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DROPPING LSD, THE
PUSSYCAT THEATER, AND SHIPPING OUT
"Sir! Sir! Wake up. You're disturbing the
other passengers."
I blearily pulled my face away from the
window that I had stuck to from dried drool and
looked up at the stewardess who was shaking my
shoulder. I had been dreaming about the porno
movie I had seen at the Pussycat Theater on
Hennepin Avenue in Minneapolis that had kicked
the previous night off and realized that I might have
been shouting out things like "hairy snatch" and "let
me stick in your ass, big momma." Passengers were
looking at me in horror. By the stench surrounding
me I must have been also farting like a circus
elephant. If I had pulled the same stunt after 9/11
my ass would sitting in a jail cell right now.
Jesus Christ, what a day and a half it had
been. It all started off when I had checked into the
downtown Radisson Hotel. When I found my room
and opened the door I discovered that I had
company. And my company appeared to be both
lonely and stoned. He was also talking a mile a
minute and appeared to be some sort of drug fiend.
"Hey, buddy! Guess we'll be bunking
together. Cool! My name's Bobby. You're Navy,
huh. Me, I'm joining the Marines. Just like my
brother, which by the way reminds me. Do you like
to party?" When I nodded at him (I had yet to utter
more than a single word), he reached into his pocket
and pulled out a glass vial and handed it to me.
"Acid, dude. My brother is stationed out in Frisco
and he sent it to me. Owsley acid. They call it that
cause some freak named Owsley makes it. Suppose
to be the best in the country. The Hells fucking
Angels get their acid from this dude. There's enough
for both of us. Let's drop it and make a Fucking-A-Dilly-
bar party for our last night."
We washed the tabs down with a swig out of
Bobby's can of Schlitz malt liquor. The good old
Bull. The LSD took about fifteen minutes to kick in
as we chatted. And it kicked like a mule.
"Fuck, Bobby," I stuttered. "This is some
potent shit! We better get some food in us and a
couple of beers to try to mellow out some or this is
going to be a long night."
Bobby had started making this weird look
with his face like a chipmunk chattering and he kept
repeating "Yes, dude, yes! Fucking A yes!" It was
really starting to freak me out. I realized that I may
have made a huge mistake.
We stumbled down to the dining room
where our government issued meal tickets got us
this greasy and goddamn nasty Mexican dinner
which we both inhaled. I don’t know how since it
was like eating a dead squirrel and didn’t taste
much better than it looked. We damn near got
thrown out of the joint because Bobby kept
whistling at this hot little waitress and flicking his
tongue out at her like Linda Blair when she had the
lead role as Satan - which I was starting to think
Bobby wasn’t too far off from - in The Exorcist.
After we finished our rotgut meal we
staggered out on to the streets of Minneapolis to
find a bar that was lacking in the skills of checking
the identifications of underage drinkers. It took
about half a block to find. The place was dark and
dank and all of the customers appeared to be about
ninety fucking years old. They were drinking Old
Style beer, obviously the house special, and were
glued to the television which seemed to be playing
an endless loop of Leave It To Beaver, Maude, and
Good Times reruns.
“Cold beer for our men and hot whores for
our horses,” Bobby yelled out as he slapped a
twenty on the bar. The bartender, who looked like
an old queen from the silent film era, popped two
cold ones down and gave a sly wink and swished
back down to the other end.
“Fuck, I think we may be in some sort of
retirement home homo bar,” I slurred out, I was so
high I couldn't tell if I was really talking or not. "Is
there a parrot on the bartender's shoulder?" Behind
the bar there appeared to be a giant purple lizard
wearing a turban and it was crawling slowly across
the wall.
“Who gives a shit,” said Bobby, “As long as
the old bastard keeps bringing these beers,” he
belched out. “Maybe he’ll blow us if we tip him
enough.” I looked at Bobby in horror not knowing if
he actually had said that and meant it, or if I was
now having auditory hallucinations.
“You boys having a good time tonight? You
two can sure put the beer away.” The old fart ran his
tongue over his yellowed dentures. I looked down at
the bar in front of me. I couldn't believe that I had
drank that much and not taken a piss. We must have
been on about our fourteenth beer apiece by the
amount of empties in front of us and it appeared that
the old geisha boy was ready to make his move. I
had totally lost track of time and just where the hell
I was. How many fucking episodes of Leave It To
Beaver are there?
