Eventually it was found out by the kitchen staff that I was a party type of dude. In particular, there was this dish washer homey, I think his name was Nat, who started inviting me out back for a toke break. It was always in between the lunch rush and the beginning of the dinner crowd. It was always on Wednesday and Friday, like clockwork. It just became one of those things that seemed like routine and normal, and after the initial stages of worry, it was a comfortable relaxing, warm flannel sheets and soft pillow kind of vibe that I had come to take for granted.

One Wednesday I breeze by the dish station to give him the signalling eye dart. He acknowledged, and within five minutes we were puffing away out back by the dumpster.

Me - "Man, this pot tastes different."

Nat - "Yeah, my boy started slingin some new shit. Supposed to get you stupid lifted."

Me - "Shit. I'm already feeling it. Fuck, I hope this shit doesn't fuck me up too much, I gotta function for another shift."

Nat - "Naw G. You one of them crazy white boys, can always handle crazy weed."

Me - "Yeah, your right. But fuck I'm high."

So I go back to my register and hosting duties. Walking in squiggily lines. Holding onto the counter so that I don't sway like a sapling in a hurricane. I started feeling weird.

The restaurant I worked in had four or five old folks homes in close proximity. So we had a heavy rotation of senior citizen regulars. Many of them abandoned by their offspring because they were miserable cantankerous crotchety old farts. So they would take out their parental love on others, including the guy taking their cash.

They would often eat dinner between three and five. Complaining that the food wasn't magma hot. And so the parade of bitter old shits started. And like I said I was starting to feel weird.

Edges of everything were getting fuzzy. Dependably inanimate objects began to pulse and oscillate in their hues and tones. The sound of change hitting the register slots sounded like wind chimes crashing to a tile floor. I was thinking that there were things watching me from behind the foam ceiling tiles, through all the little black holes. Funny enough, it took me a decent amount of time to figure out I was tripping. And then it was an abrupt panic assesment of the situation "Oh mother of mercy, holy fucking shit, I am buzzing my marbles off at work."

The first old lady approaches the register with her bill. The wrinkles in her face were slithering like snakes. I could see clouds of milky greyish green gas wafting out with every word she said. It was a long drawn out miracle to count and hand her back correct change.

As the second old lady neared me, her facial features began contorting like a caricature drawing. She looked like one of those puppets of celebrities in that Phil Collins video. Her lips became elongated and were flapping millimeters from my face as she spoke what seemed to me as some form of penguin vernacular. I was burning up and sweat ran out of my body. Where ever I would lay my hand I'd leave a wet paw print. With what little sense I had left I turned the key to the register, grabbed my drawer and rushed to the office to inform my manager that it was urgent that I leave immediately.

Plopping my cash drawer on my manager's desk. The dialogue to follow is what I think was said.

Me - "Gotta go"

Manager - "What!?! No no, that's impossible, time says that a shift is needed. What about the manicottis."

Me - "Uh, I don't know about the manicottis, but I'm feeling bad, and I'm scared of the puppets, and it's really burning up in here, I gotta go."

Manager - "Who said anything about manicottis. Where am I going to put money, when your mother can't find you."

Me - "Oh jeezus don't tell my mother. Whatever you do don't call her and ask her to come down here. Shit whats that on your desk?"

Manager - "Staple remover. Maybe you should go home."

Me - "Yep, yep, yep. Gotta go."

I ran all the way home. The trees and shrubs that lined the streets in my hood seemed to be trying to grab at me. I thought I heard and saw miniture black dragons flying over me and laughing, but they were probably just crows. Figuring out the lock to my house was excrutiatingly difficult. Finally got in, and dived under my covers, trembling. Through all the information coming in I remembered that my parents were going to be home too soon for me to be cool. So, pushing the extremly large buttons on my phone, which were squealing with every touch, I got a hold of some homies. They came and picked me up.

The rest of the night was your standard visionary voyage of mythical underworlds and strange beings telling me I can do strange things. Extremely twitchy feeling, constantly thinking something is poking at me. Trying to explain to relatively sober friends the events as they were unfolding. Felt like a greasy crumpled up brown paper bag the next day.

Friday and I'm still feeling junkyish. Decide to pay my pal Nat a visit in the kitchen. Our eyes meet and he hussles me outside. Apparently he didn't know that his boy laced the joints with angel dust. He relates experiencing similar events as I had.

So thats how I accidentally had a bad trip on PCP. And I am forever paranoid of smoking strangers weed. Plus I oft times get kinda twitchy when getting stoned, but that won't ever stop me. It may have been just my mind set at the time that made my trip so Dante, but I wouldn't recommend that crazy powder to anyone. Unless you like uncontrolable violent hallucinations, then fire away soldier.