SwissBanker
Bluelighter
My girlfriend and I began this particular Friday night outside of Zurich, due to meet our connect in a downtown Zurich club and pick up some MDMA.
Having no reason to arrive any earlier than midnight we take our own sweet time on the way over. We hit the place at 12:30 or so, pay a whopping cover and our connect is exactly no where to be found. Not surprising really, this is the illicit drug business after all. I'll just find something from someone else real fast. I know some people who generally have good stuff. Never a problem in this place. Hell, before I couldn't even make it to the bathroom without being offered coke or E three or four times. You'd think I had just got off the bus in Juarez, Mexico with a bulging wallet sticking out of my pants and wearing a hat that said "American Tourist" in big red letters or something.
It's about now that I realize that there is NOTHING going on at all in this place. Don't get me wrong, you'd EXPECT it to be hopping. The place is quite full. The energy is good. The music is pumping. It's just that where there used to be a bustling trading pit for E, Coke and whathaveyou there is now an empty ghosttown complete with creaking tavern doors and a perfectly timed blowing tumbleweed (cue gust of wind, exit tumbleweed stage left).
I camp out at the bar with the girlfriend and try to spot the tell-tale signs of a random dealer. Loner. Standing by the sidelines. Doesn't seem to have any friends, but seems to be the subject of a lot of asking for directions by randoms and a bladder the size of a large grape (judging from the number of trips to the men's room he makes). Dat guy ain't dere either.
What the fuck?
By now it's nearly 2:00 a.m. or so and I'm getting miffed. My girlfriend is getting picked up on left and right every time I go to scout for something which is making her rather cranky too. After a point, I resolve to give the place another 10 minutes and that turns out to be a wasted sixth of an hour too. Fortunately for us, there is another place nearby. Walking distance actually. I don't usually like to get E from someone I don't know but in this case the night is going to get pretty dull without something. We are almost EXACTLY halfway there when a downpour the likes of which would have made Noah blanch issues forth from the formerly cloudless sky.
We walk into club #2 around 2:30 a.m. looking like a pair of drowned rats who had washed up on the beach about a week before, pay an even larger cover and set up shop at a table near the local dealer hangout in a back corner of the club. After we have both deposited sizeable pools of rainwater from our soaked clothing into the carpeting back there it becomes obvious that this place isn't happening either. This time I give the place another 30 minutes. About all I would manage to score for that investment was a couple of CHF 15 drinks and a definite vibe from a shirtless, buff type covered with enough oil to tan half of Brazil.
My patience is wearing thin, my girlfriend is having her second PMS occurrence of the month, it's getting late, but at least the rain has turned to sleet, which we walk through to club #3 as there isn't a taxi to be found at any of the four taxi stands we pass on the way.
3:something a.m. Another cover. More drip drying. I now have three black and blue, ink entry stamps on my wrist which have run all the way down my arm and stained the cuff of my shirt. I am ready to toss in the towel after the first Red Bull. First, I have to piss out CHF 38 of plastic-bottle vodka and Red Bull. I walk back to the bathrooms and stand in line where a scrawny little man walks up to me, glares right at me and asks "Cola?"
I shake my head and explain to him in German that I am looking for Ecstasy, not coke. A short pause. It's really good, he explains. I'm sure. No thanks. Got any E? No. He wanders off.
Maybe three minutes pass while I'm in line and the same exact scrawny guy comes by, looks right at me and asks "Cola?" I'm going fucking insane. I shake my head. And ask in sort of loud German, "Doesn't anyone in this place have any Ecstasy?" He turns to the guy two people in front of me in line who could not possibly have missed either our conversation of 3.25 minutes ago, or this one for that matter, and asks in German, "Hey, Tomaso, have any Ecstasy?" Tomaso nods. "For sure." Unreal.
CHF 20 a piece and I end up with "Yellow Bacardis." "Very Stiff. Make you sue-pah way happy." I'm suddenly happy my girlfriend wasn't the one due to score the E tonight and I get the impression that this guy's English is better than his German. I've never heard of "Yellow Bacardis" and I highly suspect them to be bad copies farmed out in an attempt to free-ride on the reputation of some of the good Barcardis that were floating around last year, none of which were yellow, but I'm far to tired to argue about the price, or anything else. Occasionally, you'll get speed or weak pills in Zurich, but there isn't much outright crap floating around. I take 6 from the guy in a men's room stall and hand over a CHF 100 and CHF 20 note.
