Howard Marks' Book of Dope Stories (21 page)

In being eaten the coffee bean ‘dies,’ blessing new thought and life, a tradition the Oromo say goes back as far as anyone can remember. After the bean has spoken, the assembly moves on to the matter at hand, such as a circumcision, marriage, land dispute, or the undertaking of a dangerous journey.

One important point about the
bun-qalle
. The beans are simply added whole to the milk, not pulverized. True infusion, where crushed beans are added to a neutral liquid like water, thus completely releasing the bean’s power, is reserved for the darker acts such as laying a curse or, as in tonight’s ceremony, the exorcism of evil spirit.

The Devil’s Cup
, 2000

A
S THE WAR
against drug users increases in intensity, with weed being ripped out of wardrobes and pills pulled out of pockets by pillocks and police, one needs to seriously and tenaciously seek alternative ways to get hammered during this current millennium. One obvious solution is to venture forth into the remote countryside and grow more weed. Plough the fields and scatter skunk seeds everywhere. But a far more pioneering and vastly overlooked defence against the anti-caning brigade is the sensible use of animal products as psychoactive sources. Most outbuildings can be easily converted into zoos and menageries of supplies for getting stoned.

The first animal to acquire is, of course, a reindeer, a far more interesting pet than either a dog or cat: reindeer are attracted to smoke, eat mushrooms, go into psychedelic trances; and their piss gets you off your tits. The Chukchi people of eastern Siberia are rarely found without a couple of bags of reindeer piss by their side. And no country has yet made piss illegal.

Another valuable potential psychoactive pet is the good old giraffe. The Humr tribe of Baggara, Arabs who live in Kordofan, Sudan, are normally strict abstainers. But they kill giraffes and boil up their livers and bone marrow to make a drink called
umm nylokh
. After drinking
umm nylokh
, one sees hallucinations of giraffes everywhere, stretching their necks longer to get at the leaves and making a mockery of Darwin.

Admittedly, giraffes and reindeer are a bit on the large side and need a lot of land and sky for exercise. So unless one wishes to make a business out of it, start small: get an insect house, and stock insects that can get you spannered or make you want to shag all night. Such an aphrodisiac is Spanish fly, which is made from beetle wings and ‘if anointed on the soles of the feet, testicles and
perineum
provokes and stirs up lust to a miracle in both sexes and invigorates the feeble instruments of generation’. It’s not really like that, but it does cause itching sensations in the genitals that are excellent fun to be scratched.

Ants, tarantulas, ground-up scarab beetles and various other insect potions are also documented as able to either get one out of it or keep one’s dick big and hard. So there’s plenty of opportunity for experiment, and it’s legal. Next to the insect house build an aviary, catch some South American birds called
pitohui
and eat them. You’ll see heavenly visions of birds of paradise. Next to the aviary, build a small reptile house and tropical pond. Inside the reptile house, put a load of king and other cobras. Get some of their venom, crystallise it, mix it with a skunk bud, put it in a pipe and smoke it. Hear the music of the snake charmers.

For the slightly more adventurous and wealthy, I would suggest converting all swimming pools into aquariums and stocking them with puffer fish (key ingredient of the very hardcore zombie drug), certain species of mullet (be careful of mental paralysis and delirium), tang (the nightmare fish) and yellow stingray (stoning aphrodisiac).

If skint, then simply rely on ponds full of newts, salamanders, frogs and toads. I, along with countless others, have licked toads and got absolutely legally wasted. Not just any old toad will do, of course. Ideally, it has to be the Sonoran Desert toad (aka the Colorado River toad:
Bufo alvarius)
which is found in Mexico and the southern United States. Pus is extracted, dried and smoked. It contains tryptamine 5-MeO-DMT, which is at least four times stronger than regular DMT and mimics the death and dream experiences. Devotees of its consumption call their cult the ‘Church of the Toad of Light’. So, fill the pond with these toads, and examine their shit for toadstools.

