Furyo thinks back to the spring before he got sent to prison. At the end of the school year he cut class with all of his friends and decided to do acid. There was big party in San Francisco based around the scientist Albert Hoffman who discovered LSD. The day it all happened he had accidentally spilled a couple drops from a vial in his pocket that leeched though his pocket onto his skin. He had set out to run some errands on his bicycle when the LSD cocktail kicked in. Sending him on a bizarre odyssey of hallucinations in the visual spectrum. Young Furyo had no interest in strange and esoteric mysteries of the universe or scientific breakthroughs used by the CIA to break the minds of convicts and suspected spies. He just wanted to trip out and wander around.
Furyo met a strange man in a Kikaida red and blue mask with luminous orange eyes that looked like turn signals on a motorcycle. The man had insane blonde hair styled like wolverine from marvel comics and a large stuffed hawk looming over him attached to his back like a roman standard. Furyo and his fiends almost went back to kick the guys ass when every thing got weird. All the sudden music came from nowhere and filled his head with new and tripped out ideas. His friends were all taggers too, they had spent the earlier part of the day painting a mural at “psycho city” and hitting up some roof tops with quick bubble letters that could be seen from the freeway.
Now as they walked through the city the cars all seemed far faster that what was safe. Every cross walk held the life or death reality of a ferocious city of speeding maniacs. Looking around the faces of drivers snarled with fangs and glowing eyes like the cantina in Star Wars. Every glass window and billboard held some cosmic joke that had them all crawling out of their skin with laughter. Trying to do tags with markers and putting up stickers just looked goofy. Primitive scribbles that were far bellow their stylistic norms. Pretty soon every body was getting bad vibes from on lookers on the streets. Convinced they were now in a spy movie staring neighborhood watch and federal old ladies, pretty soon they were running full speed towards golden gate park.
Unlike most American cities, this park was almost totally filled with schitzophrenic hobos, singing Hare Krishna’s and dancing David Koresh type priests and every other buzzing freak and fairy SF had to offer. All around crazy eyed hippies strummed guitars and sang intentionally bad songs for the tourists, break dancers made circles to spin on their heads to boomboxes and pimps lurking around trying to get runaways interested in heroin. The beginning of the park wasn’t the trip they were looking for. Deeper into the park were roman ruins, statues and insane art installations where they would splash around fountains and not be harassed by the cops or gentrifiers.
As the shadows grow in late afternoon the vibrant light and mellow vibes of the park changes into cunning junkies, rowdy cholos and plain clothes narcotics agents skulking around like the devil, seeking whom they may devour. Furyo’s crew of taggers, renegade artists and schizophrenic bent minds on Lysergic Acid Diethylamide are like lambs to the slaughter when the ghosts and evil spirits come out to stalk the living. Laying on his back in a green fountain rich with duck shit nutrients, he muses on the post apocalyptic prospects for love when the world burns in nuclear fire, hordes of freaked out zombie hipsters run the streets like the Omega Man and all you have to trade with the bandit queens and cannibal warlords is heads of your enemies.
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The thoughts he has of missiles streaking down from the sky, colors flashing like police lights coming from the sun and stories his father told him about war made the world seem like a crazy place. Every crack in the sidewalk and storm drain held some craven hunger, unnatural cravings for missing children and stolen organs. Now he was almost full grown, he was the hoodlum all must fear. His friends recreational beer looting, spray paint theft and walking out of stores with 6 layers of designer clothes they didn’t pay for makes him unwelcome in all the stores with in an hour bus ride. Cops kick his ass just to make sure and most of his real friends have been set up for long bids in California Youth Authority or Mental Hospitals like Napa, Agnews and Atrascadro.
The sounds of a fight breaking out wake him from a pleasant dream of sex with a gang of satanic nuns, no doubt inspired by School of the Holy Beast or some similar filth from Jess Franco or Jean Rollin. Opening his eyes and realizing he is starting to get an ear infection. He peaks over the fountain’s lip to see a group of subhuman morlocks and vampires attacking his friends. Furyo feels like reality is pushing in on him, somehow the influence of Outer Limits, Dr Who and Twilight Zone have so corrupted his mind all his friends look like Henshin Cyborgs. He rushes into the violence and realizes his acid connect in the Kikaida mask with hawk wings is ripping one of his friends throat out with tusk like teeth straight out of a Tibetan tantric temple. Hungry ghosts overwhelm them and as gurgling death rattles fill the air, there is nothing to do but break and run.
Deeper into the park past the Japanese garden and winding avenues, they are being herded into the trees. Inhuman shrieks and surrounding wings of unseen beings fill him with abject terror. Every thing he loves and cleaves to in this life is under attack. Glowing eyes, putrid breath of the grave and glimpses behind of gaining feral beats make his skin crawl. Monstrosities like something from Hindu mythology, ghoulishly stalk him as he seems like the last living creature on earth. The darkening sky and gnarled dead trees have no sympathy, only the blazing glory of the scarlet sun over ocean beach keep the creatures at bay. Dashing into traffic to make it out of the edge of the park make his lungs wheeze with smokers decay. Marijuana and cigarettes laced with PCP make him feel like a white hot hole is burning into his lung, a heart murmur and the absence of an uncaring god give him no rest.
Making it to the sand he is alone, blood covering his clothes, cuts and splinters maul his hands, fingernails bent backwards and throbbing pain from a twisted ankle leave him ready to scream a last pleading prayer to the dying as his eyes scan the half-light for some friendly face. Faltering bonfires abandoned give him some hope to fight off phantoms seeking his blood with a half a burning stick or crucifix made from garbage strewn across the beach. Police sirens fill the park and a helicopter has begun sweeping the tree-line with it’s spotlight. Furyo feels bitter about this life lesson as he wakes up in a mental ward strapped to a gurney in a pool of his own ice cold vomit, laying on a plastic mattress groggy from a cocktail of Thorazine, Ativan and Haloperidol in what they call a chemical lobotomy. His hands strapped at 12 and 3 o’clock allow him to see a number of teeth marks and punctures on his arms. He feels like a gang of homeless vampires had sunken their black rotten teeth into his soul, yet beyond the racing thoughts and panic… his immune system purges vile snot and blood from his lungs while the room spins.