getting through all of that high-quality substance before their respective maps totally pass  out or abscond into wraith-land. Gately is busy reminiscing about Pamela Hoffman-Jeep, his ex-girlfriend, the one who was always so wasted by alcohol that she was perpetually in need of manual transport. The poor girl could not even walk to the potty without assistance. Often she would be found lying in a pool of her own urine and feces, a sweet smile somewhat like a newborn infant's on her cherubic face. A pile of poop of a girlfriend. Shit happens.

And now here is Fax-man, two days later in a state of total deshabille, watching the teleputer reflect images over the oily Hydromorphone by-products emitted from his unaccountably priapic unit and nearby butt hole, all across the oak hardwood flooring in the illicitly obtained luxury condo. Try as Gately might, he can not rouse Fackelmann except to get a limpid cussing out of him...'Thas' a g'damn lie...' but it is more of a whimper than a castigation, as Fackelmann is really not altogether with it any more. In fact Gately thinks he ought to dial 911 except for the fact that he would be arrested for something his own self if he does. Where did Fack get all that shit anyway? Gately does not want to go to jail so he sits and watches as Fackelmann munches on peanut butter M & M's, which once masticated by Fack's nearly toothless jaws dribble down his chin. The brownish drool reminds Gately of diarrhea and before he knows it, Gately too has sympathetically crapped his pants, which substance added to the amber-hued piss that now threatens to permanently warp the wood flooring in the ilicitly obtained condo and makes Gately feel distinctly ill at ease. He tries to rise up to use the condo's bathroom but instead he merely slides in the slick slime slithering over the floorboards.

'Fucking awesome party. Way to go, Faxman.' Gately thinks, as he watches his partner in crime draw what will be his last breath.