Uncle Drew's Lysergic Backbrain Apocalypse (Slight Return)
Later on that night---and we were out of there at one thirty for a change---me and Bob found our way over to Jeff’s. The atmosphere was decidedly different---big argument about politics. I didn’t give a shit---never did. There was some debate about secret wars in south America---Ricky was arguing in favor of Ronald Reagan and Jeff was arguing in favor of Walter Mondale. And I know you probably have no idea who Walter Mondale, or Ronald Reagan, or Abraham Lincoln were….and I don’t guess it matters. Jeff asked my opinion on the whole thing and I said I didn’t give a shit. Never did—still don’t.
“Oh, wow, dude, that’s, like, a totally deep concept----er, uhur, ahur!!!!” yurched Ricky. I needed a drink, and thankfully there was drink to be had. There was Tequila and beer and before long I was downing both. Where was Candi? I needed to get ahold of her cute little buns again---then everything would be alright---the night’s aggravation could wash past me and Ricky could take a flying fuck off a cliff.
I was tired as all shit and I was actually feeling the alcohol, which wasn’t bad. Terry and the boys told me it was useless to drink booze while you were tripping because acid negated the effects of alcohol…so it was good to know I was back to normal.
Uncle Drew was MIA and I missed him…Terry wasn’t there and I missed him, too. I sat in the kitchen with Bob and a couple of the bus boys and the conversation dragged in my head and I felt like I was nodding off. There was a whole goddamned bottle of tequila I was threatening.
I wandered back out in the living room and some other bullshit conversation was going on…lo and behold, Candi had blown in by this time and she was parked in the love seat with my peanut buddy, Charlie Brown, and they were looking mighty friendly. I made some comment I can no longer remember but I think I was trying to be witty. Someone laughed and someone else made some kind of a wisecrack. I felt like I’d been stabbed in the gut. I stumbled into the living room and I remember Jeff saying something like, “oh, shit, he’s gonna fall,” and that’s all I remember.
C.F. Roberts is a writer, visual artist, videographer and antimusician living in Northwest Arkansas with his wife, writer Heather Drain and a small menagerie of animals. He published and edited SHOCKBOX: The Literary/Art Magazine with Teeth from 1991 to 1996. He sings lead for the rock band, the S.E. Apocalypse Krew while also commandeering his own industrial project, 90 Lb. Tumor. He most recent publication credits are in Fearless, Paraphilia, Pressure Press Presents, Crab Fat Literary Magazine, The Birds We Piled Loosely, Blue Collar Review, Corvus Review, Antique Children, and Guerilla Genesis Press. His book, The Meat Factory and Other Stories, is available from Alien Buddha Press.
