27 Strings

♫

I had been on the road for 2 hours, 2 hours seems like a fucking long time when you are cruising down the highway to hell with a hangover. I drove past a barely-surviving sign that had a Las Vegas feel to it, which was suppose to say: "Welcome to Forever 27", it clearly meant that I was on the right track, although the sign seemed to be screaming "Go back, the residents are fucked up here!" due to the missing letters and the "7" hanging by a piece of frayed cord. I mean, if that was the welcome sign then it is a clarion call to what I should expect next. I don't know if it was last night's drinking binge or the fact that I just didn't care anymore, but my foot pressed down on the accelerator and I continued down the long meandering road.

I came to the thought that this roadtrip was lacking soul, it was missing a soundtrack. I pushed the power button with a forceful thumb (being that it was an old radio and all), the radio scanned for the nearest radio tower signal and found an old-school Blues station. Was that Robert Johnson? The melody did have a tragic disturbance to it. "I went down to the crossroads and fell down on my knees, asked the Lord up above for mercy, save poor Bob if you please." An overwhelming sensation started to occur, the muscles in my neck and head started to spasm, I assumed from the non-stop 2 hours on the road. Then I felt a convulsion starting to occur, as though every muscle in my body was vibrating, my energy was being drained and the most bizarre symptom was a metallic taste that been marinated in my saliva and coated my whole mouth. Fortunately, I had half-a-bottle of whiskey left. Nothing gets rid of a metallic taste like a swig of sour mash Tennessee whiskey with aromatic notes of vanilla, caramel and toasted oak. I swerved into the parking lot of a life-saving motel with one hand on the wheel and the other hand grasping the bottle neck. "Fuck, that was a close one", I gasped while sprinkling the whiskey droplets on my lips before I wiped the residual droplets away.

I looked up to the signboard of the establishment, "Alexandre Levy Motel". It seemed like a decent place to stay, decent as in not nice enough to take your lady there (well unless she was a prostitute), but trustworthy enough to know that if you were to leave your stuff there, that it will still be there by the time that you got back. I picked up a box of tablets that were loitering on the floor of my Chevelle.

The label read:

"ZOPICLONE 7,5MG

TAKE ONE TABLET TWICE A DAY

Prescribed by: Dr. Edirp Eikcid."

The doctor was some back-door experimental psychiatrist (a man that I could organise any kind of mind-altering Schedule 7 drug with the simple pack of bank notes that was equivalent to bail money if he ever got caught), who shared an office space with a podiatrist. It was one of those situations when you know that they are both qualified practitioners but you are oblivious to why they are sharing the same corrugated-iron roof. So since it was a simple box of sleeping pills, I didn't think twice before snatching a box from his cold latex hands, even though it was clear that I was in turmoil after he showed his recently whitened crocodile teeth with a sinister Dr. Frankenstein smirk.

I continued reading the label: "May cause drowsiness and mild headaches." Well they are sleeping tablets, I would be pissed off if it would send a bolt of energy surging through my nervous system. I popped two tablets out of the blister pack and washed them down with another swig of whiskey.

SHIT! I had to admit that they were potent drugs, not even 5 minutes down the line, and I was already sedated as if I were darted by a tranquilizer gun. My mind was slowing down, retarding, my worries fading away, I could taste peace. BAM!!! It felt like I was hit at the back of my head with a baseball bat, the metal one. Blunt force trauma at its best. I started to hallucinate, imagining the sound of my hair being sheared off and an angle-grinder cutting through metal bursted into my tympanic membrane. An excruciating sharp pain entered my head as if that quack doctor was drilling into my skull, bits of bone and brain-matter splattering everywhere. The side-effects were suppose to be "Drowsiness and mild headaches", not an illusion of a neurosurgical procedure known as a lobotomy.