I have no real excuse for not posting recently, i have a few completed/almost completed pieces. i prefer to post around 7 am california time and have been missing it. anyways, wrote this the other night, waiting for the same friend i was waiting for when i wrote the alien thing. hope you like it!
When a Wizard Meets a Giant
The following series of events is entirely fictitious and did not take place in the cities of Yorba Linda and Fullerton, California, in the spring of 2010, one sunny afternoon. The fine police officers of these beautiful, Republican communities would never make such a grievous error, or allow such vile atrocities to take place. I know, from firsthand experience, that the police of these fine, majestic, fairytale cities are of the upmost dedication to their duties protecting and serving their community. From murdering homeless people, to harassing teenagers for wearing gloves, these are the faces of the finest force in the nation, if not the world. We can all rest easy at night knowing the Fullerton Police Department has two of its eight active duty cops sleeping in the Korean church parking lot at the corner of Woods and Malvern at any given time, with the engine left on, of course, because fuck you, your air, and taxes.
The preliminary details of this story are a bit blurred now that many years since passed, bringing countless new adventures, but the details are quite relevant, so I shall try.
Late in the season several winters ago, I chanced to pass a giant on my trek. Truly, he lived up to the title, in more ways than one. Not so much in the ways of maturity, wisdom, or tact, but I suppose few are willing to jump at the opportunity to correct or confront a giant. He dwarfed most men, but was remarkably thin and lanky, reminding me somewhat of a cross between Captain Hook and a scarecrow. His voice carried, but rarely in a bellow; it was more of a scratching wail. I could hear torment in his voice that he drowned in child-like wonder, energy, and naivety.
The clothing the giant fashioned himself looked tattered and worn, like he stole the clothing of the men he maimed and sewed it together haphazardly. Closer inspection revealed quite the opposite, and honestly, a very ornate design. He gave the appearance of a derelict, but it was either in jest, or because he just didn’t care. I never got around to asking.
Despite towering over the tallest of men I had seen, His head was of a normal size. His ears were a bit big, but not his head. His hair was wild and untamed, a red and golden forest that danced in the sun. Tangled and wiry, it looked like his head and chin lived in a perpetual inferno.
His eyes were sunken and piercing, but his inviting smile’s warmth was truly genuine. The more I studied the giant when we crossed each other’s paths, the more I realized he was more human than the villagers who ostracized him.
I was approached by the giant one day, early in our knowledge of each other, when I was out running errands. He asked me, on a lower trail than I, if I was wearing a London Fog coat. Since I was wearing a trench coat from the Vietnam War, I said, “No,” and asked how he fit on airplanes. “Uncomfortably,” apparently. After my first verbal exchange with the giant, I struggled to understand why he was a leper in this Pariah. My only true quarrel with him was his allegiance to some backwards Alliance that has hence seen better days. I am seldom the best received member of society myself, so I suppose it makes sense that I strain to grasp the logic of mortal men.
At the time, I had no idea that that conversation with the giant changed my life forever. I still remember it quite vividly today. That three-line conversation brought a joy that is sadly a rarity to me. Humorous, since humans usually just fill me with disappointment when they speak.
I remember being told not to take candy from strangers, but at this time, the giant was no longer a stranger. I only recently learned his name, but I had a good feeling about him. Besides, I have seen and met much stranger in the cities of men.
The giant and I had similar interests and an overlapping schedule, so it was only a matter of time until we met again. I happened to run into him early one afternoon, in the middle of that spring. We had a short conversation about our allegiances and opinions of past minstrels and bards, and disagreed entirely. The ability to disagree without yelling is quite uncommon these days, so naturally, I got into his car when he asked if I wanted to continue our conversation at his dwelling.
We continued to disagree on the way to his humble home, but we both resented the dull and wealthy, so we had plenty to speak of during the short jaunt. The energy of his house was quite overwhelming. The air was ripe with the stench of faeries, and the chimes of eastern winds deafened me. It was overall a protective and inviting place, but so obviously the other denizens distrusted me. I don’t remember much of what the giant and I discussed; however, I do remember the last thing he said to me, which was, “Would you like to buy some acid?”
Now I understood why I received such a good feeling from him, or so I thought. I responded with, “Two for fifteen?” to which he answered, “For you, I can do two for fifteen.”
I’m not sure what possessed the giant to allow a new addition to his life to see where he kept his drugs. I have since inferred that that was a rare honor bestowed on a select few. I am glad to have received it, since thusly, a long-lasting and glorious friendship has birthed and grown.
