Demons to Demons pt. 2

A friendship is harder to crack than bone, but an ego will never break.

Fernweh had no desire to get slapped out - again - by Scrib, especially during the midst of an experience that had promised to be amazing. If it had been a mutually agreed scrap, or Scrib was to mentor Fernweh, things would have been better, but there was no benevolence here. This was a battle between Innocence and Hatred; Scrib's grizzled, hissing stature stood for all that was foul; Fernweh's thin, fearful pose was everything that hatred loved to hate.

Through entheogenic eyes, the battle was beginning to look like a war between demons - a myth unfolding before our eyes. Perhaps this tale would be told for years to come; perhaps this night would be the catalyst to a new cult. Fernweh, the belittled god and Scrib the Devil.

We didn't know what to do about the situation.  Scrib's anger was vehemently focused on Fernweh; whenever one of us stepped in to remind him that he was supposed to be a friend, he (rather, the demon that looked through his eyes) would offer us a brief glance that whispered of a tortured mind and a battered soul. His lips would form the shape of a word, but before growling it he'd return his efforts to Fernweh.

Finally, Kevin - the only one bigger than Scrib (who, fortunately, had enough sense left to realize that Kevin could tune him if he stepped out of line) told him that he had three options.

a) if he really had beef then they could duke it out. I regret to admit that we were starting to see the situation from a selfish viewpoint. We wanted peace and quiet; if a decidedly unbalanced fight was the only way to return that, then we would welcome it. We were no better than heartless dictators ushering their troops towards failure.

b) there was a powerful energy flowing between Scrib and Fern that spoke of hushed desires. Their second option was to go off and fuck in a bush to satisfy their secret carnal urges. (In response to this, Fernweh, who'd lost any sense of how to speak, said - entirely straight faced with a serious intention - something about "I love you, just the tip of Scrib's dick in my lungs!" to which I burst out laughing.

c) Kevin would just knock one of them out to get the show rolling.

His threats proved useless once he realized that it was not his battle to win. Instead, we surrounded the two like a group of people placing bets on a cock fight; craning our necks to peer into the psyche of Scrib and unintentionally prod Fernweh's fear.

This is how nobody wants to spend an acid trip. Once it became clear that we were powerless to control the situation (and it's funny how acid has a way of calling upon synchronicity, diverting your energies towards attracting situations that resonate on similar frequencies with your intentions) I decided to bounce and explore Toronto Island by myself.

After a ten minute walk, I spotted a light in the distance and gravitated towards it like a moth (of which I soon found billions.) The building it was attached to was curious; it seemed a combination of a firehouse, a vacation home and an abandoned office. There was a door leading to a washroom, which I wagered was locked considering it was past midnight, so I spent a good 20 minutes scouring the outside of the building in hopes of finding a tap so I could fill my water bottle and bring the group some hydration.

After I'd given up, I checked the bathroom doors which were miraculously unlocked. Nice. I filled up my bottle and brought it back to the group, hoping for them to have reached a denouement. No such luck - fires were raging just as much as they had been before. It wasn't  my place to intervene (anymore) so I went for a walk with Squanch back to the bathroom to fill up the rest of our water bottles and contemplate whether or not we should fuck. Sexual energy is a deviant on acid, difficult to harness but once you've mastered it then one can be a master of attraction. It hovers above you, an elusive rope begging for you to grab hold - once you've gripped it, it'll be smooth sailing towards wherever your desires lay. Unfortunately I either didn't care or just wasn't feeling sexy enough that night so we returned with full water bottles and unsatisfied genitals.

When we returned, the situation had dwindled a bit - though acid trips are never so simple. Welcome to the rollercoaster: Scrib's bottomless rage would return for a while, lessen, return, lessen, and as we crested each bump of the ride, the bumps would decrease in stature. Finally,  the world seemed to heave a great sigh; each wave that floated through our world breathed in, every sparkle that dotted the glimmering night sky breathed out. We realized the situation was over. We'd talk about it in the morning.

The last words of the night, from Fernweh:

"You can only shit your pants so many times before somebody else shits them for you."