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The Best And Worst Acid Trip Of All Time

Fiction.
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My girlfriend loves dragging me to erotic art shows with watermelon-sized buttplugs and more leather than a Texan saddlery. And for reasons I don’t understand, I often end up backstage. You know, where all the beautiful people live? They swap stories about things I pretend to understand, while I grow more and more awkward, burrowing into a hole so deep I can barely string a sentence together. It’s horrific, so whenever such an event is proposed, I have my dealer place a tab of LSD in my palm. It helps me.

On our most recent outing, I was happily chatting in a suave, brightly lit foyer. Things were good and the night was young. At seven, we were ushered inside the theatre where I sat in the comfiest chair my rear end had ever graced. No word of a lie, I was on the rump of the Great Lord himself, and this Lord was mighty pleased to have me there. It was then I knew this particular trip would be a grand one.

Yet thirty minutes in I’d watched enough erotica for a lifetime. Having focused on one thing for too long, my mind collapsed, shifting so quickly I lost track of its path. Eventually, I found it on the other side of my cerebral cortex, and with it, a clear, urgent goal: get Doritos. And not the Nacho Cheese flavour. I needed plain, salted, Doritos. But not to eat them. I simply needed the crinkly, polypropylene bag. For research purposes, of course.

Doritos’ bags are half chip, half air. Of course, that’s far from new information; every red-eyed stoner this side of Nimbin has spoke of this fable after a toke one pinch too large, but I needed to delve deeper. Was it actually air inside those bags? It could be anything, right?

Recently, I’d watched a documentary on chemical warfare. Toxic, airborne substances still exist. They kill instantly and are just plain nasty, tossed in the naughty corner as far as ethics in war go. The documentary was a great watch, made even better by the vintage Fatboy Slim tracks used for every single tie-in. But it made me think: what better way to spread death than a global snack? They’re everywhere, airtight and concealed. And better yet, they’re the least suspicious consumable on the planet, hiding in plain sight.

And so sitting in that theatre, rolling through my A-grade LSD, the terror took hold. Were the latest batch of Dorito corn chips half-filled with Sarin gas? Would every opened bag result in a tight chest and excess drooling, forcing people to wriggle around and die like a moth hit with Mortein? What a terrible way to go, I thought! But effective? Of course. How crazy that our own country’s gluttony would bring about such an untimely death.

And under the influence, I was a hero; the hero. I thought, “It must be stopped.” And if anyone could take on a multi-national, Government-driven ploy to eradicate the greater world, it was a kite-high 23-year-old in an erotic theatre with zero understanding of Sarin gas, cross-border policies or sealing agents.

Wildly paranoid, I crept from the theatre. I ignored the “No entry or exit during showtime” notice on the door. That earned me a glare from Frodo Baggins, the fictional character in J. R. R. Tolkien’s legendarium Lord Of The Rings. Surely he himself was involved. In truth, he was small. Should we come to blows, I would sedate him using a rare chokehold my uncle taught me many years ago.

Outside, I walked straight to the bar: “Doritos, please. Not the Nacho cheese flavour. And not the big packet. I don’t want one of those show-bag-sized Dorito packets. Can you imagine me in there, yeah? With this huge, crinkling packet of Doritos! HA! And there’s some poor old sod behind me peering over this big-ass chip packet trying to watch some chick pull a G-string out of God know’s where it’s tucked!? Ludacris! I’d look a fool!”
The gentleman held a blank stare. “No Doritos.”
“Jesus Christ!” I gasped. “Do you know who bought them all? Is he in there? I’ll find him if he his. He could spare a packet, surely. The monster must have bought 50! What kind of a man comes to a respectable theatre like this and buys all the Doritos. A taxi driver, surely!”
“We don’t stock Doritos, Sir.” It appeared the clerk was lying to me, perhaps bribed by a greater power. But if he wasn’t, we were lucky; no Doritos inside meant the sarin gas hadn’t infiltrated the theatre, and my friends would make it out of there alive!
“Is there a place nearby I can buy Doritos? Not the Nacho chee-,” He cut me off, knowing I’d explain the  same thing I’d done so already.
“A 7-eleven,” he said. His calmness was unnerving.

