Chuck Wendig’s flash fiction challenge this week was a Random Title Challenge, wherein you chose from a list of ten randomly generated strings of words and that became your title. I threw in a colon. Hope that doesn’t break any rules.
It all started because I was bored Friday night. My friends were off at some festival or visiting family, and I wanted to do something interesting for the weekend. What better way to spend some time alone than to go on a little trip through the doors of perception.
It’s not like I was some kind of hardcore user or anything. I’d sparked up a joint once or twice a year, and I took mushrooms before a Laurie Anderson gig once. That was trippy. The music made colourful squares and triangles in the air, and when I went dancing afterward I felt like my ponytail was pulling me around the dance floor. Anyway, as soon as I figured out that was what I wanted I hopped a bus and went to see Nipper.
“Elwood! Good to see you!” he said, pulling me into his living room. In retrospect his enthusiasm should have warned me off. “You’re just the man I wanted to see. I’ve been working on something I call Sports Day Orange Drink, and its getting rave reviews. I want you to try it.” Nipper was less of a dealer than a skilled chemist who funded new experiments by selling old ones.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s like E, acid and a big hug all mixed together,” he explained. “You’ll be tripping balls in no time.” He reached into his pocket and took out three pills, wrapped them in paper torn from a weekend Get Fuzzy strip and handed me the package.
“Why do you call it Sports Day Orange Drink?” I asked. Nipper grinned.
“Because it’s warm and sweet and when you’re done you line up for more.” I raised an eyebrow and shrugged. That sounded better than being naked under an overpass chowing down on some poor guy’s face, so I’d give it a try. I slipped Nipper a twenty as I shook his hand, and headed out the door.
I’d planned on going home before taking the little tablets, but it was a warm, clear evening, just cooled down enough to be comfortable, and I didn’t have to drive anywhere. I slipped the comic strip envelope out of my pocket (Bucky Katt exclaimed “Sweet monkey dumplings!” at me), fished out a tablet and placed it under my tongue. There was a 7-11 ten minutes away and I figured I’d let this dissolve as I walked up Lakewood, get a Slurpee, then head over to Victoria Park and spend some quality time on the swings. I waited for any effects to manifest, but I was a block away and still felt completely normal.
“What the hell,” I thought, and took the other two tablets. What was the worst that could happen? As I came around the corner and approached the 7-11 I started to feel warm, nay, absolutely suffused with warmth, from head to foot, but significantly warmer in the groinal area. The panhandler sitting by the door asked me for spare change, but I sensed a subtext, that it wasn’t really spare change that he wanted. I went in and started filling a Slurpee cup with Fanta Grape flavour, and the frozen slush poured in, forming luscious, curvy, kissable piles of purple. I shrugged.
“Hashtag YOLO,” I said, aping my 14-year-old cousins, and succumbed to the wiles of the frozen treat machine, flicking my tongue gently around the Fanta Grape tap while my fingers caressed the Red Hot Cinnamon on one side and the Coke on the other. A buzz was building in my head, and I’d almost brought the machine to a messy climax when the 7-11 clerks grabbed me, pulled me close to their polyester chests, and tossed me out on the sidewalk. It was disappointing to come so close and be denied, but I licked the sticky residue from my fingers, brushed off my shorts and looked around. The panhandler had left, so there was no comfort to be had there. My body still held a pleasant, warm haze, like I was wearing velvet y-fronts and the Red Hot Chili Peppers were providing the soundtrack to my evening and I was being licked all over by hundreds of kittens–sexy, sexy kittens.
Hastings Street seemed too bright, so I cut down to quiet, tree-lined Pender Street, thinking I’d follow through on my plan to hit Victoria Park. Maybe I’d find that panhandler and offer him some “spare change” if you know what I mean.
Then, a block away, I saw her.
She was dressed all in red, and it made her beguiling. She was not tall, but was solidly built, with curves right where they should be. She stood on the corner under a streetlight, not moving, but beckoning me forward, and so forward I went. Her name was Candy—Candy Post—and I whispered her name as I stroked her cool skin. I stroked her face and her chin, and then her mouth opened. It opened wide, gaping and inviting me into its depths. I accepted the invitation, dropping my cargo shorts, pulling my Batman Chucks through the leg holes and climbing up her slick skin to deposit my love into her waiting maw. It was going to be glorious, but my foot slipped and that was the end of everything.
You’d think a mailbox would be solidly anchored to the ground, unable to be moved. You would be wrong. As my foot slipped, I grabbed onto her…it…and shifted my other foot. The whole metal box tilted forward, and as I hit the ground it fell onto me, the mail chute slammed shut on my junk, and I dropped out of a high faster than any other time in my life. I crawled out from under the mailbox, grateful that no pedestrians were around to watch, and slunk down the street toward Nipper’s place.
“Dude! You look rough,” he said when I knocked on his door. “That was quick. Are you already back for more?” I sighed.
“No. I just wondered if I could crash on your couch. I’m not sure this is what I was looking for.”
“No worries, chief. Me couch es su couch. Hey, I’ve been working on something else!” He pulled a baggie or brown powder from a pocket. “I call this stuff Hot Dog Day. Want to try it?” I looked at the baggie, then at the couch.
“What the hell,” I said. “What’s the worst that could happen?”