Saturday, March 17, 2012

Tripper Joe




Somewhere on this planet, Tripper Joe sits down to smoke a bowl of extract.

“OK, Purple Sticky,” Joe mutters to himself. “Show me the way.”
He draws in the smoke and slowly leans back in his chair. In just a matter of seconds, Joe realizes that the salvia is coming on strong. He watches as green entities splatter all around his peripheral vision. The green entities begin rotating and smearing out. Facial profiles start sprouting all along the edges of his bedroom's greenery grout.

“What the fuck?” gasps Tripper Joe. Anxiously, Joe presses his lower body into the chair, squirming, hoping that his butt-crack could clench the chair underneath him with enough force so that his body/mind wouldn't blast away into the eFFing Unknown.

Several forgotten seconds elapse and Tripper Joe is now dug deep into his seat. His arms flail around in front of his face, hoping to diminish the intensity of the visuals. His virtual retinas are in overdrive. He’s seeing it all in high resolution.

Now approaching him at a high rate of speed is the technicolor visual of a suburban house.
SLAM!!!
Joe’s body impales at right angles into a rapidly morphing, red-brick wall. Detaching from each other, the red bricks begin to individualize before spreading out into a vast, gently curving membrane.

Like a spanning umbrella, the translucent shell is now made entirely of pinkANDred plastic schoolgirls: all interlocking, all holding hands, all wearing identical checkered dresses.

Directly above the girls is a shell of male protectors: their arms now moving in unison. Grasping identical greenANDblue bLaster guns, the masculine multitudes aim their weapons at an unseen enemy.

"Cyclops, the Unseen Enemy!" he calls Himself, as his hidden Cyclops eye fires silverANDblack bolts of hot electricity towards the plastic schoolgirls. The bolts don't reach their intended targets, however, because the shell of male protectors use their bLaster guns to deflect the incoming fire. And on and on it goes, scene after scene, shell after shell, mere artistic demarcations between separate worlds -- individually composed, parallel worlds reaching into infinity.

Tripper Joe is now half-in and half-out of the chair; and there’s a small, glimmering spot of drool on his cheek. He mutters some unintelligible vocals into the darkness as the visuals draw deeper into his begging-bowl shaped retinas.

Red-brick beings are now clawing at Tripper Joe’s skin. They’re rotating around his body and saying things like:
“Why did you come here?”
“You’re not ready yet.”
“Go back to your world before it‘s too late.”
“..before it’s too late.”
“..it’s too late.”
“..too late, because now we have to offload your cerebral neurotransmitters.”

That’s what the beings audible-ize, and Tripper Joe hears it in his head.
But now Joe is gratefully coming down. Opening his eyes, he watches the red-brick beings wave goodbye like automaton, airline stewards. Quickly, they retreat into the gelatinous background of hyper-dimensional space.

A few moments later, Tripper Joe slowly rises from his chair. Giving the package of salvia a quizzical look, he wonders aloud,
“Cyclops, the Unseen Enemy??!"