John Milton

F
RESH VENOM CAN
easily be collected without harm to the toad. Use a flat glass plate or any other smooth, non-porous surface, at least twelve inches square. Hold the toad in front of the plate, which is fixed in a vertical position. In this manner, the venom can be collected on the glass plate, free of dirt, and liquid released when the toad is handled. When ready to begin, hold the toad firmly with one hand and, with the thumb and forefinger of the other hand, squeeze near the base of the gland until the venom squirts out of the pores and on to the glass plate. Use this method to systematically collect the venom from each of the toad’s granular glands: those on the forearm, those on the tibia and femur of the hind leg, and, of course, the parotoids on the neck. Each gland can be squeezed a second time for an additional yield of venom if the toad is allowed a one-hour rest period. After this the glands are empty and require four to six weeks for regeneration. The venom is viscous and milky-white in color when first squeezed from the glands. It begins to dry within minutes and acquires the color and texture of rubber cement. Scrape the venom from the glass plate, dry it thoroughly and store it in an airtight container. Smoke it.

Eros and the Pineal: The Layman’s Guide to Cerebral Solitaire
, 1986

William Shakespeare

‘A
S YOUR ATTORNEY
,’ he said, ‘I advise you not worry.’ He nodded toward the bathroom. ‘Take a hit out of that little brown bottle in my shaving kit.’

‘What is it?’

‘Adrenochrome,’ he said. ‘You won’t need much. Just a little
tiny
taste.’

I got the bottle and dipped the head of a paper match into it.

‘That’s about right,’ he said. ‘That stuff makes pure mescaline seem like ginger beer. You’ll go completely crazy if you take too much.’

I licked the end of the match. ‘Where’d you get
this
?’ I asked. ‘You can’t buy it.’

‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘It’s absolutely pure.’

I shook my head sadly. ‘Jesus! What kind of monster client have you picked up
this
time? There’s only one source for this stuff . . .’

He nodded.

‘The adrenalin glands from a
living
human body,’ I said. ‘It’s no good if you get it out of a corpse.’

‘I know,’ he replied. ‘But the guy didn’t have any cash. He’s one of these Satanism freaks. He offered me human blood – said it would make me higher than I’d ever been in my life,’ he laughed. ‘I thought he was kidding, so I told him I’d just as soon have an ounce or so of pure adrenochrome – or maybe just a fresh adrenalin gland to chew on.’

I could already feel the stuff working on me. The first wave felt like a combination of mescaline and methedrine. Maybe I should take a swim, I thought.

‘Yeah,’ my attorney was saying. ‘They nailed this guy for child molesting, but he swears he didn’t do it. “Why should I fuck with
children
?” he says. “They’re too small!”’ He shrugged. ‘Christ, what could I say? Even a goddamn werewolf is entitled to legal counsel . . . I didn’t
dare
turn the creep down. He might have picked up a letter opener and gone after my pineal gland.’

‘Why not?’ I said. ‘He could probably get Melvin Belli for that.’ I nodded, barely able to talk now. My body felt like I’d just been wired into a 220-volt socket. ‘Shit, we should get us some of that stuff.’ I muttered finally. ‘Just eat a big handful and see what happens.’

‘Some of what?’

‘Extract of pineal.’

He stared at me. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘That’s a
good
idea. One
whiff
of that shit would turn you into something out of a goddamn medical encyclopedia! Man, your head would swell up like a watermelon, you’d probably gain about a hundred pounds in two hours . . . claws, bleeding warts, then you’d notice about six huge hairy tits swelling up on your back . . .’ He shook his head emphatically. ‘Man, I’ll try just about anything; but I’d never in hell touch a pineal gland.

‘Last Christmas somebody gave me a whole jimson weed, the root must have weighed two pounds; enough for a
year
but I ate the whole goddamn thing in about twenty minutes!’

I was leaning toward him, following his words intently.

The slightest hesitation made me want to grab him by the throat and force him to talk faster. ‘Right!’ I said eagerly. ‘Jimson weed! What happened?’

‘Luckily, I vomited most of it right back up,’ he said. ‘But even so, I went blind for three days. Christ I couldn’t even walk! My whole body turned to wax. I was such a mess that they had to haul me back to the ranch house in a wheelbarrow . . . they said I was trying to talk, but I sounded like a raccoon.’

