MWH, Installment #2: Chapter One

On the Road to the Jungle
         The moment I stepped into the light, it disappeared, and was replaced by some ominous black glow. I though to myself: Careful, man. Every step you take is probably your last. The paranoia with which I had been stricken earlier turned into panic. Everywhere I looked something was after me. I passed a shining blue mailbox and it turned into some kind of daemon. It chased after me over the road, which had turned black and bittery and white cold. Hellish creatures were crawling out of its eye sockets as its three eyeballs dangled precariously from thin  strands. It reached out to grab me, but I pulled out a can of mace and sprayed it in the mouth. I quickly made my getaway while it, rolling on the ground letting out evil wails of pain, recovered. But this was not my only problem. In fact, at almost every footstep, I came nearer to death than ever before. I stepped on a loose stone in the road and it slid away. Underneath it were lurking evil noises and horrific things. I though Good God! What are these terrible things? They jumped up and ran after me. They would've gotten the best of me if they weren't so small. It was days until their insides finally came off my shoes. After what seemed like hours but was most certainly days of wandering in a haze of delirium brought on, no doubt, by a weak stomach having almost anything but food being poured daily into its pathetic whimpering mouth, I found myself conversing with a huge shape-changing mushroom, though I'm not absolutely sure how or why. I couldn't remember what had been said, so I decided to start back at the beginning.
         "Good day," I said in one of my friendlier tones.
         "Is it?" queried the mushroom, now in the form of a giant reptile. I looked away from the thing in order to better concentrate on the conversation. "I was under the impression that it was a fairly plain day," it said in the voice of a gnu. Not familiar with the inflections of a wildebeest, I couldn't tell if it was being serious or making one of those stupid jokes that people make when they can't think of anything intelligent, important or clever to say.
         "Say, um... I don't suppose you have any narcotics or hallucinogens on you that you'd be willing to give or sell me, do you?" I asked in my most polite and desperate of inflections; the same kind that people use when on their knees in front of an all-powerful emperor, begging for their lives and the lives of their family, but with little hope of compassion because they're committing serious treason simply by speaking to him. Though, I suppose all treason is serious, isn't it?
         "Well, what sort are you looking for?" asked the bass saxophone. I explained to it what my predicament was and it asked me what I was doing out here on the edge of the freaking jungle. I told it all about going to the Mount Washington Hotel to buy acid and it sympathized. It then explained that I would never actually get to Mount Washington because this was all in my head and none of it was really happening. I found myself utterly flabbergasted, and I asked the penguin if it was serious. "Of course not, stoopid!" exclaimed the confederate soldier, hitting me heartily on the back. In my pain, I looked up at the creature who'd caused it, and stumbled back in shock, wonderment and general terror. There standing before me, in a vast and flowing hat, stood a beast which could only be imagined by those such as Terry Gilliam; crazy people. It had horns sticking out in all directions, some twisting around, some flopping about like long tentacles, some remaining firm in their insanely long positions. It led a vast army of motley teeth in its mouth, all waiting to be set loose upon their foe, and its tongues spread drools evenly all around its mouth. It was wearing orange translucent sunglasses, but there were no eyes underneath them, and instead of being hooked onto ears, the glasses were nailed into the sides of its skull. The rest of the creature was either flailing around so much that I couldn't make any sense of it, or I didn't see it. It's a little bit sketchy and I don't remember most of it. I pulled out my can of mace again and sprayed all over. Anything that moved, I sprayed. Finally the can ran out, and so did I. My physical capacity was never much, but I was certainly sprinting pretty fast. They say that fear lends us wings, but I guess it also lends us a lot of extra muscle and some seriously long legs.
         Finally, coming to my senses, I stopped and looked around. The breeze was gently blowing colored leaves onto the ground; and though still gripped with terror, and still without my breath, I realized I was fine because I hadn't met my death yet. I walked alongside a fence for what seemed like years, and found a tree to sit under. It was probably just the shape-changing mushroom, I mused to myself. And if it wasn't, then what could it have been? Are the stories that we read in ancient folklore and Greek mythology grounded in some true form of beast? I dunno... Maybe I'm being altogether too philosophical about this whole thing. Maybe it was just another trip. But I haven't had any acid in days; months; years! Maybe it's because I haven't had anything to eat for that same period of time. My body thinks that since I'm not eating food, I must be food for something else to eat. It sends this message to my brain, who then assumes that there must be some towering evil creature in front of me, ready to feast on my flesh. I hate my brain.