“I guess were doing OK,” I babbled.
Bobby responded by opening his mouth and
barfing a geyser of beer and bad Mexican food all
over the old queer. We both vaulted off of our
stools and ran out the door screaming and laughing
like hyenas and tore down the block until we found
ourselves, like a vision from God, in front of the
legendary PussyCat theater. Deep Throat had
played non-stop there for years. It was a double
feature, the second show was called I Cream On
Jeanne. I was hoping that Barbara Eden was really
in it. She had been the subject of many of my stroke
dreams. Thinking back, how in even my LSD
addled mind did I think that Barbara Eden would be
performing in a porno film?
“I gotta see this flick,” Bobby said, “I heard
this chick Linda Lovelace can go down on a mule
and not bat an eye.”
After getting our tickets I went to take a leak
while Bobby went to the concession stand. Like I’d
eat anything that was sold in a porno theater. The
walls of the bathroom were covered with graffiti
and with the phone numbers of men who either
wanted me to call them so they could blow me or
visa versa.
“What in the hell is wrong with this
goddamn town,” I wondered as I pissed all over my
shoes looking at all the amateur porno scrawled on
the walls. The majority of them poorly done
renditions of stick men with massive cocks, balls,
and exposed assholes. If the theater was showing
just regular old porno flicks - guy on girl, girl on
girl - why was all the graffiti homo related? Another
question for the ages.
Bobby was waiting for me in the lobby,
rocking from one foot to the other. He had bought a
box of World War II era malted milk balls and was
eating them with his mouth wide open. I had to
swallow back my gag reflex. What a disgusting
sight!
The theater was one of those old time places
that had gone to shit and now showed only skin
flicks around the clock. Fucking place must have
held two thousand people at one time in it’s glory
years and now there were about fifteen in the whole
joint. Me and Bobby, eleven single men, and two
either really ugly women or two transvestites who
were wildly making out.
I didn’t give a shit though! Man, once I
started to watch that Linda Lovelace, who was short
in the tit department but fine in the ass and bush, get
down with old Harry Reems, I was sporting a piece
of wood that Rod Carew could have used to knock
out a homer at the old Met stadium. The urge to
jerk-off off was intense. I just had to beat my meat,
just had to, but I couldn’t with Bobby next to me.
What shitty luck I was having.
“Look at them ugly chicks swapping spit,”
Bobby yelled out. No one in the audience as much
as turned around. “Goddamn that ain’t right! What
would Jesus do if he saw that?” (If that dumb
asshole had only been able to see into the future he
could’ve thrown a trademark on that one.
Advertising firms could have dosed Bobby with
acid and he would envision future marketing
slogans). Suddenly without warning he stood up and
stepped out into the aisle and hurled a milk ball as
hard as he could at the two spit swappers. It shot
over their heads by fifteen feet. The place was
cavernous, no one even heard it hit. Or cared for
that matter.
The next time he wound up like he was
trying out for the Yankees, even going through the
whole wind up with the kick and everything, but his
throw was way over their heads. Eventually
throwing the box empty, Bobby turned and ran up
the aisle for more ammo. Eureka! I took the
opportunity to un-zip and pull out my crank. I'm
sure this was illegal but since I had noticed about
everyone in the place appeared to be either beating
their hogs or someone else’s it must not be too well
enforced. I was really getting into it when out of the
corner of my eye I spied Bobby moving down the
center aisle firing malted milk balls like a submachine
gun. His hand would dip into the box, he’d
fire, and then take another step down the aisle. The
acid in my brain gave the milk balls the visual effect
of being shout out of a bazooka along with a bright
orange tracer. Very cool looking. But he was still
way off the mark and I was about on mine when
suddenly...
“What the fuck?” someone shouted. The two
transvestites were out of their seats and running up
the aisle towards Bobby. Obviously he had finally
hit his target. The sons of bitches were a lot bigger
than they looked sitting down. They charged up the
aisle looking like linebackers wearing nylons, wigs,
nightclub dresses, and high heels. The three of them
went down in a pile of punches, curses, and kicks.
