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Go Dukes before/after ...and hell hounds on my trail, hell hounds on my trail... Its a grey day, they sky exploded with tears, but hadn't yet. I went to the store, in the parking lot I saw Retard Mike. I peered at him, and a flicker went off behind his dull eyes. He didn't recognize me, and its just as well. The last time I saw Retard Mike was years ago. I went to a party at my friends. Frank. Frank was living with one of his many brother's, a good stout catholic family. Guys and girls were gathered there. It was a little mellow with and undercurrent of dissatisfaction. People seemed to wander aimlessly about, even though there was no place to go. Others stood in clusters and tried to pretend the people they were talking to were interesting, even though they had already heard all their stories. I showed up half in the bag, long hair at the time, reckless, quiet and dangerous. The guys had liked me and adopted me awhile back. Our circles had intersected and it was sympatico. I arrived with an ounce of psychadelic mushrooms and a couple of bricks of whistling moon traveler bottle rockets that I had bought in Indiana, while visitng my brother in Chicago, Indiana has to be good for something besides cheap ciggarettes. And we ate. Its always an interesting thing to watch a group of people come to grips with the shade of psychadelia that has ahold of them. Its amusing, because they will deny and suspect all the while, but the simple fact is, once you buy the ticket, you are taking the ride. I always went with it, making sure to take doses in large enough quantity so as to avoid the insidious times of low dose psychadelia and the problems it presents to the amatuer. 'Am I tripping? Or am I just going insane?' Well, no, brother, there is a certain safety in ripping the concious off its moorings with no excuse or recourse, the only sanctuary being the essential self of who you are, as your senses will blatently lie, neurons will fire falsely, and no, your friend did not turn into a hairy demon, you're just a high motherfucker, welcome to the recesses of the inside of your skull, have a fun ten hours. But I digress. As it gripped my friends, aggressiveness came out. We held a lottery, the first of three in our times together that I recall. I mentioned something about shirley jackson, and it was off to the races. The man who got the slip of paper with the black dot was spat upon by the rest. He accepted it well. I normally don't participate in idiocy, but the notion of the lottery intrigued me, and I took part. Joey got the black dot. He raised his arms in challenged, and said, "C'mon!", and he got it. I didn't spit. Its not my style. Then I got the fireworks out, and people started leaving. The lottery had first intrigued the girls, and then made them nervous. With the fireworks, it was simply a matter of safety. We cackled and cajoled, laughing maniacally as we fired round after round at each other. Some took position across the yard, about fifty feet away, and this seemed to provide breathing room. The last straw for the non-high people was when one of us threw one straight up in the air, and it came straight back down and exploded. Eventually that fun petered out, and we started to walk into the surrounding neighborhood, as a loose pack, laughing and giggling, electric eyes potently aware, confused but loving it, the only sense of logic was the bond of friendship that held us tied. A few girls came by to steal some guys but they refused. And before we wandered to a party where we knew no one, and before drawing the suspicions of the police, and after smoking billious amounts of pot, Retard Mike showed up. He babbled something incoherent. Frank had always been kind to him, so he came around. Frank talks to everyone. Some people think Frank talks to much, but I'm not one of them. Frank told Retard Mike to go home, that he shouldn't be out at night. In retrospect, it seems like much of a warning of us than anything. My friend, Bob, a repressive case if there ever was one walked up to him and said, "Go home Mike, go home. Go home or I'm going to eat your skin." I stopped and pondered that a moment, and then I mocked Bob. "You're going to eat his skin? What the fuck is wrong with you?" I said, "I wouldn't drink from the same cup." "Just saying something to freak him out," bob said tersely, "Don't worry about it, Argentum." In the meantime, Retard Mike had gotten back on his bike and taken off down the road. "See you later...Mike..." Fran said, "Ya' fuckin'..." and he paused, trying to choke it back, but the drug pushed it out of him,"retard." It was all he could do to soften the blow. And Retard Mike stopped in the middle of the street under a street light, illuminating him. It was a new moon, and very dark. The only light around was on him. He stopped, awkwardly turned his bike around, and growled, pawing at the pavement like a bull. "He's going to charge!" bob said with a weird thrill, "Lets hide and scare him!" We agreed, and hid. It seemed like a fun, harmless thing to do to me. Playing with the retarded. The kid looked like he ate up the attention. It doesn't mean anything. Retard Mike came wheeling up at high speed. On cue, I jumped out. "HAH!" I shouted. Bob jumped out of the bushes. "HAH!" he shouted, and peeled a small stone at him. Then another. Jimmy jumped out and peeled another small stone at him. Between the two of them, they bounced one off of his noggin. "OWWWWWWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" Retard Mike wailed like a little boy, curved and stopped in the middle of the street. Jimmy fell flat on his back, laughing a high pitch sadistic laugh. I felt used and disgusted, as well as very, very high. "That was so wrong, what you just did." I said, "You're going to hell for that." "You're going with me," bob said. "Yes, but for other reasons." I replied. "We're not going to hell for that..." Jimmy said lamely, but couldn't come up with a reason why. Someone, I think Frank took a look at Retard Mike. He was fine, not a scratch on him. Retard Mike wheeled off, and we wandered into the night, looking for more excitement than stoning retards. I had never seen Retard Mike since then, until today. I left my cart near a stack that he had made. I felt sheepish, not because I of the prior incident, but because he stacked them in a prime space, not near the cart corral, where they belong. I felt no need to add to the sum total of the anguish in his life and just put mine with the rest. He walked over, and mentioned my High School football team. "They're undefeated," he said mawkishly, but with enthusiasm. There is no possible way he recognized me. "Yeah," I said, giving him the thumbs up,"Go Dukes."
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