I'm pretty convinced by this point that between unknown quality E (if it is even E) and the bad mood we'd acquired since getting to the club we were in for a bad roll.
I come back to find my girlfriend talking to what I can only describe as some skinny 19 year old dork from Calgary with pupils the size of pizzas who has, cheekishly, appropriated both my chair AND my newly ordered beer. I hope he gets a cold. "No, I only had enough for my friends," he is explaining in accented English. Well, good effort on her part anyhow. I give her the thumbs up sign and give her a handshake pregnant with one of the dark yellow, thick, barrel shaped pills. "Take a half and pocket the rest," I tell her. PMS cured.
The club is progressing nicely. Zurich sure does know how to work the music slowly until the hard-core types start arriving in the early morn. We both drop a half a I've-been-drinking-Guinness-all-night-and-not-hydrating-piss colored Barcadi at 3:late a.m.
30 minutes pass.
Nothing.
My mood is definitely not improving.
We both take a quarter more without even bothering to leave our chairs at the bar.
30 minutes pass.
Nothing.
We both take another quarter brazenly.
Now I'm actively looking for that deaf, colored tic-tac salesman, Tomaso from my chair. I have no doubt people are actively avoiding me at this point because of the razor sharp daggers emanating from my searchlight like gaze.
20 minutes pass.
Nothing.
I spot Tomaso across the dance floor at the opposite bar talking to the 19 year old Calgary dork we finally chased off earlier. Fuming, I stand up and walk through the dancing hoards, already composing the stinging rebuke I intend to deliver to this lavatory loiterer. I'm about halfway across the dance floor when SPANK MY ASS WITH A TOASTED ONION BAGEL AND CALL ME RICHARD! That fucking dance floor is BEAUTIFUL. Not to mention that tall blonde with the red pants. Think she'd mind if I felt those for a minute? Wait, she looked at me! I bet I can communicate to her my desire to feel her red pants with just my eyes. I proceed to do this with a smile. I get a smile in return. I'm just about to drift that way for some friendly pants-feeling when some very nice man hits a magic button somewhere that begins to fill the dance floor with wonderful white smoke. I can smell the glycol so clearly and distinctly that I almost think I could perform a full spectral analysis on it with just my nose. I can smell people's hair and the shampoo on top of it even over the smoke and whatever else is in the air. I'm convinced I can feel the individual particles of the artificial smoke mist as they connect with my face. I'm lucky I ever made it off the dance floor at all. By the time I get to Tomaso I've forgotten my entire rehearsed speech and can only really manage what must be a dumb looking smile and a nod. He returns the sentiment. With this I know we are the best of friends. Why hasn't anyone introduced us before this?
Somehow, I make it back to the girlfriend who has the most lazy and contented look on her face, well except for her eyes which have turned demonically black in the short time I was gone. I look at my watch and am wonderfully surprised to discover that somehow 20 minutes have gone by since I left my spot at the bar. All surprises are wonderful. Don't you find?
She wants to go to another club. I want to look at the dance floor and feel the blonde's pants. For a minute I am sure I can easily communicate the necessity of these things to her but she is equally certain that she can communicate the necessity of going to club #4. "Plus," she says, "it's raining outside." This suddenly seems most wonderful. We wander outside and into what has turned back into rain. It occurs to me at the time that she must have some sort of psychic ability since she knew it was raining again instead of sleeting, but it seems entirely unimportant to vocalize this. Of course she already knows she's psychic.
5:something (I have NO IDEA where this time went, it wasn't that substantial a trip) we arrive at club #4. We nestle into the most amazingly soft and welcoming couch in the lounge, just across from an EVEN MORE BEAUTIFUL DANCEFLOOR THAN THE LAST ONE and settle into this very mellow, very loved-up, people-watching mode. I continue to exercise the "I can communicate volumes with a glance" look, which continues to work wonderfully. This transforms into a group effort with the girlfriend when we start to take turns eye-flirting with randoms, mostly women, in the club. First, she gets caught looking at the leggy brunette and talking to me about her, then I get caught doing the same. Before long the leggy brunette is talking to her friends about us and they are looking our way too. The cycle continues. This feels intensely warm and intimate. So does the leather on the couches. The soft light from behind the wall. Red Bull takes on an entirely different character. It's not Red Bull anymore. It's some essence of Red Bull touched by the gods. Carbonization is the best thing since sliced bread. The entire evening has taken on a warm, fuzzy character. The girlfriend calls everything "Yummy" for about 20 minutes, and then I start doing the same. It's such a perfect word for the moment. The music is an entity in the air. Clawing its way to us and then into our bodies until we are one with it and with each other. I remember being particularly moved by the Beat Sleyer remix of Dire Straits' "Money for Nothing."
