I Accidentally Took PCP And Went Crazy: 6 Insane Lessons

I pulled out my phone and tried calling into work. There was no answer! That meant I was on the right track, but it also meant they were probably going to break into my house any moment now. So, there was only one thing to do: leave, immediately. I had to get help. And I had to leave the phone behind, of course. That's how they find you.

"You've got to lend me your phone!" I told him.

"What's the matter with your own phone?" asked Ed.

"THERE'S NO TIME TO EXPLAIN!"

Ed agreed this was no time for whatever I was saying.

He handed the phone to me, and I dialed in to work, but, again, there was no answer. In fact, it didn't even sound like it was ringing. So, I tried calling my own home and heard no ringing again. I then tried another number, and I got another ringless tone. Ed took the phone back from me, pressed a few buttons, and held it to his ear. "It's working fine, far as I can tell," he said.

My mouth went dry, and my pits went wet. They had gotten to him. He was working for THEM. That was the explanation for what was going on. I yanked the front door back open and tore out.

You can't spell "betrayed" without "Ed."

"You can try the phone next door if you would like," he called after me.

"I'm not going ANYWHERE with you!" I screamed back. And I threw myself forward into the street, between the moving vehicles. The cars all seemed to be inching along instead of driving. Maybe one of them was tailing me -- though, to be realistic, it was far more likely that they were all tailing me.

Ekaterina Nosenko/Moment/Getty
They drove in single file, like ants. Soldier ants.

When I stopped to see where I was, I had reached a garage, and hammering away at his bike was a Hells Angel. A sawed-off shotgun peeked out from the back of his pants, and tattooed on his forehead was the word CUNT. "Buddy, you're not looking too good," he said to me. "Do you need me to call someone?"

Call someone? Let this motherfucker CALL someone for me? The Hells Angels run all the drugs in the damn city -- he was in on it all. Did he think I was an IDIOT? I looked him in the face, screamed bravely, turned away, and ran off.

Two mothers at a bus stop, with a gaggle of children. They could be trusted. These were the neutral ones.

"You have to stay with me!" I screamed. "I need witnesses, or they'll take me away!" One of the women gave a little shriek and then they each grabbed their children's hands and scuttled away. Were these just callous random citizens, or were they in league with the forces hunting me? I'll let you be the judge.

Paul Yan / EyeEm/EyeEm/Getty Images
You know who else employed women and children? The Soviets.

Once the bus pulled up, I got on, handed a bill of some kind to the driver, and started weaving my way through the passengers. "A phone," I said. "I need a phone. I need to call my work because they're hunting for me, but, if I call them first, then they will know that I know that they know, and they can't do anything because YOU see it." The first several people acted like they had no phone on them at all (was there a phone thief about?). But then, one lady offered me hers, and I happily punched some numbers in. Yet again, the call didn't go through, but at least she had tried to help.

"Let me give you something!" I said taking out my wallet. "Money! Can I give you money?"

"Oh!" she said. "Well. I guess a $20 bill would cover it."

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Does that include tip? I'm not sure on the etiquette here.

I handed one to her, happy that good Samaritans still walk among us. But, that didn't solve my problem, which was, now that I thought about, everyone's problem. I had to solicit help from the public AND educate them for their own good.

"People of the bus!" I yelled, standing on a seat. "The gangs are controlling us. They watch us, just as they did Leonardo. While they have control of the airwaves, they LACK control of the tramways. We must BAND together and PROTECT each other, to- "

A hand on my shoulder.

Marius Hepp / EyeEm/EyeEm/Getty Images
One of the five scariest places to be touched on the bus.

"I think you should better get off," said a man. He was bald and so was his partner beside him -- the biker gang had caught up with me after all. "You're scaring everyone."

I was doing no such thing, and they clearly just wanted to get me somewhere private to do unspeakable harm unto me. I had to fight them off, but I can't remember what moves I used. All I do remember was suddenly being off the bus, and both men still next to me. Two police cars then arrived. And an ambulance. I was surrounded.

"Do you need the ambulance?" asked an officer. "Or would you rather ride with me in the squad car?" His meaning was unmistakable. He was giving me the choice between lethal injection and a bullet in the brain.

For my last request, I asked them to let me have a smoke. So, I took out my cigarettes, lit one, and savored it to the end. Then, I lit a second cigarette and savored that to the end, too. Then, I lit a third cigarette, and I smoked it. To the end. Savoring it. As I reached for my fourth cigarette, one of the cops said, "All right now, that's enough. Time to get going." They wouldn't even let me smoke my fourth cigarette, those heartless cockbag pig nazi fucks.