Quite a lot of backstory, but now our tale can begin. About five minutes after I purchased LSD from a giant, I placed it on my tongue. The delicious metallic taste began to permeate into my taste buds and saliva, giving that subtle warming and tingling sensation that tells me I am going to travel to outer space in an hour or two.
I was not a virgin to the kiss of acid at this point of my life, but I was pretty damn broke, so this was the first time I had flirted with an elixir of illusion of this strength. The giant and I parted ways again, and I decided to just wander around town until the acid kicked in, and would figure out what to do later.
About an hour or so into my journey, I started to notice my thoughts become lucid and my vision more vivid as the acid started to pulse through me. Acid doesn’t consume you, or take you over momentarily, like some other elixirs, but she is certainly not a lass to be underestimated or disrespected. With her guiding my thoughts and emotions, I could not think of much to do, aside from gawk at the beauty and majesty of the sights and sounds I met, since acid is more of a “night” drug, anyway. I figured I’d walk home to watch some trippy movies, enjoying whatever beauty made its way to me as I ended my journey in peace.
I was about fifteen minutes from my residence when I recalled that I had an appointment to retrieve some stolen property from the Fullerton Police Department, at I believe four in the afternoon. About a year and a half beforehand, some items of mine were stolen from my car, including a phone. My property was actually recovered the night of the theft, but my license and passport were expired, so my initial attempt at retrieving my property was denied. When I realized my appointment was that day, a few things went through my mind. The first was LSD. I was significantly higher than I figured I would be at this point. The second was that much time had passed since my property was recovered and the case was closed, so I didn’t want to reschedule, adding more time, or risk any potential silliness with the police just chucking it when making room for evidence on more relevant cases. It took so long for me to set up this appointment because I hate having to carry identification. Every time a cop asks me for ID, I feel like a Nazi is screaming, “Show me your papers, Juden!” It took me about a year to convince a family member to let me say that I lived at their address. I saw no other real alternative to getting my property back. I cared little for the phone and other items, it was a matter of principle. Do not fuck with a wizard.
The third thing to go through my mind when I recalled my appointment was that the police station was the last place the police would expect someone to be on hallucinogens, unless, of course, the police themselves carried their battered body there. I figured it was a pretty safe bet that I would retrieve my property and leave that dreadful place with relative ease.
By the time I made it to the police station, I was higher than a kite on Mars. In addition to the acid, I naturally am a bit socially awkward. I entered the police station and stood in what I thought to be the correct line. I remember seeing a Hispanic cadet sitting behind the front desk. I knew she was a cadet since her uniform was a soft, powdery blue, and the Fullerton police wear black uniforms so you can’t see the blood of the homeless people and punks they beat to death with nightsticks.
Apparently I was in the wrong line, but between looks of confusion, wrath, and lust, the cadet told me to sign myself in anyways. As I signed myself in, she asked if my name was Ashleigh. Certainly, the acid was tricking me. I knew she asked me my actual name, and I was just too fried, so I said, “Yes.” She paused for a moment and said something akin to, “Go through the door on your left.”
To my right rest two doors, both preceded by metal detectors. To my left, a solitary door stood, without a handle. I stopped for a second and tried to push it open, failing miserably. I turned back to the young cadet, who looked at me like I was absolutely retarded. The air grew cold, and the tension grew so thick that I struggled to draw in breath. She had to have known that I was on acid. I heard an ear-shattering beep, and felt the sinking of my heart. I knew that any second now, a cop was going to burst through that door and “protect” the shit out of me.
No such terror ensued. She said, quite bluntly, “Try it now,” so I tried to push the door open, successfully this time.
With the first massive hurdle of this battle long gone, I knew that when I stepped through that door, I would finally be reunited with my property and be able to get the fuck out of that villainous hive of heinous hornets.
That is, at least, what I believed, but not what the fates had instore for me. When I opened that door and stepped forward, the door slammed behind me. Behind that door was not a hallway, nor another room, but rather, a fucking field of grass. An illustrious emerald meadow, with a glistening shine almost blinding. The only logical solution is that when I stepped through that door, I entered another dimension.
To my sides rest an endless line of locked doors, each with the words “Employees Only” written on each one. After about a hundred or so feet, the meadow turned to the right, with even more doors marked “Employees Only.” I am not certain what cruel nightmare I stepped into, but I doubted I’d make it out alive. I walked in circles for about fifteen minutes in this meadow, trying to decide my course of action. The last thing I wanted to do was walk into the wrong room, full of cops, when I was on acid, barely able to stutter a few words at a time through my involuntary shit-eating grin.
