“Last Christmas somebody gave me a whole Jimson weed – the root must have wqighed two pound; enough for a year – but I ate the whole goddamn thiung in about twenty minutes.”
The slightest hesitation made me want to grab him by the throat and force him to talk faster. “Right!” I said eagerly. “Jimson weed! What happened?”
“Luckily, I vomited most of it right back up,” he said. “But even so, I went blind for three days. Christ I couldn’t even walk! My whole body turned to wax. I was such a mess that they had to haul me back to the ranch house in a wheelbarrow . . . they said I was trying to talk, but I sounded like a raccoon.”
“Fantastic,” I said. But I could barely hear him. I was so wired that my hands were clawing uncontrollably at the bed spread, jerking it right out from under me while he talked. My heels were dug into the mattress, with both knees locked . . . I could feel my eyeballs swelling, about to pop out of the sockets.
“Finish the fucking story!” I snarled. “What happened? What about the glands?”
He backed away, keeping an eye on me as he edged across the room. “Maybe you need another drink,” he said nervously. “Jesus, that stuff got right on top of you, didn’t it?”
I tried to smile. “Well . . . nothing worse .. . no, this is worse .. .” It was hard to move my jaws; my tongue felt like burning magnesium. “No . . . nothing to worry about,” I hissed. “Maybe if you could just . . . shove me into the pool, or something..
“Goddamnit,” he said. “You took too much. You’re about to ~plode. Jesus, look at your face!’
I couldn’t move. Total paralysis now. Every muscle in my was contracted. I couldn’t even move my eyeballs, much turn my head or talk.
“It won’t last long,” he said. “The first rush is the worst. ride the bastard out. If I put you in the pool right now, sink like a goddamn stone.”
I was sure of it. Not even my lungs seemed to be functioning. I needed artificial respiration, but I couldn’t open my mouth to say so. I was going to die. Just sitting there on the bed, unable to move . . . well at least there’s no pain.
Probably, I’ll black out in a few seconds, and after that it won’t matter.
My attorney had gone back to watching television. The news was on again. Nixon’s face filled the screen, but his speech was hopelessly garbled. The only word I could make out was “sacrifice.” Over and over again: “Sacrifice . . . sacrifice . . . sacrificeI could hear myself breathing heavily. My attorney seemed to notice. “Just stay relaxed,” he said over his shoulder, with out looking at me. “Don’t try to fight it, or you’ll start getting brain bubbles . . . strokes, aneurisms . . . you’ll just wither up and die.” His hand snaked out to change channels.
It was after midnight when I finally was able to talk and move around . . . but I was still not free of the drug; the voltage had merely been cranked down from 220 to 110. I was a babbling nervous wreck, flapping around the room like a wild animal, pouring sweat and unable to concentrate on any one thought for more than two or three seconds at a time.
My attorney put down the phone after making several calls. “There’s only one place where we can get fresh salmon,” he said, “and it’s closed on Sunday.”
“Of course,” I snapped. “These goddamn Jesus freaks! They’re multiplying like rats!”
He eyed me curiously.
“What about the Process?” I said. “Don’t they have a place here? Maybe a delicatessen or something? With a few tables in back? They have a fantastic menu in London. I ate there once; incredible food ”
“Get a grip on yourself,” he said. “You don’t want to even mention the Process in this town.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Call Inspector Bloor. He knows about food. I think he has a list.”