So it's this strung-out does-E-way-way-too-much sketch ass raver kid from Tennessee's birthday. A plan quickly develops for me, the birthday kid, and four other friends to go to disneyland. Being a rather successful research chemical dealer, I'm asked to pitch 2c-e for the birthday trip. Now I've seen all of these guys trip 2c-e before, and all are experienced with acid and booms and what have you (little o' this, little 'o that, the usual).
So I agree to pitch 40mg 2c-e per head on one condition and one condition only: we have a sober driver to bring us back. I'm assured that's the case, so we drive there and dose carefully measured out doses when we park. After about forty minutes, we head inside. It's two hours to close and we're coming up hard. Two of the guys develop stomach discomfort and start to become a little disoriented. I tell 'em keep cool, it'll pass. One decides he has to vomit and heads off to find a restroom. I'm a big fan of the buddy system when on powerful hallucinogens in a very public place, so I send the other potential vomitter with him, advising them to keep their phones on.
Now I stayed back, letting the come-up on nice and easy, but I found out this after the trip: they had wandered into what they thought was a bathroom, but actually ended up being the changing room for the Disneyland cast members. Needless to say, upon entry they were met with some confused stares by half-naked, half-clad-in-strange-animal-suit Disney employees. Not a comforting sight on a heavy dose of 2c-e.
Eventually they vomitted and came back, and we decided on space mountain, but the line was way too long. We didn't want to only go on one ride. Besides, two hours in line on 2c-e? Having to deal with social situations of the people around us, stuck in our own little head loops? Nuh-uh. Count me out. We decide on splash mountain, but half the group is starting to get paranoid and doesn't want to go on rides. We decide to split the group between the paranoid and us. So we go our separete ways.
The splash mountain line goes fine until we get to the part where a twenty-something ride attendant is trying to instruct us on which lane number for the cart to get into. I get in the wrong line and get yelled at. A little anxiety provoking, but we make it on the ride. Suddenly we're confronted with dancing woodland animals and a singing Mickey Mouse. If you've never understand the meaning behind splash mountain, let me tell you 40 mg of 2c-e makes the ride make a lot more sense. Anyway the photograph of us tripping balls, suspended in mid air as we fly down the steep part of the track was pretty priceless.
We hit up star tours and that's all well and good, but we get text messages from the other group, who apparently vomitted in a public courtyard and ran away from security. Awesome. We meet them back at the car and I find out lo and behold our sober driver somehow fell out. You can imagine my frustration. I refuse to drive but we're tripping balls and the parking lot is going to close. We're only four miles from home so we opt to let one of the non-paranoid, calm and collected people drive on the condition that we stay off the highway and travel slowly.
Naturally, the car we were in had no GPS. Eventually we pull over lost in some sketch residential neighborhood in Santa Ana, dogs barking at us and lights flicking on and what not. So I call a friend to get him to google maps us directions, then I go back to the car. The birthday kid? Not in the car. No, not in the car don't quite cover it. More like sitting in the middle of the street screaming at the top of his lungs at midnight with houses 10 feet away. Yeah, I think that about covers it.
So now we're being stared at by about thirty people living in the neighborhood, trying to talk him down while he pushes us away and refuses to get in the car. We pull every calming technique we know, under the circumstances. We try to play off like he's just drunk and are promptly informed by one of the caring samaritans that the police are on their way. We do everything we can to get him back in the car, including trying to physically force him in. Now it's all our asses, not just his.
He physically resists and refuses, continually screaming. We give him an ultimatum: in the car, now, or on the street with the cops coming. We hear sirens in the background (and trust me, these are *real* sirens, not "I'm tripping balls on aural hallucinogen sirens"). Our birthday boy companion picks the street. We take off.
We start making what we think are reasonable assertions. Our friend has in all likelihood been arrested, and will soon tell them what he's on and where he got it. That would be from me. We quickly conclude that we need to get back home and move all of our drugs to a different location. We call up a trustworthy friend, who agrees to allow us to store them at his place.
We arrive, and move the drugs. I think you can imagine the speed at which we do this, thinking L.A.'s finest is on their way. We go outside to collect ourselves and calm down, only to find that five punks are involved in a robbery in progress on a local candy stand we frequent. We call the cops on the five punks and give our statements, tripping balls, such that we have this incident as a documented alibi in case our arrested birthday boy idiot fingers us.
After a night tripping balls thinking a bust is impending, we come down and go about our day. We find out birthday boy tried to break into one of the houses, ran from the cops (onto the highway), got tased, and then booked, but was too incoherent to mention us.