An elderly woman was now shouldering the man, as if a lack of Doritos would result in me jumping the bench and strangling him with my coat jacket. Of course, I would do no such thing. My coat jacket was too expensive, and surely it would tear before that old oaf ran out of wind.
“If I get the Doritos from across the road, not the Nacho Cheese ones, can I bring them back in? I would feel right silly sitting on the street with the Doritos and not being able to see the rest of the play, all because you’ve decided to sell Kettle chips instead of Doritos. You must understand my plight? Surely!?”
The man was fed up, so I waited for no answer, leaving out the main entrance. I went down 18 stairs, one left then one right, across a Pedestrian strip and there I was. Orange, white, green, white, red, in that order – the universal colours of the humble 7-eleven.

Inside the store sat the Holy Grail. Sitting on the special’s rack was a packet of plain flavoured Doritos; perfect, just the size I needed, not too big, nor too small. And bar the shopkeeper, there wasn’t another soul inside. That meant I hadn’t been followed; there was no collegiate linebacker ready to crush my skull and snatch the last of the original Nachos, laughing at my limp figure as he uncovered the air-to-chip-to-sarin ratio conspiracy.

‘What a miracle,’ I thought. “I’ll be a hero! I’ll be on the news, even!”

I don’t remember buying the Doritos. Clarity didn’t return until I sat on the kerb outside the 7-eleven. My phone was vibrating in my pocket like a defective dildo: on, off, slightly on, raging, off again. Had I stolen a dildo from that ridiculous show I was in a few seconds or a couple of hours ago? Surely not; it was my phone. Dildos don’t play Rihanna’s ‘Work Work Work’, anyway. At least not to my knowledge.

With the Doritos firmly in my grasp, I accepted fate. I would be the martyr sacrificed at the hands of the evil sarin-Dorito ploy; it was for the better of mankind. So I opened the packet and a second or two passed – nothing. But then, like clockwork, gas came bellowing out! I swear on the rotting carcass of Charles Darwin himself, it poured out the same way steam did when I threw dry ice in my Grandmother’s toilet and told her it was on fire.

I was dead, no doubt about it; I’d reached the end, a life half lived. There were no get out of jail free cards this time ’round: goodbye mother, father, sister, friends; you were all lovely. Things went dark then bright again, and in those final moments, I even shouted the name of a Lord I never believed in. I figured it couldn’t hurt, right?

And then the bright light came, just like I’d seen in the movies. But they were a world apart from the lights I’d imagined. In fact, i knew these lights: they belonged to two police officers who’d been called to the 7-eleven after a packet of Doritos had been stolen by an inebriated man speaking to himself about Safron. Safron!? How crazy must they be? We’ve got Sarin in packets of Doritos and they’re worried about a gourmet spice and pinging me for a $4.99 packet of fried cornmeal? “Forget the flamin’ Doritos you imbeciles! There’s Sarin in the air, right here, right now!” I yelled at the officers. Fatboy Slim had returned.

Waking up to find your love’s not real
Waking up to find your love’s not real
Waking up to find your love’s not real
Waking up to find your love’s not real

With no response, I repeated myself. “I have sarin gas, I said!” pointing to the bag of Doritos, now sitting at my feet. The two of them – one with a face that looked like it had run the length of a cheese grater, the other with skin the envy of any B-list celebrity – looked confused. Perhaps even more so than before.

They both stepped back and drew their weapons. “Great idea, officers – shoot the Sarin gas! Kill it!” I cackled, a far cry from a smart idea. Cheese Grater frowned and got on the radio. I heard him say, “We’ve got a live one.” Or maybe he didn’t say that. But I think that’s what I’d say. Sarin would say that too. So would Fatboy Slim.

Eight police threw my head on the pavement after forty minutes of negotiations. My girlfriend watched helplessly, a mix of concern and shame. She’d been told I shoplifted, threatened officers with a substance of chemical warfare (which can easily pass as terrorism) and that I was a “right dickhead” for causing fuss over nothing. True.

I allegedly told police I was close friends with Fatboy Slim. In my version of events, the two of us won a regional ping-pong tournament together back in 2009. Alas, the proof of our victory went up in flames when the regional hall fell victim of an arson attack in late ’12, so there was little to show just how tight Star 69 and I truly were.

We’ve come a long long way together,
Through the hard times and the good,
I have to celebrate you baby,
I have to praise you like I should

Doritos are great. Sarin is bad. Saffron is irrelevant. Acid blends all three.

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Words by Sammy Attwood (follow him), the co-founder of YFH. He made this post up. It’s not true. He only eats kale. Photo by Michael.

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