It's 6:45 when it occurs to us that the club is due to close in 15 minutes. The after-hours party 500 meters away is our next destination. The reflections of the street lights and the headlights of passing cars as we walk are wonderful to watch. Colors are much more vivid. Warmer. Anything sharp or direct has all the edges filed off. Bliss on tap. We've been fucked hard by the supermodel and left for dead in the penthouse suite. Even the bankruptcy attorneys can't really ruin this moment.
The after-hours party is in a coarser, darker club with darker and deeper music to match. In other words, its fucking perfect in every single way you can imagine. We stand under the speakers for a while together feeling the bass vibrate through us, between us, in the midst of a long, passionate hug. Eventually, we drift into a couch somewhere. Things are showing just the slightest signs of waning so we pop another half each. That solves that problem in short order and we descend into what I can only describe as the deepest mutuality I have ever known. I am happy to share this with anyone nearby who asks, but it seems entirely unnecessary to express it. We continue our unfinished game of "eye-flirt with randoms." This proves intensely satisfying and makes us a few new friends (all of whom I'm certain were also rolling).
I remember being quite interested in the fact that the floor in one area was sticky. It just seemed to fit right in with everything else at the time.
Thusfar there was nothing speedy or urgent about the stuff. I couldn't tell you if there was any jaw clenching of note since I was chewing gum but the fact that I didn't notice it probably means it wasn't an issue.
The night passes pretty much in this fashion. Some dancing, but none of the speedy need to dance it up to work it off.
We were pretty much just off our fucking, glass cuttingly erect tits.
~9:00 a.m. we make our way to the train station to head home. It's very hard to decide if we actually want to get on the 9:12 a.m. train because watching all the military types in camo (cool colors!) mill around on the way to their weekend exercises, the skiers headed for the Southeast and the many colors, lights and sounds of the station itself is so enthralling. We could wait an extra hour and take it all in. We manage to drag ourselves away and walk down the platform as far as we can go so as to get into a relatively empty car. Once there we decide to just keep rolling with it as long as the mood suits. This means another half each. Any hint of waning is stifled again and we get very touchy-feely now that we are more or less alone. Did I mention that I had a very meaningful and deep conversation with the conductor about ticket prices and the design printed on the tickets themselves? I am certain that he found my observations astute and remarkable. He didn't look like he much wanted a hug though, so I refrained.
10:30 a.m., after swooning through the entire train ride in each others' arms and sharing our deepest thoughts, we walk hand in hand home. Still rolling like a coke snortin' 20 dollar bill at this point. Yummy.
Home means a bunch of Chicane songs on the stereo, mixed in with some techno-ambient which slowly evolves itself to more subdued ambient tones by 2:00 p.m. At some point in there we split another pill. Things are definitely easing up more than the pill will completely abate now, but it doesn't matter a bit.
On four occasions at some point between noon and 4:00 p.m. we had what I can only describe as the most mind-blowing sex in the known universe. After an unbelievably long work up to the moment, I climaxed with such intensity the first time that I saw and touched the ghost of a long dead acquaintance. (I became fairly convinced that I bought a strand of her of hair back with me, but that's another story). Despite this, I wouldn't describe the E as hallucinogenic at all, but PACK ME IN BUBBLE WRAP AND SEND ME TO THE FRONT that first orgasm sure was. The other three paled in comparison only by the thinnest of margins (I see dead people... but only the first time I come).
I wanted to save one of the pills for later testing, and we had already done 2.5 each so the rest of the evening was the most wonderfully gradual comedown I've had. We caught naps in between sex, but would just wake up and go at it all over again when one of the songs on the stereo woke one or the other of us up. Things continued in this fashion until the next day (Sunday) which was remarkably symptom less (aside from being rather sore).
Unreal.
I tested the remaining pill with an Eztest Extreme. We seemed to need very little sleep was I was expecting to see some speed or something show. Quick blue on Simons. No change with Robadope.
