Anonymous
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Ryan Menezes
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The following is an account from a very real person who, not too long ago, was admitted to the hospital during a deep drug-induced psychosis. We wondered what the hell it was like to experience something like that, so we asked him what was going through his head at the time. From within a drug-induced haze, he found out that ...
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It started at a bar, with me making conversation with a couple out-of-towners, who eventually asked me if I liked drugs. "Sure," I said, "I smoke a little weed now and then." When the time came to leave, one of the guys handed me a hand-rolled cigar, repaying me for all the cigarettes they had bummed off me while we drank. I made it home and smoked the thing while sitting on my porch. It did taste kind of weird -- something about the way a cigar is rolled just changes the tobacco, I thought.
"Huh. This must be what Cuban fingers taste like."
I went inside and started flipping channels. I felt perfectly normal. The Departed popped up, and there's nothing like catching the start of a great movie you've already seen a hundred times. "What is it that I'm here for?" asked Leo's character. "We play with appearances here," answered President Bartlet. "With what seems to be. I'll ask you again, do you want to be a cop, or do you want to be seen as one?"
I thought, That kind of sums up everything, doesn't it? Everyone lies, including all those people on the street who are secretly cops and all those cops in their cars who are secretly something else. And what about those coworkers of mine? Why the fuck does Sharon keep staring at me for, and what does she keep typing into that cellphone? And she talks to Austin, doesn't she? They're working together -- together against me. And how did I not even notice until now?!?
Look they even have a spy camera to send pictures to their handler.
But, one piece was still unclear: How did those guys in the bar fit into all this? They had to, somehow -- it couldn't just be a coincidence. Wait, of course. The drugs. I knew there was something weird about that drug question. There was a drug ring behind it all, they were running my company, and that explained everything.
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.
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Out I went, down the street. My oldest friend, John, lived in a house pretty close by, and I knew that if I got a chance to sit down with him, he would be willing to help me out. Now, there's one thing you've got to know about John. But, I see no reason to tell it to you, because he wasn't home that night and plays no further part in this story.
Right next to John lived Ed. While I wouldn't call him my closest friend, I have known the man for close to 30 years. So, when I banged on his door, he opened it and asked no questions as I slipped past and slammed the door behind me.
"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.
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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."
Kassandra Sanchez / EyeEm/EyeEm/Getty Images
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.
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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.
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They cuffed me. But, instead of killing me right there, they took me to the hospital. My strategy had WORKED.
In the hospital, I lay on a gurney, and something unfamiliar and cold fluttered about my navel. I hunched forward and saw that my shirt had lifted up, exposing my belly fat to the wind and to the public's perverted eyes. "Would someone cover my nakedness?!" I screamed. "I demand a little dignity!"
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If I had known what was in store tonight, I would have trimmed down there.
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.
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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.
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Wait, no, I didn't, as became fairly clear when I awoke in a mental health facility. There, they gave me breakfast. They gave me lunch. They gave me cards for solitaire, and they gave me a psychiatric evaluation. And then, it was time for my final visit with the doctor.
Rafe Swan/Cultura/Getty Images
Final before my discharge. Not final before death. Again, I didn't die, if that's not clear.
"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.
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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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