shrooms are pretty common around here. a couple of my friends were at the lake and found a ton of shrooms and brought them home to sell. i think they had a few pounds of it because about 6 people ate some and they still have a lot left over. they're going back this weekend so i guess they will get some more.
i love shrooms, only had one bad trip, and it didnt last the whole trip, shrooms arent too common here, they come once a month or so, i using buy close to a half for a 100, always potent, theres usually 8 shrooms in an eighth 2-3 inches tall, weeds common here, never have to wait for that, not even an hour, hash is pretty common too, usually gotta ask a day in advance though
im new here...but anaways ill share my insane trip with everyone....it all started when i was like.....heyy lets get 2/8 of shrooms between me and a friend......little did i know that u were only supposed to take like a half an eigth ur first time...soo we ate that shit up...and smoked some weed...about 2 hrs later...there was this plane...and i thought it was gunna crash into me....i started running...and realized...i was running for about 15 minutes....when i met back with my friends....i was really pissed off...and forwhatever reason....threw my bowl into the ocean...no idea why...but that night sucked...and at the end..i was really depressed coming down from the trip....oh god..i hope most trips arent like this man...
ive always wanted to try shrooms, heard lots of good things about them... and some pretty bad things too. but i dont even know what they look like...i feel like n idiot, but oh well...still wanna try em someday
in about 1/8 theres about 8 shrooms...some big some small...but there all about a little smaller than ur thumb nail then theres the stems..which are like green things that are like dried up green french fries in the begenning the shrooms and stems taste like stale bread...but by the end...they taste like ass
" he started putting his head in his subwoofer and he jumps back and hits the wall and it makes a very loud thump!" That made me laugh for like 10 minutes.
yea around here NO ONE HAS SHROOMS EVER i see and hear kids sometimes atalk about having 8ths but thats as high amount as it goes 50-65 dollars for the 8th too, jesus fuckn christ
Shit man, people pay lots for shrooms...here we've got them pretty much constantly. Two nights ago I did shrooms and went to the most amazing fireworks I've ever seen. Talk about a trip...tomorrow we're picking up an ounce of some good fuckin mush for $90 or 100 (Canadian), and we picked up 6 hits of acid today. w00t As to the started of the thread, sucks you had a bad trip...but don't let it discourage you. I've done mush more times than I can count and never (ever) had a bad trip - or anything close, really. Mushrooms rock.
Yeah man. Don't let this one "bad" trip stop you from having all the other "good" trips you will have later on. I have never had a bad trip on shrooms. But maybe that is becuz I always smoked weed with them and was in a safe environment with no distractions that could upset me. That is what you need to do. But beware, mixing herb and shrooms can be too much if you can't handle it and have too much of either. I have been on some pretty wild (but fun! ) trips becuz of it.
damn. that sounds scary. that happened to me a few months ago durning my first trip, to the point where i decided to quit smoking weed cause i had sat there analyzing bad things about myself. so i havent smoked in awhile. i liked the experience the first few days after but now the more i think about it i am very hesitant to do them again. my friend has had problems post-trip. this is a month and a half later, and he says he feels like he is inside his own head thinking more than he should be. i dunno, we were planning a trip in a few months but i think all 3 of us are reconsidering now.
ive done shrooms once before and it was a low dose so i didnt see anything crazy just like walls wiggling and stuff. i want to do them again and really do them like about an 8th on my own. thatd be insane. the problem is, i cant find anyone to do them with or a good place to do them. none of my friends want to do it, and if i do them alone at home i know i'll end up scaring the shit out of myself.
i only had a little more than a half eighth. i had melting ceilings, dancing carpet patterns, the carpet feeling liquidy, seeing eyes blinking in my friend's head...the works. shit got weird when i glanced into the corner and who was standing there but karl malone? and 2 seconds later he was gone.