Having no reason to arrive any earlier than midnight we take our own sweet time on the way over. We hit the place at 12:30 or so, pay a whopping cover and our connect is exactly no where to be found. Not surprising really, this is the illicit drug business after all. I'll just find something from someone else real fast. I know some people who generally have good stuff. Never a problem in this place. Hell, before I couldn't even make it to the bathroom without being offered coke or E three or four times. You'd think I had just got off the bus in Juarez, Mexico with a bulging wallet sticking out of my pants and wearing a hat that said "American Tourist" in big red letters or something.
It's about now that I realize that there is NOTHING going on at all in this place. Don't get me wrong, you'd EXPECT it to be hopping. The place is quite full. The energy is good. The music is pumping. It's just that where there used to be a bustling trading pit for E, Coke and whathaveyou there is now an empty ghosttown complete with creaking tavern doors and a perfectly timed blowing tumbleweed (cue gust of wind, exit tumbleweed stage left).
I camp out at the bar with the girlfriend and try to spot the tell-tale signs of a random dealer. Loner. Standing by the sidelines. Doesn't seem to have any friends, but seems to be the subject of a lot of asking for directions by randoms and a bladder the size of a large grape (judging from the number of trips to the men's room he makes). Dat guy ain't dere either.
What the fuck?
By now it's nearly 2:00 a.m. or so and I'm getting miffed. My girlfriend is getting picked up on left and right every time I go to scout for something which is making her rather cranky too. After a point, I resolve to give the place another 10 minutes and that turns out to be a wasted sixth of an hour too. Fortunately for us, there is another place nearby. Walking distance actually. I don't usually like to get E from someone I don't know but in this case the night is going to get pretty dull without something. We are almost EXACTLY halfway there when a downpour the likes of which would have made Noah blanch issues forth from the formerly cloudless sky.
We walk into club #2 around 2:30 a.m. looking like a pair of drowned rats who had washed up on the beach about a week before, pay an even larger cover and set up shop at a table near the local dealer hangout in a back corner of the club. After we have both deposited sizeable pools of rainwater from our soaked clothing into the carpeting back there it becomes obvious that this place isn't happening either. This time I give the place another 30 minutes. About all I would manage to score for that investment was a couple of CHF 15 drinks and a definite vibe from a shirtless, buff type covered with enough oil to tan half of Brazil.
My patience is wearing thin, my girlfriend is having her second PMS occurrence of the month, it's getting late, but at least the rain has turned to sleet, which we walk through to club #3 as there isn't a taxi to be found at any of the four taxi stands we pass on the way.
3:something a.m. Another cover. More drip drying. I now have three black and blue, ink entry stamps on my wrist which have run all the way down my arm and stained the cuff of my shirt. I am ready to toss in the towel after the first Red Bull. First, I have to piss out CHF 38 of plastic-bottle vodka and Red Bull. I walk back to the bathrooms and stand in line where a scrawny little man walks up to me, glares right at me and asks "Cola?"
I shake my head and explain to him in German that I am looking for Ecstasy, not coke. A short pause. It's really good, he explains. I'm sure. No thanks. Got any E? No. He wanders off.
Maybe three minutes pass while I'm in line and the same exact scrawny guy comes by, looks right at me and asks "Cola?" I'm going fucking insane. I shake my head. And ask in sort of loud German, "Doesn't anyone in this place have any Ecstasy?" He turns to the guy two people in front of me in line who could not possibly have missed either our conversation of 3.25 minutes ago, or this one for that matter, and asks in German, "Hey, Tomaso, have any Ecstasy?" Tomaso nods. "For sure." Unreal.
CHF 20 a piece and I end up with "Yellow Bacardis." "Very Stiff. Make you sue-pah way happy." I'm suddenly happy my girlfriend wasn't the one due to score the E tonight and I get the impression that this guy's English is better than his German. I've never heard of "Yellow Bacardis" and I highly suspect them to be bad copies farmed out in an attempt to free-ride on the reputation of some of the good Barcardis that were floating around last year, none of which were yellow, but I'm far to tired to argue about the price, or anything else. Occasionally, you'll get speed or weak pills in Zurich, but there isn't much outright crap floating around. I take 6 from the guy in a men's room stall and hand over a CHF 100 and CHF 20 note.