He told them he was on 2c-e, but there was dick-all they could do about it since they couldn't prove he was on it and it wasn't illegal to possess (not that he had any on him). Plus it was his birthday and they had tased him. He woke the morning after disneyland shirtless in a cell with a random Mexican guy who was more afraid of him than he was of the Mexican due to the night's drug-induced behavior. Happy birthday.
So I agree to pitch 40mg 2c-e per head on one condition and one condition only: we have a sober driver to bring us back. I'm assured that's the case, so we drive there and dose carefully measured out doses when we park. After about forty minutes, we head inside. It's two hours to close and we're coming up hard. Two of the guys develop stomach discomfort and start to become a little disoriented. I tell 'em keep cool, it'll pass. One decides he has to vomit and heads off to find a restroom. I'm a big fan of the buddy system when on powerful hallucinogens in a very public place, so I send the other potential vomitter with him, advising them to keep their phones on.
Now I stayed back, letting the come-up on nice and easy, but I found out this after the trip: they had wandered into what they thought was a bathroom, but actually ended up being the changing room for the Disneyland cast members. Needless to say, upon entry they were met with some confused stares by half-naked, half-clad-in-strange-animal-suit Disney employees. Not a comforting sight on a heavy dose of 2c-e.
Eventually they vomitted and came back, and we decided on space mountain, but the line was way too long. We didn't want to only go on one ride. Besides, two hours in line on 2c-e? Having to deal with social situations of the people around us, stuck in our own little head loops? Nuh-uh. Count me out. We decide on splash mountain, but half the group is starting to get paranoid and doesn't want to go on rides. We decide to split the group between the paranoid and us. So we go our separete ways.
The splash mountain line goes fine until we get to the part where a twenty-something ride attendant is trying to instruct us on which lane number for the cart to get into. I get in the wrong line and get yelled at. A little anxiety provoking, but we make it on the ride. Suddenly we're confronted with dancing woodland animals and a singing Mickey Mouse. If you've never understand the meaning behind splash mountain, let me tell you 40 mg of 2c-e makes the ride make a lot more sense. Anyway the photograph of us tripping balls, suspended in mid air as we fly down the steep part of the track was pretty priceless.
We hit up star tours and that's all well and good, but we get text messages from the other group, who apparently vomitted in a public courtyard and ran away from security. Awesome. We meet them back at the car and I find out lo and behold our sober driver somehow fell out. You can imagine my frustration. I refuse to drive but we're tripping balls and the parking lot is going to close. We're only four miles from home so we opt to let one of the non-paranoid, calm and collected people drive on the condition that we stay off the highway and travel slowly.
Naturally, the car we were in had no GPS. Eventually we pull over lost in some sketch residential neighborhood in Santa Ana, dogs barking at us and lights flicking on and what not. So I call a friend to get him to google maps us directions, then I go back to the car. The birthday kid? Not in the car. No, not in the car don't quite cover it. More like sitting in the middle of the street screaming at the top of his lungs at midnight with houses 10 feet away. Yeah, I think that about covers it.
So now we're being stared at by about thirty people living in the neighborhood, trying to talk him down while he pushes us away and refuses to get in the car. We pull every calming technique we know, under the circumstances. We try to play off like he's just drunk and are promptly informed by one of the caring samaritans that the police are on their way. We do everything we can to get him back in the car, including trying to physically force him in. Now it's all our asses, not just his.
He physically resists and refuses, continually screaming. We give him an ultimatum: in the car, now, or on the street with the cops coming. We hear sirens in the background (and trust me, these are *real* sirens, not "I'm tripping balls on aural hallucinogen sirens"). Our birthday boy companion picks the street. We take off.
We start making what we think are reasonable assertions. Our friend has in all likelihood been arrested, and will soon tell them what he's on and where he got it. That would be from me. We quickly conclude that we need to get back home and move all of our drugs to a different location. We call up a trustworthy friend, who agrees to allow us to store them at his place.
We arrive, and move the drugs. I think you can imagine the speed at which we do this, thinking L.A.'s finest is on their way. We go outside to collect ourselves and calm down, only to find that five punks are involved in a robbery in progress on a local candy stand we frequent. We call the cops on the five punks and give our statements, tripping balls, such that we have this incident as a documented alibi in case our arrested birthday boy idiot fingers us.
After a night tripping balls thinking a bust is impending, we come down and go about our day. We find out birthday boy tried to break into one of the houses, ran from the cops (onto the highway), got tased, and then booked, but was too incoherent to mention us.
He told them he was on 2c-e, but there was dick-all they could do about it since they couldn't prove he was on it and it wasn't illegal to possess (not that he had any on him). Plus it was his birthday and they had tased him. He woke the morning after disneyland shirtless in a cell with a random Mexican guy who was more afraid of him than he was of the Mexican due to the night's drug-induced behavior. Happy birthday.
n my 
