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If you’ve ever partied, and I mean really partied, you’ve probably tripped on acid and mushrooms at the same time. I know, I know… but isn’t that like eating a bacon sandwich with a side of bacon? Exactly.
This was Saturday night and I had spent the previous night getting purely sauced to the point of extinction. The hangover was still deep. This was the type of hangover that affects your whole body. The type of hangover that makes your ears quiver at the sound of taking a breath. The kind of hangover that makes your lips and mouth feel drier than a post menopausal MILF’s anus. I was hurting, badly.
As I prepared for my impending death, my buddy, let’s call him Matt, showed up with just under a half an ounce of mushrooms and two hits of acid. Although I could feel my own organs writing a DNR note, I knew that an opportunity like this should not be taken lightly. It was time to get serious.
I chugged a liter of water mixed with cranberry juice and promptly puked ¾ of it back up as we began to lay down a blueprint for the night. My buddy and I were both 19 at the time ans a quick trip to the inner city ensued. A case of Natty and 14 shooters later, we were ready. Four shotguns, three grams of mushrooms and two seal slappers each later, we were readier.
Being the respectable and responsible young men that we are, we employed the services of my buddy’s 17-year-old brother, Tyler. This kid was the try hard of try hards. Some might even call him Wally Bryton.
At this point, we had mapped out the what, when and how, and all we needed was the where. Three grams of mushrooms and another seal slapper each, we had the where. Glow in the dark paintball. It was a magical moment. It was like the ride up on the roller coaster and the grin on my buddy’s face made me realize we were in for one hell of a drop.
As we made our way to Tyler’s mom’s Suburban, we glanced at each other and like a picturesque moment out of every romance anything ever made, our eyes met, our minds mingled, and instinctively I knew: I’m going to drop some acid with this guy, right now. Yum. My toes tingled, my palms got sweaty and although I had a good idea of what was to come, like a girl that’s about to do anal for the first time, I was in for a rude awakening.
After making a quick pit stop at the local Taco Bell to ensure our bodies were properly fueled, we had arrived at paintball just as the acid was starting to peer through the waves of our mushroom induced alcoholic state. Tyler went in and set up the logistics of a paintball game while three more grams of mushrooms accompanied by another couple beers hit our blood stream. We were higher than Regester’s blood pressure.
Even though each step felt like a galaxy far far away, things escalated rather quickly from this point. To quote Tyler as we suited up for what Matt and I thought, without doubt, was pure war, “Guys, I don’t know what happened to the whites of your eyes but try to squint or something and stop smiling like that. People are looking.”
Imagine, two guys in white tank tops, shorts, with distinctive full grin creepy squints walking into a room full of sober, angry, teenagers with PAINTBALL guns. At no point did Matt and I ever envision the onslaught that would follow.
We get inside and it’s all out pandemonium. Kids are firing on all cylinders while my injectors are barely oozing enough fuel to sustain a rough idle. My heart is racing. The strobes, loud music, and ever so potent stench of puke is making me want to murder everything in sight. Yet, the strobes, loud music, and ever so potent stench of puke has me frozen like a deer in headlights.
Matt is across the room going incognito in a barrel, THROWING paint balls at people. Literally throwing them. While still standing in prime target location, I try to make sense of all the color bubbles appearing on my white tank, but to no avail. Since my reactions are delayed by about ten minutes, I feel no pain as I am pelted with hormone infused, parent hating, adrenaline fueled paint balls.
All of a sudden, I hear Tyler yell out to Matt, “BRO!, watch that grenade!” as some pimple faced 14-year-old ginger runs by and drops it in Matt’s barrel. Oh shit. Matt rises up like Mario out of a drain pipe, as calm as crumpets and tea, looks at Tyler and asks, “Why, bro? What’s it doing”? This was it. I was already trying to plan out how to steal Tyler’s keys and start driving to Mexico because Matt was about to die and I had no idea how I would tell his parents.
Paint explodes literally into every crevice of his body, everywhere. You could string Matt up to a white canvas and open him as an exhibit in an art gallery that would make Jackson Pollack envious. I have never, ever seen anyone sneeze a wider panorama of colors than I did that night.
By this point, having seen that I have enough color on me to paint a four-bedroom colonial, and Matt is now on the ground “feeling the rainbow,” one of the moderators steps in and begins scolding us both like puppies who just pissed on the rug.
To my surprise, and only mine since Matt is no longer comprehending anything that is going on, Tyler takes hold of the situation like a seasoned attorney and begins to mount a pile of shit defense large enough to bury an elephant. But it works. The moderator backs off and Tyler and I shoulder up Matt and drag him out past what is now looking like the ending of Training Day. Parents, staff, other paintballers simply look on from both sides as we make the limp of shame out the front door. As we’re just about to cross the threshold, Tyler peers out from Matt’s right side and whispers, “You fuckers are riding in the trunk.”.
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