Dispatches from the Dab Junkie: Part Two

First of all let us not take ourselves to seriously here .Part of what I love about the whole dab experience is the ready access to silliness. It takes me back makes me feel young again and sometimes you really have to laugh to keep from crying.

So the twisted tale has to have a set up. I had been snowballing for a few hours trying to be a zone rider. Break on through all Jim Morrison style. Fighting that never ending battle against sobriety. Jacob’s ladder higher and higher girls dirty dancing with demon tails. So as the hazy L.A. Confidential vapors twist and spin in the air the visions begin.

Vision One:

The garbage pail kids movie bad trip. Distorted midget futuristic gladiators.

Baby prisons of the future. Everyone gets chipped. How can you accept the mark of the beast only out of fear. The explosions keep you up all night. The reapers soar constantly over-head tiny mechanical eyes scanning for signs of organic life. You scrape more predator mud across your face and try to stay invisible. They are hunting you for not taking the chip. The satanic sacrament they feed the masses. Metal birds scream in the night searching for prey. The David and Goliath fight. The metal eyes clicking away.

Vision Two:

Its the Dabtards versus the Zombipheticals. Adjusting to the adjustment. Was Lennon killed for mind games. So there is this severed head in a box telling crazy stories. Get the head drunk on three thimble fulls of wine. Just make sure there is no reckless eye-ballin the head does not go for that . If you can get the head pleasantly drunk and you ask real nice and he likes you he might tell you one of his stories.

Severed head story:

He once was a dragon fly with twenty thousand mirrors as his eyes. He would fly from reed to reed. He would sweep over redneck ponds flying fast and low across the murky water. He would act as snake doctor to all around scratching at the holes of his patients. War never seemed close. Then the rains came and it was all he could do to cling to a thick blade of marsh grass. It rained and rained and the water coated his mirrored eyes. He begun to be washed away and thought be a bright star not a muted one , go towards it in a rush of abandon instead of nurturing sour shadows.

Vision Three:

The Revolution riddle soaked in a culture cipher. Cold blooded cutthroat way to clear the obstacles.

The lost queen philosophy and the matrix monchichi big buzz for big bucks. Should have seen it coming temporary satisfaction of mutual needs. Scorched earth policy on salt the wounds Sunday. With a mouth full of wasps I walk away from the last bombing raid. The sad piano music plays as the floating fortresses lift through the mist most never to return.

Vision Four:

The Valkyrie.

Ashen Norse warrior maidens , heroes of the coming age . They are the menders of the hoop. Mankind’s last hope. The last face a warrior sees as he is lifted beyond the veil. The sisters of the struggle their trumpets call before the charge. They carry the fallen back to Valhalla. Great Amazonian wonder women taking aim on the heart’s of the enemy.

Traphouse 63

The last few sips of forty glowed amber in the dim light. Wabo pulled greedily on a white owl as he scraped the last of the cut through the small white pile. Blunt ash fell silently onto the formica counter top. He would have to vial up before he could leave the spot. The knot of cash in his pocket gave him cold comfort but it could always be bigger. Wabo put the L out quickly as he went to the cupboard to get his bag of vials. He would have to get a new place soon , the canary was starting to cough in the mine. He had just finished topping off the last vial when he herd a knock at the door. Alarm sent electricity through his veins. Another Knock was that a cop knock? He eased the safety off gun in waistband and took a few deep breaths.

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