The first time I ate shrooms was at the All Good Festival. It's a music festival in West Virginia in the summer with all kinds of great music - reggae, jazz, rock, fusion, jam bands, bluegrass, blues - all kinds of shit. It's also a drug emporium. Everything is available. On the walk from the campsite to the stage, you would hear literally over 200 offers for different drugs. My friends J, C, and S went. J and I bought a quarter of shrooms, and split them. We ate them with cold coffee. Of course, it tasted awful, but you make yourself eat it Fear Factor style. Medeski, Martin, and Wood were onstage, they're a great jazz fusion band, and I was trippin balls. J asked me if I wanted to go back to the car, and I was up for anything, so we made our way down the hill where we sat and listened to music and up the road to the campsite. I saw all kinds of crazy shit, but the atmosphere there is so conducive to a good trip. All kinds of nice hippy folk, etc... Overall a good time. The second time I ate them was recently, about 3 weeks ago. My friends E, E, and A show up at my house shroomin their asses off (My mom is cool with us experimenting, thank God), and ask me if I want to shroom. I didn't have any $$$, so E spotted me the money, and I drove to pick them up. (No drivers license, but I'm an excellent driver) I took them and E and I were having a great time, but the other E and A (girls) were acting all depressed and complaining how they didn't know what was going on. Of course you don't know what's going on, you're on drugs! Whenever I start analyzing myself or feeling like I'm going to have a bad trip, I tell myself I'm on drugs. That seems to do it for me. They continued to have a shitty time no matter what I told them, so I basically ignored them for about 2 hours before we started to come down.
Hey every one I have a story for you a scary one! It was Ronald McDonald's eyes that haunted me. I had been walking toward the entrance of one of the six McDonald's franchises in Rockville when I glanced at the cartoon clown logo in the window, and screamed. I frightened one little girl on the sidewalk so badly that she screamed, too. One middle-aged man in a baseball cap who had been strolling toward the entrance behind me very discreetly turned on his heels and walked the other way. I felt like a jackass. But I couldn't help it. I stood there on the sidewalk outside the restaurant for several minutes, gawking at the thing. It was one of those clear plastic static signs, pressed to the inside of the glass, the cartoon image filling most of that pane. The cloud of red hair, the size 60 red shoes, the yellow suit, and the...well... I reached out and brushed my fingers over the glass. The image is so perfectly drawn, so vivid, I thought. So colorful and so perfectly horrible, I thought. I am most likely suffering from a mental illness, I thought. Other late-night customers brushed past me and cast quick, stealthy glances my way, looking at the crazy man with the beard stubble and the ruffled dark hair, wearing the faded charcoal jacket over a black button-up shirt with a row of crimson chinese characters down the front (it's not as gay as it sounds). Look at the nut, staring into the four foot-tall corporate logo like it holds the meaning of life. Don't get too close to him, honey. But they didn't see what I saw, I was sure of that. They weren't looking or screaming or puking. No, they saw the happy clown with his arms spread wide, one leg cocked at a 45-degree angle with one red floppy clown shoe tipped up into the air, big smile spread across his red and white face, welcoming paying customers into his burger factory. I remembered it from the last 100 times I had been here. What I saw at the moment was a clown standing there with his gut split raggedly open, as if cut with a dull utility razor. He was... how can I put this delicately? In this perfectly-rendered and shaded cartoon he was using his own white-gloved hands to feed a rope of his own intestines into his mouth. Detailed. Yes. It was very, very detailed, I observed. But it was those eyes that got me. His expressive cartoon eyes pulsed with a terror about to boil over into madness. Tears streaked his face, sweat beaded his forehead. Those eyes pled with me, looked right into me and screamed for mercy. Begged to be put out of his misery. Those eyes told a story I didn't want to hear. It was a perfect cartoon rendering, not just of a man eating himself, but of a man being forced to eat himself. And only I saw it. The messed-up logo was not an act of vandalism, the work of some artistic vegan defacing the hated burger dispensary, no manager rushed out to cover it. This image existed only to my eyes. This type of thing had been happening more and more. I closed my eyes, looked again. Still there. And man, it was there. So totally and completely there, not shimmering like a mirage in the desert or some blur out the corner of your eye. It just clung to the window in it's brazen thereness, real right down to the little plastic corners starting to peel up from the glass. Look at his face, man. The blood stained around his lips... and what's that caked around his cheeks? Gotta be bits of... I turned away, tried to clear my head, to concentrate. But you still see it, don't you? Everything rendered in cheerful comic book pinks and reds, clean, black ink outlines... the knots of guts sagging out of his abdomen... I very quickly spun back at the image. There; just for a split second, I saw