I'm pretty convinced by this point that between unknown quality E (if it is even E) and the bad mood we'd acquired since getting to the club we were in for a bad roll.
I come back to find my girlfriend talking to what I can only describe as some skinny 19 year old dork from Calgary with pupils the size of pizzas who has, cheekishly, appropriated both my chair AND my newly ordered beer. I hope he gets a cold. "No, I only had enough for my friends," he is explaining in accented English. Well, good effort on her part anyhow. I give her the thumbs up sign and give her a handshake pregnant with one of the dark yellow, thick, barrel shaped pills. "Take a half and pocket the rest," I tell her. PMS cured.
The club is progressing nicely. Zurich sure does know how to work the music slowly until the hard-core types start arriving in the early morn. We both drop a half a I've-been-drinking-Guinness-all-night-and-not-hydrating-piss colored Barcadi at 3:late a.m.
30 minutes pass.
Nothing.
My mood is definitely not improving.
We both take a quarter more without even bothering to leave our chairs at the bar.
30 minutes pass.
Nothing.
We both take another quarter brazenly.
Now I'm actively looking for that deaf, colored tic-tac salesman, Tomaso from my chair. I have no doubt people are actively avoiding me at this point because of the razor sharp daggers emanating from my searchlight like gaze.
20 minutes pass.
Nothing.
I spot Tomaso across the dance floor at the opposite bar talking to the 19 year old Calgary dork we finally chased off earlier. Fuming, I stand up and walk through the dancing hoards, already composing the stinging rebuke I intend to deliver to this lavatory loiterer. I'm about halfway across the dance floor when SPANK MY ASS WITH A TOASTED ONION BAGEL AND CALL ME RICHARD! That fucking dance floor is BEAUTIFUL. Not to mention that tall blonde with the red pants. Think she'd mind if I felt those for a minute? Wait, she looked at me! I bet I can communicate to her my desire to feel her red pants with just my eyes. I proceed to do this with a smile. I get a smile in return. I'm just about to drift that way for some friendly pants-feeling when some very nice man hits a magic button somewhere that begins to fill the dance floor with wonderful white smoke. I can smell the glycol so clearly and distinctly that I almost think I could perform a full spectral analysis on it with just my nose. I can smell people's hair and the shampoo on top of it even over the smoke and whatever else is in the air. I'm convinced I can feel the individual particles of the artificial smoke mist as they connect with my face. I'm lucky I ever made it off the dance floor at all. By the time I get to Tomaso I've forgotten my entire rehearsed speech and can only really manage what must be a dumb looking smile and a nod. He returns the sentiment. With this I know we are the best of friends. Why hasn't anyone introduced us before this?
Somehow, I make it back to the girlfriend who has the most lazy and contented look on her face, well except for her eyes which have turned demonically black in the short time I was gone. I look at my watch and am wonderfully surprised to discover that somehow 20 minutes have gone by since I left my spot at the bar. All surprises are wonderful. Don't you find?
She wants to go to another club. I want to look at the dance floor and feel the blonde's pants. For a minute I am sure I can easily communicate the necessity of these things to her but she is equally certain that she can communicate the necessity of going to club #4. "Plus," she says, "it's raining outside." This suddenly seems most wonderful. We wander outside and into what has turned back into rain. It occurs to me at the time that she must have some sort of psychic ability since she knew it was raining again instead of sleeting, but it seems entirely unimportant to vocalize this. Of course she already knows she's psychic.
5:something (I have NO IDEA where this time went, it wasn't that substantial a trip) we arrive at club #4. We nestle into the most amazingly soft and welcoming couch in the lounge, just across from an EVEN MORE BEAUTIFUL DANCEFLOOR THAN THE LAST ONE and settle into this very mellow, very loved-up, people-watching mode. I continue to exercise the "I can communicate volumes with a glance" look, which continues to work wonderfully. This transforms into a group effort with the girlfriend when we start to take turns eye-flirting with randoms, mostly women, in the club. First, she gets caught looking at the leggy brunette and talking to me about her, then I get caught doing the same. Before long the leggy brunette is talking to her friends about us and they are looking our way too. The cycle continues. This feels intensely warm and intimate. So does the leather on the couches. The soft light from behind the wall. Red Bull takes on an entirely different character. It's not Red Bull anymore. It's some essence of Red Bull touched by the gods. Carbonization is the best thing since sliced bread. The entire evening has taken on a warm, fuzzy character. The girlfriend calls everything "Yummy" for about 20 minutes, and then I start doing the same. It's such a perfect word for the moment. The music is an entity in the air. Clawing its way to us and then into our bodies until we are one with it and with each other. I remember being particularly moved by the Beat Sleyer remix of Dire Straits' "Money for Nothing."