         Suddenly, I noticed that the tree under which I was sitting was actually a giant snake, and towering high above my head, was its head, hissing down at me and ready to strike. I grabbed another can of mace, or at least, that's the way that I remember it now, after the fact. Anyway, somehow or other, I escaped, and did so only losing one third of the beer which had mysteriously made its way into my hand.
         I gathered myself and began to question what just happened. Had I just witnessed a tree with reptilian characteristics? Or maybe the other way around; a snake with botanic characteristics. Of course, it could have been neither. I might have been wrong about how long it had been, and was still feeling the affects of some drug. That old paranoia which I had, in my fear, abandoned, began slowly to rush back into my mind; grasping and pulling at any loose strands of thought which were not entirely caught up in worrying about who might be watching me and what they might be planning.
         I turned around and saw that the jungle to which I'd sojourning was thataway, so that's the way that I went. As I traversed the rough and dangerous land, I several times tripped, for there were lots of holes. On one occasion, I tripped and my head fell directly into one of the holes, and inside it, I found an entire other universe. It's very difficult for me to explain, but I soon found that each of the hole was, or at least represented, a whole universe, not necessarily parallel to ours, but often at strange and intersecting angles.
         In one universe, each person had the ability to break himself up into four or five smaller people. They would do this for fun and have little battles with other armies of someone. Then, when they were finished, they would all jump back together, though I couldn't quite see how. It looked as though there was some kind of glue or something that they smeared on so that they would stick. I laughed out loud at this, or was it to myself? They all turned their heads over to me curiously. To them I must have just looked like a head stick up out of the ground. At first they were a bit shy, and kept their distance, but I soon soothed them with my rich and manly voice. As I spoke to them, they relaxed and became very friendly. They even decided to entertain me for a little while, and we all enjoyed ourselves immensely. They shared with me some of their alternate universal drugs, which didn't seem to affect me, but apparently impacted them greatly. Then, completely by accident, one piece of someone fell down the hole through which my head had come, and when I pulled my head out, I saw him rocketing towards the Saturn of our universe. Our gravity obviously had some sort of bad effect on the little guys. The man who lost a piece was furious, and I sensed bad vibes all around, so I pulled my head out of the hole, sincerely hoping that he hadn't been deprived of any of his most important parts.
         In another universe I found, they had their dimensions all mixed up. I poked my head in and was immediately confused. There was no noise and not that much to see, but sticking my head down that hole appeared to awaken in me senses which had not existed, or at least hadn't been discovered a moment before. In this universe, you could go anywhere you wanted in time. I tried it out a little bit, metaphysically walking to millions of years ago in that universe, greeting the primitive creatures of that time with a big pat on the back and then rushing away to millions of years later. I spoke with the inhabitants of the planet in which my head had popped up in this universe, and asked them about drugs, like with the previous one. They weren't familiar with the concept of putting something into your body that would make you act and think in different ways. I poured some ether onto a handkerchief and put it onto one of their mouths. I also gave some others a little bit of pot and cocaine. Soon half of them were stumbling around like people on ether and the other half were sitting Dazed and Confused saying deep things like "Dude, what if we could... like, go anywhere we wanted to in space? Seriously, think about it dude. If space didn't like, go in a straight line... wow..."
         Not only could they go anytime, but they could also go any"where" with matter. If they chose to "go" in that direction with matter, then an object would start to look like this or like that. It's all very difficult to explain, but it's almost like they're sculptors by and of their nature. They made things look like this or that without thinking about it or even noticing. Instead of trying to grasp this concept, think of this; you go for a walk. You start off very brisk, remarking on how nice a day it is. Some of us speak to ourselves while we walk. Some of us sing, or listen to music, or think. The point is, after a while you realize that you haven't been paying attention to walk and you made a wrong turn. You go back, It's no big deal, didn't even notice, and it's easy to correct. To the inhabitants of this world in this universe, that idea is as mind-boggling as the idea of them freely moving matter in that strange way is to us. Eventually I pulled my head out of the hole. I had spent so much time in that universe that I'd grown a short a beard.
         As I went to rip this beard out, it turned into a large group of tiny black spiders, who fell into my lap as I lunged back in surprise. I stood up, brushed myself off, and continued on my walk. I remarked upon how nice a day it was. It was very good to clear my head. I had been in such a haze of drug use and overuse, not to mention alcohol use, that I could barely think. I noticed the orange trees glistening with something sticky in the sun, the enormous flowers leaning over the little podlings and telling them tall tales. I noticed a creature oozing up to the flowers with a spear in its hand, and knew that it was up to mischief. The birds flew lazily through the sky, cigars hanging loosely from their mouths. I stopped to buy a newspaper, but realized that there weren't any paperboys in sight. Suddenly, my mind jolted out of its serenity. I had taken a wrong turn; oh well. I turned back and headed for the jungle again.