the normal logo, the way everybody else saw it. Happy corporate clown. Then it blurred back to the corrupted version again. Along the bottom, in cheerful red letters it said, "Who Owns You?" Those words meant nothing to me, and I didn't expect them to. I stood there and craned my neck up up to the starless night sky, suddenly aware of how cold the October air was, its chilled fingers rustling my hair and sneaking up the back of my shirt like some old refrigerated pervert. I said before that I was probably going crazy, but of course I knew I could never get that lucky. If John were here he would see the same Ronald I saw. We were each other's anchor to sanity only because we were both haunted, I guess you could say, and by the same spooks. And if you've judged me to be insane despite my denial, keep reading. You ain't seen nothin' yet. As I've said in my previous account, I have this thing with my brain; me and John both. Have you ever been flipping around AM radio in the wee hours of an all-night drive, and suddenly heard a burst of Spanish or French, suddenly catching just a whiff of a signal from who-knows-where, thousands of miles away? My brain is like that, sometimes getting those foreign signals, bits of sight and sound from another world. That means I see the occasional wandering dead person, passing through doors and walls and other people like a hologram. It means I sometimes catch quick glimpses of other hateful and mad figures that wander the night, smiling eyes that seem to say they'd like to tear my face off and wear it like a loincloth. Unclean; that's the word the Bible uses to describe those guys. Yep. Easily the most perfect match of object and adjective I have ever run across. Good writing there, God. But this most recent thing, like the hallucination with the sign, this was relatively new. It started a couple of weeks ago, with smells. Powerful odors of rot or sewage with no source, so strong they burned my nose. Usually right when I was eating. The people around me could never smell it, of course, and it didn't take me long to figure out the game. That's all it is, to them. Games. Messing with my senses, seeing how far they can push me. Games are all they have time for. Those of us who believe in evil spirits tend to think of them having some great James Bond-villain scheme for mankind. We imagine the devil as a slick and plotting Al Pacino, suave and clever. But boil it down and it's just the sick meanness of a six year-old boy, setting a mouse on fire just to watch it squirm, smearing dog shit on your doorknob. Take that cheerful, dumb cruelty and crank it up by a thousand. My problem is this perception I've got, while letting me see them from time to time, also makes me vulnerable to their little pranks. So after a week of having every meal smell like rotten eggs or formaldehyde or paint thinner, they got bored with that and suddenly I started hearing odd things over the radio. First, just curse words thrown into popular songs where clearly no one had ever written or recorded them, so quick I'd have to do a double-take to see if I had actually heard it. These last two days I'm hearing entire songs changed, twisted. I get dancy and light-hearted beats under lyrics about prison rape or incest and, once, a version of Stairway to Heaven with my name edited in throughout. This new version that blared over the speakers of a busy shopping mall (though only I heard it, of course) was a list of all my chronic sins and vices, a musical rundown of all the reasons I, David Wong, was destined for Hell. That stuff bothers me, I admit. Even if their version of Stairway barely rhymed (what rhymes with masturbation?) But I know what anybody who's ever dealt with any hard-core bully or prankster knows: showing that it's getting to you is just gasoline on the fire. But that's not the problem, is it? You know this is how it starts. Small. The darkness is getting restless, that hateful energy feeding off itself like a cracker mob revving itself up for a lynching, shadows ready to peel themselves off the floor and walk and talk and remind us all of what we try to forget every day: that at the foundation this world is still run by evil... I pushed aside that internal voice, which for some reason I hear as Marv Albert, and turned from the gutted clown logo. I stepped inside the restaurant and strode up to the counter, wanting a Quarter-Pounder but suddenly seeing an ad for Bratwursts (McDonald's restaurants here in the midwest offer Johnsonville Brats in the fall; it may not be the same where you live so that's your problem, not mine). I grinned to myself and ordered two of the inch-thick sausages, and promised myself I would eat them both. Fuck you, World of the Undead. Fuck. You. I had just sat down and started arranging my food when my cell phone rang. Shocked that I had actually left it on, I fished around inside my jacket for the chirping thing. I suddenly wondered if this was another ectoplasmic practical joke, me answering the phone only to hear the ghost of Kurt Cobain ask me if my refrigerator was running. The readout said it was John calling. I hunted for the button that would let me answer it and found it on the third try. "Hey. What's up, John?" "Is David there?" John knew damned well this was my cell phone and that I was the only person who would ever, ever answer it. He did this every time. "It's me, John." Long pause. "Dad?" I rolled my eyes. This was actually John, not some demonic imitation. Human annoying is