It's 6:45 when it occurs to us that the club is due to close in 15 minutes. The after-hours party 500 meters away is our next destination. The reflections of the street lights and the headlights of passing cars as we walk are wonderful to watch. Colors are much more vivid. Warmer. Anything sharp or direct has all the edges filed off. Bliss on tap. We've been fucked hard by the supermodel and left for dead in the penthouse suite. Even the bankruptcy attorneys can't really ruin this moment.
The after-hours party is in a coarser, darker club with darker and deeper music to match. In other words, its fucking perfect in every single way you can imagine. We stand under the speakers for a while together feeling the bass vibrate through us, between us, in the midst of a long, passionate hug. Eventually, we drift into a couch somewhere. Things are showing just the slightest signs of waning so we pop another half each. That solves that problem in short order and we descend into what I can only describe as the deepest mutuality I have ever known. I am happy to share this with anyone nearby who asks, but it seems entirely unnecessary to express it. We continue our unfinished game of "eye-flirt with randoms." This proves intensely satisfying and makes us a few new friends (all of whom I'm certain were also rolling).
I remember being quite interested in the fact that the floor in one area was sticky. It just seemed to fit right in with everything else at the time.
Thusfar there was nothing speedy or urgent about the stuff. I couldn't tell you if there was any jaw clenching of note since I was chewing gum but the fact that I didn't notice it probably means it wasn't an issue.
The night passes pretty much in this fashion. Some dancing, but none of the speedy need to dance it up to work it off.
We were pretty much just off our fucking, glass cuttingly erect tits.
~9:00 a.m. we make our way to the train station to head home. It's very hard to decide if we actually want to get on the 9:12 a.m. train because watching all the military types in camo (cool colors!) mill around on the way to their weekend exercises, the skiers headed for the Southeast and the many colors, lights and sounds of the station itself is so enthralling. We could wait an extra hour and take it all in. We manage to drag ourselves away and walk down the platform as far as we can go so as to get into a relatively empty car. Once there we decide to just keep rolling with it as long as the mood suits. This means another half each. Any hint of waning is stifled again and we get very touchy-feely now that we are more or less alone. Did I mention that I had a very meaningful and deep conversation with the conductor about ticket prices and the design printed on the tickets themselves? I am certain that he found my observations astute and remarkable. He didn't look like he much wanted a hug though, so I refrained.
10:30 a.m., after swooning through the entire train ride in each others' arms and sharing our deepest thoughts, we walk hand in hand home. Still rolling like a coke snortin' 20 dollar bill at this point. Yummy.
Home means a bunch of Chicane songs on the stereo, mixed in with some techno-ambient which slowly evolves itself to more subdued ambient tones by 2:00 p.m. At some point in there we split another pill. Things are definitely easing up more than the pill will completely abate now, but it doesn't matter a bit.
On four occasions at some point between noon and 4:00 p.m. we had what I can only describe as the most mind-blowing sex in the known universe. After an unbelievably long work up to the moment, I climaxed with such intensity the first time that I saw and touched the ghost of a long dead acquaintance. (I became fairly convinced that I bought a strand of her of hair back with me, but that's another story). Despite this, I wouldn't describe the E as hallucinogenic at all, but PACK ME IN BUBBLE WRAP AND SEND ME TO THE FRONT that first orgasm sure was. The other three paled in comparison only by the thinnest of margins (I see dead people... but only the first time I come).
I wanted to save one of the pills for later testing, and we had already done 2.5 each so the rest of the evening was the most wonderfully gradual comedown I've had. We caught naps in between sex, but would just wake up and go at it all over again when one of the songs on the stereo woke one or the other of us up. Things continued in this fashion until the next day (Sunday) which was remarkably symptom less (aside from being rather sore).
Unreal.
I tested the remaining pill with an Eztest Extreme. We seemed to need very little sleep was I was expecting to see some speed or something show. Quick blue on Simons. No change with Robadope.
You only need a tiny scraping.
I'd be happy to edit it, gratis. Again, very fine report.