         I finally came to an entrance, between two trees which had a sort of archway. Beside the archway was a sign that may or may not have read thusly:
         "Welcome to IMAGINARY JUNGLE! A little slice of Imaginary Land for homesick patriots of that country. DARE TO QUIT DRUGS! You will be welcomed by our very own Confident Dan look-alike!"
         I calmly took a pull of my joint and tossed it aimlessly to the side. Spending so much time without weed had weakened my immunity, and I was now completely stoned; not to mention twisted, ripped, and hammered, among others. The pot doubled with some acid to invoke the following scene: I watched in perfect serenity as thousands of winged scooters came charging at me with nail clippers big enough to take off my head. I snapped out of my idyll just as a man came out dressed in a suit of plastic armor and began to greet me. I leapt on him and shoved him bodily to the ground. "Are you mad, man?" I questioned him with years of experience under my extremely loosened belt. "Don't you know that one swipe from those nail clippers could keep you from having cubs permanently? You might end up like that yellow guy! Just stay down." I left him on the ground and pulled out my seven hundred shot revolver. Bullet after bullet I fired, and still they came. Still shooting with my right hand, I reached my left down to the flamethrower at my side and let loose on the jerks. After several minutes, they were all gone. I noticed that there was nothing in my hands anymore. What had happened to my revolver and flamethrower which had appeared unexpectedly in my bag without me packing them? Then it struck me; he must have stolen them. I leapt on top of him again. "What have you done with my effects?" I shouted in his ear. I knew it was the drugs and paranoia speaking, but I couldn't stop myself.
         "I don't know what you're talking about!" he screamed in pain. He sounded honest; I could hear it in his eyes. I let him go.
         "Ether?" I offered, extending the handkerchief. He declined and I asked him what his business was here.
         "I was sent up here so that I could greet you. I'm the Imaginary Jungle's very own Confident Dan look-alike." I didn't know who Confident Dan was, or what he looked like, so I looked at this dude for an impression. He was tall and thin, with a long curly moustache glued onto his top lip. He had a very long sword and no shield, and he looked on the whole as if he was supposed to be extremely dashing and so on. I pulled thirty cents in nickels out of my pocket and threw them on the ground behind him, muttering some insincere thanks and skirting around him. I think I might have also dropped a Wild Turkey, which is probably why he didn't follow me.
         I finally entered the jungle and was immediately repulsed by the unholy amount of heat. So this was a tropical jungle. I thought it was a little queer that there was a tropical jungle in the middle of what appeared to be pre-historic North America. Then again, this could be some make-believe land, the pleasure of which my brain is only entertaining for a short time; that is, if this is  just another trip. I didn't have the luxury of cerebrating on these things right now; the heat was too intense, I expected to see the Devil's wicked grin around the next corner, as white-hot flames blazed behind and before me. I turned to see if the blistering heat had any real source and saw that a large fire was burning behind me. I took a few steps forward, but with each step I took, the fire came the same distance, so as to always be just as close to me. This worried me, and I began to run, but it turned into what I can only assume looked like out-takes from Saturday Morning Cartoons; basically, it maintained my speed. Panicking, I pulled out a bottle of vodka and emptied it out on the fire, who liked it supremely. When I found this fire's craving for vodka, I practically leapt into my bag, throwing all of my other possessions out in search of every bottle of the swill which I'd in my haste, brought with me. I continued to pour the junk onto the blaze, and at one point it almost looked as though it were licking its lips in satisfaction. It soon warmed up to me, and finished my last bottle of the vulgar beverage; just as well. The fire was starting to seem very relaxed now, and it loosened up a lot. Good, I thought, I've got it unsuspecting. I casually turned around and resumed my walk, looking over my shoulder at the flame, but before it had the time to collect its wits and begin this tiresome game again, I swung around and emptied a can of mace out on it. It squealed like a stuck rhinoceros, quelled itself, and retreated. I soon had my mind at ease again.
