Kob enters the elevator with a large Yugoslavian-looking man in a uniform; a rather large USSR-esque security guard who can’t even speak broken English.
Kob stands behind the security guard; antagonizing him with a tissue. He’s waving it up by his face and pulling it away.
ELBOW/GUT; FIST/FACE; GRAPPLE HOLD…
The elevator door closed like a retraction of the parted seas of Moses; swallowing my friend in an iron death chamber with an angry security guard.
And so began the story that I call:
The Adventure of Kob’s Elbow Dislocation in the Elevator
featuring The Elbows of an Eastern European Man
Fluent in Soviet Ninja-Moves
If this ever goes in print; put that on the cover. For my purpose and style; the title was too long so I called it:
LSD in Quebec: Part 1
Head full of acid running up and down the hallway knocking on doors for assistance.
Everyone leaves or has already left for the bar.
No ambulance; the tour staff get us a fucking taxi.
We shoot the shit in broken English with our cab driver on the way to the hospital.
We get to the hospital and the first things I notice are the lights.
I’d manage to get my friend registered. Meanwhile, he is sitting in triage wearing beads and Hawaiian flowers around his neck; just as hammered and balls deep in his liquor-acid trip as I am.
In the mail, months later, he eventually also receives a Quebec health card and a bill for services provided.
I have some beads and flowers on too.
The short woman he brought with us was cool.
I speak some broken French to the receptionist for while; only God knows what I spoke of.
Surely my banter was too spacey and in the wrong language. Though it was probably not unexpected on account of the flowers around our necks and the cute short girl carrying my friend.
I don’t remember much for a while after that. Eventually we get into an examination room and my friend is laying crucifistically on a knee-high medical table; shirtless; arms out; hammered; and balls-deep in enjoying his own trip.
My comrade flirting with the pretty nurse was most incredibly entertaining and quite befitting the situation. Charming fellow, that Kob.
Time passes and lapses in my mind; eventually we’re back at the hotel packing a PVC bong with oil hoots in the bathroom. We left the shower run for a while to steam up our ‘hot-box’; an incredibly entertaining and cloudy way to medicate.
– 12:06 AM –
We enter the hotbox and start doing bong tokes of the oil from the bottle I’d smashed on the tile floor and painfully scraped up the first fucking night we landed.
What a stupid thing to bring.
Always bring grass; not a vial of fucking oil.
Kob starts drawing on the foggy mirror with his finger. I join; and we take turns adding to this obscure mural we were drawing; one that was temporary and never to be seen again.
What an intense psychedelic moment. It was one of the most profoundly introspective moments of my life.
We drew three interconnected but separate drawings across the mirror. We did this while taking turns with the endless oil tokes from the bong.
We alternated between the toilet-seat-bong and the mirror for hours; taking our turns drawing and smoking.
Absorbing the parallel reality of this experience was transformative – psychedelically, psychologically, and spiritually.
We finished our artistic adventure and exited the cloudy bathroom; then we decide to look at the clock and see how many hours had passed. Surely it must be time for breakfast.
What the fuck?
– 12:10 AM –
If you use it properly, it’s fantastic.