I don’t know if it was the combination of the
acid, sweet Linda up on the screen giving it her all,
or the adrenaline of the fight - but I shot to my feet
and ***Edited for Lit.org*** that arched
over at least two rows and landed right on this old
dude’s neck!
He stood and shrieked like a wounded deer,
with his pants hanging down to his knees, his white
ass glowing in the dark as white as the moon.
“What the hell was that?” He screamed out again as
if battery acid had been poured on his neck.
Without stopping to look, I bolted up the
aisle as I jammed my prick back into my jeans at
the same time. I ran straight through the lobby and
out the left side lobby doors just as two cops came
in the right side of the lobby. I sprinted like an
Olympic track and field star packing a full load of
steroids, all the way back to the hotel.
And I never saw Bobby again.
I was leaning against the front of the hotel
trying to catch my breath when I heard her voice.
"Do you want to party?" I couldn't decide if I was
still hallucinating or not. For I was looking at
another vision sent straight from heaven. My second
in about an hour. A gorgeous blonde Amazon! She
was incredible! Playboy shit! I mean she was that
hot. Long blond hair. Huge jugs in a halter top.
Shapely legs pouring out of denim hot pants. Must
have been close to six feet tall. She was the whole
fucking package!
The power of speech had left me. I could
only nod numbly. In my drug and alcohol soaked
brain pan I knew that she was a hooker but I didn't
give a shit.
"Give me your room key." I handed it over
without question. She ran her tongue around her lips
and Pearl Drops white teeth and turned and walked
across the lobby as I followed along. Staying
slightly behind her so that I could check out her
gorgeous ass, obviously she was wearing no
panties. We stepped into the elevator and as soon as
the door closed she turned and grabbed my crotch
and stuck her tongue in my ear. "I'm going to wear
that big cock of yours down to a matchstick," she
hoarsely whispered.
"Do you have someone else in the room
with you?" She was standing by Bobby's bed and
looking at all the empties of malt liquor scattered
about.
I don't think he'll be back tonight." Fucker
had to be in jail by now. I was hoping anyway.
She smiled coyly at me. "Good. It's 50 for a
blow job. A hundred for a suck and a fuck. And a
hundred a half hour for any extras. Do you have the
cash?"
I walked over and flashed the remainder of
the wad I had stolen from la Favor, Mike, and
Angel.
She smiled again. "That's a start." She
started stripping off her clothes. She looked over at
me. "Well just don't stand there, get those clothes
off so we can get this party started." My crank was
already so hard I thought I'd pass out. The blonde
had perfect jugs with tollhouse cookie nipples and
her trim was shaved into a heart. There was a tattoo
of Curious George beating his meat on
her ass. She opened her pocketbook and pulled out a
couple of horse sized pills. "Have you ever taken a
Quaalude?" She pulled a beer out of the cooler and
popped the top and washed one down. "Makes
fucking twice as good. Here, take this one. On the
house."
***
The ringing of the phone brought me out of
my coma. I was laying on floor of my room buck
naked. The phone stopped ringing and quickly
started up again. I staggered to my feet and had to
hold the sides of my head to keep from passing out.
"Hello," I gasped into the phone.
It was my wake up call. "Good morning! It's
five o'clock! Rise and shine! The bus leaves for the
induction center in..."
"Fuck off!" I snarled and slammed the
phone down. I barely made it into the bathroom
before I puked into the bathtub. Standing up I
caught a glance of myself in the mirror before I
passed out.
I'll never know what really happened that
historic night. It was one for ages that's for sure. But
I do know how fucking shocked the security guards
looked when they found me passed out on the
bathroom floor. I guess the woman who had given
me the wake up call had been a little concerned
about how I had answered her call. Security found
me laying in a pool of my own barf and looking like
I had been dragged behind a car. All my clothes,
money, and other personal shit had been stolen. The
guards were kind enough to dig through a lost and
found bag to scrounge me up some Viking
sweat pants and a matching t-shirt along with a
packet of underwear (size medium - irregular) and
black socks that were stuffed in a sweaty smelling
gym bag. For shoes they gave me a pair of old
shower shoes. I wound up looking like a member of
a group home for retards.
Quite a way to start your military career.

To be continued.....

------
Scott L. Anderson


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