different than ghost annoying. I relaxed, but then realized I was listening to a supernaturally-reworked version of an 80's song by some Duran Duran soundalike band over the restaurant's muzak. It was the one with the word "Africa" in the chorus, and this version had been twisted into some kind of a racist diatribe against blacks. I tried to block it out, turning my attention to the call. Toto. That was the band's name. "If you don't get to the point right now, I'm hanging up," I said. "I'm trying to eat here." "Just put David on the phone, please." "This is David, and you know it." "Oh, David. It's you. Man, that guy you got answering your phone for you is a dick. I just got a call from my Uncle. He's asked us to come in on a case. Like consultants." "Your Uncle? The exotic dancer? Exactly what kind of 'consulting' would we be doing?" "No, no, Uncle Drake. The cop. They got weirdness and they want us to come look at it. The crime scene is at 818 West 23rd Street. By the mall." This stopped me. There was a little circle of people who knew about the talent or curse or whatever you want to call it John and I had. It was a group that was widening far more quickly than I would have liked, rumors getting passed here and there during those drunken 3:00 am conversations around the campfire, on internet message boards about vampirism and UFO's, in stories told at parties on couches wreaking of pot smoke. But the idea of doing this in some kind of official capacity was freaky, like a guy with webbed toes being asked to work as a foot model for a catalog that marketed to the deformed. Is this what I wanted to be known for? And what cop would risk our names getting into the hands of the defense attorney or, even worse, the press? This smells of desperation, my friends... "John, this could turn into a freakin' circus. I dunno about this..." John raised his voice. "No, Dave. Your signal's breaking up. I didn't say circus. I said crime scene. Look, just come and I'll explain after you get here." "No, John, I heard you but I-" I was talking to a dead phone. I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead. The muzak sang it's bigotry in perfect 80's pop harmony. Let's send 'em aaallllllll ba-ack to Aaaaafrica... I gathered up my brats and headed for my car. ******* I picked up John at his building, since it turned out his supernatural powers couldn't stop the bank from repossessing his car six months ago. We rode into town in silence, passing the Mall of the Dead. That's what we called the half-finished and subsequently-abandoned Rockville Shopping Centre, now with weeds growing in the parking lot. The city sank $20 million worth of tax breaks and infrastructure into getting the thing built before three of the five investors disappeared with several million dollars (I've always imagined that all three simultaneously shot each other, Reservoir Dogs-style. But I digress). Now, three years and thirty lawsuits later, raccoons nest in the 120 empty store slots and rainwater puddles in the halls. One more eyesore, one more civic embarrassment for Rockville. Anyway. I turned into 23rd Street, a lineup of perfect new houses with trendy colored siding and a shiny SUV in every drive. I immediately could see the nest of swirling red and blue lights four blocks away, looking like the ship from Close Encounters had landed there. "Damn," John said, flicking his cigarette butt out the window. "I didn't know this town had that many cops." "Some of 'em are state cops, probably." The words came with great effort. The sausages had turned to ground-up bricks in my stomach. "Gettin' close to Halloween," John mumbled. "Yes. And it's night time. And we're in a car. Are we oriented now?" "I'm just sayin', that's the way it goes, this stuff, the weirdness, it ramps up around Halloween." "The undead know no holidays, John. Like my Grandpa always said, you're no more likely to be attacked by some kind of undead flesh-eating turkey on Thanksgiving than you would any other time of year." "So you haven't been seeing things? And hearing things? Because I just watched Friends and saw Joey suddenly grow a third and a fourth arm, grabbing his crotch and telling me that this was the day for soul eating. Do you suppose that really happened, Dave? Because I'm getting something like that every day now. Every single day. That means somethin's on the way, somethin' big. It's always like that, this stuff is like a precursor. It's like we got our backs to the door and we're hearing it creak open, we're feeling the puff of cold outside air on our backs but we still can't see the motherfucker that's walking in." I said nothing, and finally pulled off into a yard two blocks away from the commotion. I sure as hell wasn't gonna pull up there with the professionals, among the swirling lights and the real cops, pretending to be one of them. One guy tells us to turn back, and we go. No matter who it is. Anybody says "boo" and we turn around and never come back here. It was a very modern two-story house, attached garage. I followed John as he strode across the yard, lighting a new cigarette as he went. He timed that, I thought. Got rid of the old butt in the car so he could light up a new one as he strode onto the scene. He did it because he knew it would look cool. I got close enough to the open garage to see a cherry-red Jeep parked inside, license plate STRMQQ 1. John looked at it and frowned a little. Four cops stood out on the front lawn, looking uneasy, looking scared, looking