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#YesAllCockbagPigNaziFucks

That was the last straw. I made as though I was about to go into the car quietly, before spinning the other way and bolting into the street, right into traffic. This flight for freedom lasted roughly six seconds, ending when one of the police tackled me and pinned me to the ground. I had just moments for sure before these executioners executed me, execution-style. But then, from the belt of one of the cops, a pen slipped out and fell mere inches from me. There was my salvation.

These men wanted to kill me, but the whole system wasn't corrupt. If I somehow needed actual medical treatment, a real doctor might gain custody of me. Then, I would have some protection against the uniformed assassins. So, I grabbed the pen, pulled up my pant leg, and stabbed myself in the calf. It pierced the skin a little, but not as much as I hoped. Something was wrong with the pen -- the nib wasn't there, for some reason; there was just the casing. Well, that just meant I had to jab myself HARDER to reach the same depth.

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"The pen is mightier" my ass.

"Jab! Jab!" I said as I jabbed. But, this still wasn't working right. And, suddenly, the pen was gone, into one of the killers' hands, and the jingling of handcuffs sounded in my ear. I had to make my next move now, and it meant attacking myself with the only tool I had left. I stuck my thumb in my mouth and bit deep. Warm blood filled my mouth.

A man approached and gently pulled the shirt down. I would find out later that he was a crisis specialist, and my instincts told me right away that he might be trusted. So, I smiled at him, introduced myself and told him everything. I told him about the smuggler surveillance and the state-sanctioned kill teams. "I see," he said, and he even loosened my cuffs a little. "Yes, that all makes sense. Just relax, and we can talk more about this." What a relief! This man was on my side after all, and I had an ally against the enemy.

He rolled me into another room, where I discovered who he really was. In the room sat a bed with restraints. This was the lethal injection chamber. The man wasn't an ally -- he had admitted to the scheme because there was no reason not to. I would soon be no threat.

David J Sams/The Image Bank/Getty Images
This is how every hospital death occurs.

"Can I have a Coke as my last request?" I asked. This would be my second last request, if you're keeping track, and they were unable to fulfill it. There was no Coke. There was also no Pepsi, so I was spared one potential injustice. They instead brought me water. It was the best I had ever tasted. When a nurse arrived soon after and stuck the needle into me, I didn't resist. I just lay there and thought about all the things I would miss.

After 10 minutes, I died.

"Your blood work has been inconclusive," he said. "But, we're thinking you had a mix of heroin and PCP in your system, which explains your erratic behavior."

"Heroin can't do that!"

"Drugs can be quite unpredictable. And people have been known to fall into absolute frenzies when on PCP, turning extremely violent or even showing preternatural strength."

DEA
"Like Hulk, but with even less pants."

It seemed I could remember everything that happened that night, but there was no way to be sure. "Did I make a complete idiot of myself?"

"Oh yes, definitely. But, you could have done worse. At least you kept your pants on, as far as I know. And you wouldn't be the first high man to try biting off your own finger ... "

I looked down. The wound on my thumb wasn't so bad. I must have held back a little at the last moment.

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Thanks, man's instinctive revulsion to autocannibalism!

"We're supposed to keep you under observation for a full 72 hours. But, seeing as we're confident you are mentally sound and not a danger to yourself or others, I believe it is safe to let you leave right now."

I made two visits after returning home. The first was to the garage down the road, carrying a 12-pack as an apology gift. The man there still wore a leather jacket, but he was older than I remembered, had no tattoos, and was not necessarily a gang enforcer. He said my drug rampage was no big deal, as far as he was concerned, but he would use it as a cautionary tale when talking to his daughter. The second visit was to Ed, and he was straight pissed at me for sticking a stranger's chemical-soaked drug-bag in my mouth. And he showed me his phone with the numbers I had dialed -- none had gone through because I had left out the area codes.

Krystian Nawrocki/E+/Getty Images
I can't even remember those when I'm not high.

So, maybe there wasn't actually a crime ring of knives after me. Maybe I had just smoked a doctored cigar, which is why bars are so dangerous for the most vulnerable among us (young, fun-loving males). But, you know. If the drug cop conspirators really were behind it all, that's exactly what they would want me to think.

Ryan Menezes is an editor and interviewer here at Cracked. Follow him on Twitter for stuff cut from articles and other things no one should see.

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