The Secret DJ by The Secret DJ

Author:The Secret DJ [DJ, The Secret & DJ, The Secret]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780571334506
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2018-06-18T23:00:00+00:00

An hour or so later, alone on the beach, I was a hideous drooling carcass. The epidermis takes in external substances as much as any orifice. Quag Allurgie knew this, of course, and had been telling people all week they didn’t have to have a large dose of acid; he’d just put a drop on their hand and they could suck it later. Thinking they’d had a narrow escape, many ended up awake for days in a psychedelic hole.

Quag Allurgie thought that not only was this hilarious but he was doing everyone a favour. Indeed, we learned that the reason for the outbreak of red, weeping eyes back up in the hotel room was Quag Allurgie had convinced everyone that putting cocaine in your tear duct was a far superior method than sniffing it. He even demonstrated by theatrically putting two fingers into the powder and rubbing it enthusiastically into his own eyes and making huge noises of satisfaction and bliss. Of course, he immediately switched fingers on the way up to his face in one of the oldest sleight-of-hand tricks in the world. The fact everyone else ended up with lava eyeballs was merely apparent evidence of Quag Allurgie’s almost supernatural ability to take more drugs than anyone else, and it didn’t stop anyone trying to compete with him. If there was ever a moment that described him more succinctly it was this one, with him sat triumphantly in a room full of weeping, gullible child-idiots, the only dry eye in the house.

I could describe the twenty-four-plus hours of acid trip to you – the monumental realisations, the clouds parting at my thoughts, the mystery beams of light in the sky, the colours, the uncanny coincidences and the sheer dazzling beauty of it all – but in reality I probably lay in the shape of a swastika for a day and a night in some dirty sand near the gutter of the strip, being stepped over by tutting, healthy Floridians.

I rose like the world’s worst kraken. I’d lost a significant amount of time, some items of clothing and other small possessions and 99 per cent of my dignity as a former human. I shambled off in a reptilian fashion to try and find out where I was in relation to the midget hotel and my esteemed colleagues. Sorry if it seems like I glossed over something monumental there, but I honestly can’t remember much. And we’re trying to keep it real here. This isn’t fiction. It’s not big or clever. It’s also hard to explain to civilians and amateurs how very mundane it can all be sometimes. I staggered across South Beach for hours, the after-effects blurring my sense of space and time, a lost Pac-Man bleeping across unfamiliar grids, eternally afraid of cartoon ghosts. Many hours later I accidentally stumbled into the crazy-golf hotel, giddy with elation at finally seeing something familiar, however ridiculous. Transvestites dressed as giant showgirls parading and sashaying across the tiny courtyard never seemed so welcoming.

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