After getting lost in a Hell House of dead ends and visual distortion, I eventually started to lap my cell, looking for anything I may have missed the first, second, and third time. Eventually, I knew I had to make a decision. The acid was in full force now, and even the most moronic cop would catch on eventually. I took a chance and opened one of the “Employees Only” doors. Luckily, the door I selected opened into a lobby with several chairs, another door, and a desk, with glass that reached the ceiling. Another female officer sat behind this desk. She was a middle-aged blonde woman, with a real life hobo-killing black uniform. The tension I felt from her was different than that of the cadet. Where the cadet was curious, yet cautious, this officer was assertive and territorial. If she wasn’t a cop, it would have been pretty hot. For a woman of her age and stress level, she was pretty attractive. I wouldn’t want to date or fuck her, but I’d probably let her dominate me for a night of two.
Although technically a question, I heard no intrigue in her voice when she asked, “Can I help you?” She obviously was not expecting me, and what she really meant was, “Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing here?” I told her that I had an appointment to pick up some stolen property, and she confirmed that I, miraculously, was indeed in the correct place. I heard her type on her computer momentarily, followed by her stating, “You aren’t Ashleigh…” I agreed that my name was most certainly not Ashleigh, and told her my true name. She asked for my ID, and then told me that the only scheduled retrieval of evidence that day was for a woman named Ashleigh with my last name, but after a brief description of what I came to retrieve and why so much timed passed between the theft and appointment, she trusted that I, the not Ashleigh, was supposed to be there retrieving said property.
During this time, I realized that the cops were not looking at me oddly to decipher whether or not I was on drugs, but because they were so perplexed by a man named Ashleigh. Apparently, cops don’t watch The Evil Dead I, II, or The Army of Darkness. This was before the shitty remake.
The officer told me to have a seat, and that she would get my property for me and return momentarily. I am not sure how long I waited in human time, but it felt like an eternity. The ceiling started to melt, and I swear, I caught the clock rewinding on more than one occasion.
She eventually returned, carrying a light brown folder, which presumably held my property. She said, “So basically, a phone and a few other small items?” I agreed, stood up out of the chair I sat on, and approached her desk.
Now, although all I had to do was sign in and open two doors, and then prove I was there to get property that belonged to me, thanks to the acid, I had already been in the police station for almost an hour, and I knew I would soon lose my shit and blow my cover, so I felt myself flood with relief, knowing that I would soon be on my way home.
The officer handed me some paperwork to sign and date. It seemed like pretty standard stuff, but I met extreme difficulty deciphering it through the rolling lines of text and dancing words. The metallic taste in my mouth had passed, and I was completely immersed in a swirling and iridescent rainbow sea of acid.
When I finally finished the paperwork, which probably took far too long, I looked up to see a somewhat annoyed looking woman standing behind the desk with several items that did not belong to me resting upon it. I told her those were not my items, and once again, waited for several eons as she attempted this quest a second time. As the ceiling dripped down to stain my shoes, I could only fathom what beasts or horrors kept her so long.
The second time around, she grabbed the correct items. I figured she would have confirmed the items I showed up for the first time, when I described them, but that would be a waste of time and tax dollars, I assume.
After finally receiving my items, I promptly left the police station. As I left, I overheard two male officers joking about my majestic hair. After over an hour of being lost in the police station, fried out of my mind, the only conclusion that the superb policemen and women of Fullerton, California, could come to, was that I needed a haircut.
The subsequent journey to my house is lost to me, but when I finally reached it, I decided it was time to celebrate by vigorously masturbating. Little holds a candle to the pleasure of fucking yourself on drugs. I climbed into bed and began to plunge into the depths of orgasm, when an electric blue stencil of Emperor Palpatine from Return of the Jedi came out of my mattress. I knew it was a hallucination, but his face was just so old and grotesque, I lost all arousal. The vision was so intense, I still taste and smell that mix of rubber and fish that emanates from old people. Shortly thereafter, I received a call inviting me to go to a LA Galaxy soccer game. The night sky was just far too glittery, even inside, for such a trip to come to fruition.
My acid adventure continued late into the night, eventually leading me to the very coffee house where I now recall and write this tale, awaiting my friend’s arrival. That night, I drank some coffee and played chess with a few people, who were probably much more afraid of me than I was of them. I hope they improved.