         I walked a foot or so and hurried back, because I saw a creature; it was black like coal and fiery red. I harkened to the whispered words it said; it spoke of death and pain and pot and LSD and lots of things that leapt out of my mind almost before they came to be. I couldn't see now, and the creature came to me and asked me what I wanted and I said a gun. Suddenly, I had a gun; it showed up in my hand, and soon I had it on the run over the rough and scraggy land.
         I shook my head. My eyes cleared up. For a moment I was back in Pennsylvania; Stephen was sitting in front of me, still talking about Mount Washington. "Whoa," he said as my eyes unhazed, "Dude, for a second, it was like, dude... it looked like you were looking at something else." It wasn't a very good explanation, so I slapped him in the face and walked away. The twenty dollars which my...
         No. Here I was. Back at the edge of the jungle. But what had happened? Did I just have another hallucination? Maybe the increasingly realistic quality of my visions was a sign that I should eat something. Or maybe I had it all wrong. It wouldn't be the first time. Was this entire world a dream or a hallucination? What if I was still sitting spaced out in front of Stephen, subconsciously listening to him droning on about stupid topics?
         My thoughts were interrupted by a small flame blazing on my pants. I sprayed it with mace and retreated back into the recesses of itself.
         I took a moment to stop and reflect on all the stuff that had happened. From the clown's hypnotic eyes to the beckoning archway; the mailbox creature and the magic mushroom; the alternate universes with all their alternate people. I couldn't make this stuff up.
         I began questioning the ethics of abundant drug use. Is it really man's choice to participate in the world or to simply escape it, by whatever means? But after all, that may not be the only reason why a man would take such excessive amounts. If it was the only reason, then it would prove that man cannot survive without at least some foundation in the real world, because otherwise we wouldn't be driven insane from an overdose. In fact, many men, including myself, have pondered wether driving oneself "insane" from an overdose would help rather than hinder us. What rather than merely destroying minds and becoming raving lunatics in madhouses, we somehow transcended the essential need for human form, and simply separated from our bodies? These thoughts and more ran on a maddening loop inside my skull as I sat and mused. But in the end, for those whose intentions in drug use are pure, it's not the end-- as with the "drug culture" today-- but the means to an end, whatever that may be. Some say that their wish is peace, but if all the world was taking mood altering drugs, peace wouldn't even exist in our minds. Sure, there might not be any more war, but it would be artificial; sugar-free peace. We lose all of the richness and flavor attached to the idea since the beginning of time. But of course, that's all peace really is; an idea. People need to learn not to mix up cause and effect in abstracts like love, hatred and peace. Killing a man isn't hating him, and kissing a woman is not loving her. In the same way, the absence of war isn't peace, it's a result of peace. Peace itself is an abstract; an idea to which we each individually attach our own preferred meaning. But after all, isn't that what every poor-intentioned "druggie" dreams of? A day when the entire world is sitting with its hands under its legs and a joint hanging lazily from its mouth. What's peace if our entire civilization has gone to hell? Still, there's always a moment in the high of any pot-head; a moment when the drug begins to wear off, and we almost become people again. In a panic, we light up another joint or shove another brownie hastily into our mouths, but what if we didn't? What if there comes a day when the heart and soul of American existence decides not to do those last few lines; or not to get a little high just once more? Is it possible for the drunken, crippled mind of America to ever fully sober? I challenge any and every person who says "yes." A druggie is a druggie until he draws his last psychedelic breath; but it's a good enough life got the likes of us; the chosen few; the ones who have the ability to actually bring about some change. And maybe one day, not far from now, in big hotels and fancy restaurants, it'll finally be considered classy to light up a heavy-laden bong and relax to a chorus of exotic dancers on the stage in front of me. Are these the insanw ravings of a lunatic? Or something much more sinister; the very rare times when a madman starts talking sense.
         I savagely ripped myself away from these thoughts and stood up from the small patch of grass which was greener than the others. I finally entered the forest, and noticed the smell of smoke wafting into my nose from behind.
         I was finally in the jungle to which I had been sojourning. What was next? In my walk I had entirely forgotten the pan. Oh, wait. I remembered; I was walking to the Mount Washington Hotel to buy... some acid? Did they sell that there? I then began to wonder, had I though this whole thing out? Had my mind gone asunder? No; this jungle didn't sprout out of nowhere just because Stephen told me about it. Then it struck me; suggestion is a pretty powerful fool, especially to a drug, and when a drug takes hold, it's the only thing in charge. That unimaginative fiend! It had stolen Stephen's idea and led me on a wild goose trip. No... wait.
         My mind cleared, or did it fog up again? I was back on my very real journey.