‘Fantastic,’ I said. But I could barely hear him. I was so wired that my hands were clawing uncontrollably at the bedspread, jerking it right out from under me while he talked. My heels were dug into the mattress, with both knees locked . . . I could feel my eyeballs swelling, about to pop out of the sockets.

‘Finish the fucking story!’ I snarled. ‘What
happened
? What about the
glands
?’

He backed away, keeping an eye on me as he edged across the room. ‘Maybe you need another drink,’ he said nervously. ‘Jesus, that stuff got right on top of you, didn’t it?’

I tried to smile. ‘Well . . . nothing worse . . . no, this is worse . . .’ It was hard to move my jaws; my tongue felt like burning magnesium. ‘No . . . nothing to worry about,’ I hissed. ‘Maybe if you could just . . . shove me into the pool, or something . . .’

‘Goddamnit,’ he said. ‘You took too
much
. You’re about to . . .’

I couldn’t move. Total paralysis now. Every muscle in my body was contracted. I couldn’t even move my eyeballs, much less turn my head or talk.

‘It won’t last long,’ he said. ‘The first rush is the worst. Just ride the bastard out. If I put you in the pool right now, you’d sink like a goddamn stone.’

Death. I was sure of it. Not even my lungs seemed to be functioning. I needed artificial respiration, but I couldn’t open my mouth to say so. I was going to
die
. Just sitting there on the bed, unable to move . . . well, at least there’s no pain.

Probably, I’ll black out in a few seconds, and after that it won’t matter.

My attorney had gone back to watching television. The news was on again. Nixon’s face filled the screen, but his speech was hopelessly garbled. The only word I could make out was ‘sacrifice’. Over and over again: ‘Sacrifice . . . sacrifice . . . sacrifice . . .’

I could hear myself breathing heavily. My attorney seemed to notice. ‘Just stay relaxed,’ he said over his shoulder, without looking at me. ‘Don’t try to fight it, or you’ll start getting brain bubbles . . . strokes, aneurisms . . . you’ll just wither up and die.’ His hand snaked out to change channels.

It was after midnight when I finally was able to talk and move around . . . but I was still not free of the drug; the voltage had merely been cranked down from 220 to 110.1 was a babbling nervous wreck, flapping around the room like a wild animal, pouring sweat and unable to concentrate on any one thought for more than two or three seconds at a time.

My attorney put down the phone after making several calls. ‘There’s only one place where we can get fresh salmon,’ he said, ‘and it’s closed on Sunday.’

‘Of course,’ I snapped. ‘These goddamn Jesus freaks! They’re multiplying like rats!’

He eyed me curiously.

‘What about the Process?’ I said. ‘Don’t they have a place here? Maybe a delicatessen or something? With a few tables in back? They have a fantastic menu in London. I ate there once; incredible food . . .’

‘Get a grip on yourself,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to even
mention
the Process in this town.’

‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘Call Inspector Bloor. He knows about food. I think he has a list.’

‘Better to call room service,’ he said. ‘We can get the crab looey and a quart of Christian Brothers’ muscatel for about twenty bucks.’

‘No!’ I said. ‘We must get out of this place. I need air. Let’s drive up to Reno and get a big tuna fish salad . . . hell, it won’t take long. Only about four hundred miles; no traffic out there on the desert . . .’

‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘That’s Army territory. Bomb tests, nerve gas – we’d never make it.’

We wound up at a place called the Big Flip about halfway downtown. I had a ‘New York steak’ for $1.88. My attorney ordered the ‘Coyote Bush Basket’ for $2.09 . . . and after that we drank off a pot of watery ‘Golden West’ coffee and watched four boozed-up cowboy types kick a faggot half to death between the pinball machines.

‘The action never stops in this town,’ said my attorney as we shuffled out to the car. ‘A man with the right contacts could probably pick up all the fresh adrenochrome he wanted, if he hung around here for a while.’

I agreed, but I wasn’t quite up to it, right then. I hadn’t slept for something like eighty hours, and that fearful ordeal with the drug had left me completely exhausted . . . tomorrow we would have to get serious. The drug conference was scheduled to kick off at noon . . . and we were still not sure how to handle it. So we drove back to the hotel and watched a British horror film on the late show.