After a hefty hike that rendered Maverick and I bordering on hypothermia; we reached a field clearing, its terrain cloaked in bright white snow.
Amongst the snow were fadings and disturbances in its cloak. Like a treasure leading to the spot marked X; there was an apparent hatch at the path's conclusion. A hatch, from where I saw it.
We three made our way towards the hatch, Marshall forced it open with great struggle and began to descend into the darkness. Followed by Maverick, and then myself; hesitantly.
As we reached the bottom, it became apparent that this was not just any old cave, but an entire concreted underground bunker, perhaps an old remnant from World War 2.
The rust from the ladder stained my blue fingertips, so I cleaned them off on a nearby concrete wall, its face masked in Signatures and messages from multiple visitors.
“Come through lads, come say hi to the owners,” stated Marshall, as he made his way along a large concrete corridor, lit by LED lanterns. As always Maverick followed first and then I.
I was divided within myself as to my initial impression of this dwelling; between Fascination, and distress. I hadn’t quite made up my mind yet, but I was sure that one would win me over in due time.
As we walked down the corridors I saw the scribbles of psychedelic demons, mushrooms, flowers, and Egyptian gods, among cryptic messages that didn’t make much sense to me at that moment.
As we walked the corridor I saw glimpses of rooms that were all but empty, less a few depraved blue blow-up mattresses, a large chilly bin, and a single gas cooker and pot. Room after room, we found the exact same setup. My impression of this place was beginning to lean on the distressing side.
This was not just any cave shindig near the mountains, this looked like a prisoner-of-war camp for which junkies would be sent to die.
We rounded a concrete Bend and entered a square room that had been painted a light sky blue, a small yellow plaid-designed table with rusty legs in the centre, a red stovetop kettle placed on an old newspaper steaming of heat, two cups of hot black coffee and two men seated at the table.
They looked at Maverick and I as unwanted guests, arms crossed and leant back as if dismissing any door knocker negotiation we had to sell them.
“What’s the deal?” asked the short one with a braided orange beard, his eyes cloaked behind thick black flaring sunglasses.
“The bro said you were throwing a bit of a gathering, figured we’d come to see what it’s all about,” replied Maverick.
“We have every bed in this place accommodated for. So unless you wanna be sleeping on the cold hard concrete, I’d suggest you hike back to wherever you came from.” replied the other man, his teeth eaten back to yellow nubs with a large scar along his cheek that ran to an area where an ear would usually be. But it appeared there was none.
“This is a hippie festival right?” Maverick prodded, his hand feeling for the tabs in the back of his pants.
“Keep your hands where they are.” replied the first guy taking a magazine off of a presumably loaded handgun.
Maverick slowly placed his hands back at his sides. And waited for their next move.
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Blood began to rush to my head, I felt as though I was fit to faint, but somehow I managed to keep my composure.
“Turn around. Show us what you’ve got.” the yellow nubbed gremlin ordered, taking a shallow sip from his black coffee.
Suddenly I heard footsteps making their way towards us and I shuddered and turned to see the owner. I was met by Marshall bringing forth a wind-up radio into the mix, “Don’t worry boys these two lads are alright.” he stated.
I wasn’t sure which pair of us he was talking to, but either way, Maverick continued and brought the 4 sheets of acid out of his pants, held them high like a report card, turned around and tossed them towards the two seated men.
“Is this your new bush pig?” The orange-bearded man asked Marshall, his eyes swatting us down like some flies, as he grabbed the sealed bag.
“Yep. He’s gonna flip those four sheets, Trench,” replied Marshall, leaning an arm on the concrete wall.
“What’s the dose?” Trench asked, examining the design.
“500ug,” replied Marshall.
Trench tossed the package down like a useless magazine.
“Why’d you make 'em so weak?” asked Mr. Yellow Nubs.
Marshall began making himself a coffee, “Good question Marko. The thing is, when I made that 1000ug acid last year most people ended up only doing one tab over the three days. I was hoping if I could tinker that down a bit this year, people would buy more than one hit and double tab trip. Make ‘em work for it, and cream the profit.”
“You always were a cheap bastard.” laughed Marko, sipping away at his coffee. “So when did these two fellahs come into the equation?” he asked further.
“I met them while I was crossing the channel. Pretty straight up sorta boys. Besides, the one on the left; Maverick, is pretty fresh. We can trust him.” Marshall shared, looking around for some milk.
“Trust him tuh what? Steal our wallets?” Trench mocked.
“Nah, and even if they do. I dropped their car off at old mates up the road. If they try to do a runner with anything we’ll be able to divide the car for parts pretty quickly. But it’s not like they’ll get pretty far in this climate, look how they’re dressed, it’s snowing, nearest towns a 10km drive; they’ll freeze to death.” finished Marshall as he opened up a fresh container of long-life milk.
“Oi cunt! I was saving that!” hissed Marko.
“When for? Not like we’ll be here for another year anyway. This is the time.” Marshall argued, pouring a hefty helping into his mug.
Marko shook his head and took another sip of his coffee, meanwhile, Trench gazed towards us, his left hand trembling, “These boys are sketching me out, grab a seat ya weirdo’s.”
Maverick and I shuffled towards the table and grabbed an old steel chair each.
“I was just saying to these boys that we have every room accounted for. I told him unless they plan on sleeping on the hard concrete they’ve gotta leave.” Marko stated, glancing over to Marshall.
“They’re staying in the van with me,” replied Marshall taking his first sip of coffee.
“That solves that problem then…” Marko started as he turned his face towards Maverick and I, “So you boys are alright to mingle about with this year's visitors and sell your little supply of Acid. But come nightfall, you’ve gotta bounce over to Marshall’s van.”
All that would replay over and over in my mind was that dreadful Doll that was tied to the wall. No way in hell would I ever sleep in that place by choice, but unfortunately I had no choice. “Yeah, that’s all good,” I replied.
“One more thing, We need a turf payment of 500 dollars for the three days of sales,” Trench stated, scratching the side of his beard.
I could feel a shift in Maverick, “Yep, no worries.” he replied, picking up his tabs.
“I’d advise you not to shove them inside your pants, no man is gonna wanna buy those things once they see that, hell, Marko and I woulda have probably dropped the turf cost a bit if you’d given us a couple.” Trench went on.
Maverick paused, “Do you want one?” he asked Trench.
“Well, no. That’s what I’m saying if you hadn’t done that I probably would’ve been keen,” replied Trench.
“The acid’s still all good man, it’s been in a bag.” Maverick insisted.
“I don’t give a fuck man, that’s straight nasty. I’m not goin’ near those. Do you want to, Marko?”
“Nope.” laughed Marko,
“Marshall?” Trench asked,
“I’m the one that gave them to him,” replied Marshall.
“Oh, that's right.” agreed Trench, checking his watch, “It’s just about that time anyway, visitors should be arriving soon.”
“How many?” asked Marshall.
“125.” replied Marko, “It’s all this place can handle.” he went on.
“Should be an easy couple grand for you two then aye?” grinned Marshall like a twisted father figure.
“yeah sure,” replied Maverick, about to spark a dart.
“We haven’t got good ventilation down here, smoking has to be in the field,” Trench noted.
“Yeah, alright,” Maverick affirmed, leading us off back around the corner to the bunker dormitory hall leaving the three older men to sit and yarn about the years gone.