like they all needed each other's armed company right now. Eight eyes landed on us. "Don't worry," John said to them. "We're here." Each cop was individually pissed off by that, I could see, and it was only the arrival of John's Uncle Drake that spared us the confrontation with these guys who clearly had no idea who we were. Drake, a heavy-set guy with an uneven mustache, stepped out of a nearby squad car to meet us. "Hey, Johnny. I really appreciate you comin' by like this." "So that's goin' on?" "Welllll... it started with a call from the neighbors about two hours ago, so we sent a car and... that's where the story gets long. Do you, uh, know whose house this is?" "Strom Cuzewon?" Offered John. We stood in silence for a moment. "Um, no. It's Ken Phillipe, the channel five weather guy." "Oh," said John, seeming unsatisfied. I glanced back at the plates, STRMQQ 1. "The Q's are supposed to look like a pair of eyes," I told him. "The license plate means 'Storm Watcher.'" John looked at the plates, then back at me, then at the plates again. I noticed for the first time that the big bay window into the living room of the house had been bashed in, the curtains behind it rustling in the breeze. Finally John said, "so somebody killed the weather guy?" Drake grunted. "Sorta. Damndest thing you ever saw." "I highly doubt that." "We ain't been inside the house yet. There's... this, dog." I walked up to the front door and peered into the decorative little window. I was looking into the living room. A girl sat on an overstuffed leather couch, maybe a few years younger than me, silken auburn hair pulled into a ponytail. Little whisps of bangs drifted down over her smooth forehead, just above her gorgeous almond eyes. She wore denim shorts and had the most perfect pair of tanned thighs I have ever seen. I felt my hand instinctively go up to straighten my hair, and I was suddenly horribly aware of every physical flaw on my body; every ounce of fat, every facial blemish. If I looked like that, I would wear shorts in October, too. I'd quit my job and spend all day at home, gently caressing myself. Did I shave today? On the floor next to the couch was a bloody dead person. "That's the weather guy?" I asked. "Yeah," confirmed Drake. "Do you see the girl sitting on the couch?" "Look, buddy, I told ya we've tried to get in there. But the dog-" "I wasn't being sarcastic. I just wanted to know if you could see her." "That's Krissy Lovelace, their neighbor. She's been sitting like that since we got here, frozen. We even tried to signal to her but she won't respond. Like she's just blanked out..." "So she killed him?" "No, his throat was torn out, by a dog. Her dog." He gestured toward Ms. Lovelace. "Her Golden Retriever. It's still in there. That's the problem. Every time we try to get in..." "Damn," I said. "It's too bad this city doesn't have a special department to, you know, control animals. Oh, wait. We do. It's called Animal control. Do you want their number?" "Wait a second," said John. "Did you say a Golden Retriever?" "Exactly," said Drake. John looked at me. "Come on, those things are walking pillows with tongues. You remember what Mollie was like. Friendliest dog in the world. Docile. You could sit there and poke at that thing with a stick for exactly twenty-three minutes before she would even growl. " "This dog ain't like that," Drake said. "This dog ain't like that at all. My guys won't even go in there, and I don't blame 'em." "Have you thought maybe it's rabies?" I asked. "Or do you always presume witchcraft first?" Drake leveled a very unfriendly, and very tired, gaze at me. "Mister, it ain't like that. It ain't like that at all." I peered in again. "Well, I don't see a dog. And I'm not seeing why we can't just..." Suddenly the dog came into view. Golden Retriever all right, beautiful shining coat, shampooed and combed to perfection. Girl and dog could make a good living as models in the dog supply industry. The only thing odd about the dog was the blood staining its muzzle, and the fact that it floated three feet off the floor. Its legs were stiff below it as it moved, buzzing slowly across the room as if on a track and hung by invisible threads. When it got near the door, it turned its head my way and in a clear but gutteral voice the dog said, "I serve none but Korrok." The dog continued to float around the room like a shaggy little blimp, and I turned from the door. John looked in after me. He thought for a moment, then nodded as if the pieces were falling into place. Finally he turned to me and said, "Strum Two-Cues. That's what it means. The guy was probably a pool player, and used two cues at once, played them like fine musical instruments to the point that he could be said to be 'strumming' them. 'I plays a mean game of pool,' they say down at the pool hall. 'But I knows better than to steps up to the table with old Strummy Two-Cues. Weather by day, Billiards by night." Drake had a good, long stare at John, and then said, "neighbor told us she was just walking the dog along the street out there, and all the sudden the thing takes off," Drake began. "The damned thing breaks its leash, and races across the lawn like it was fired from a cannon. It then jumps through the plate glass window. From the looks of it the thing found the victim, jumped into the air and tore out his throat before he had a chance to react. Neighbor said Ms. Lovelace ran inside after it. It was the neighbor that called us." "Okay," said John. "I have a plan."