"Just a taste," he says, "of the feast tomorrow." He's already properly baked, so are most of them, our gracious hosts, the Irish blokes we met at the park that first day (that we thought was our last), the guy with the Molly and everything else, and all the other young Germans coming to the festival with us. We try to catch up. Our drinking tolerances have all taken off since we'd come into London, two weeks ago. Yikes.
But we get there, and the empty bottles of beer and tequila, vodka, wine and Jack start piling up on the dining room table and the table outside. The ash trays are all stacked with butts and roaches. One more beer, and Grant, Max, Zach and I are romping/water-bathing in the tiny kiddie pool in the yard. It's whatever time, after midnight. Just chonies, we forgot our boardshorts. And Max doesn't want wet chonies, so he just backs in bare-assed and starts chasing us. After we're dry it's down to the poolhall in the basement for a standard, booze-fused billiards tourney. Grant and I are teamed, and we loose, "Ah, shucks," but as we're watching the rest of it unfold, Molly-guy brings out the goods and shows us, and it's all brown and crystal-y.
He tells us that's because it's pure and amazing, and when we take it, we'll wrap it in little strips of rolling paper before we pop it so there's no nasty taste on our tongue. No capsules from the Farmacy out here, I guess. He's shows us the rest, and he's pretty stocked. A handful of e-hits. Some speed. A lot of speed, actually. The Colorado Kid snorts some with the Germans, and later he's jumping around the room he's sharing with Grant and Max, and they tell me when I wake up the next morning that he stayed up all night and ran outside to howl at the sunrise. Me, I'd laid myself down in an empty little kid's room upstairs with a twin-sized bed beneath me, blacked-out, some time before that.
