I said I wouldn’t do it. I promised myself I wouldn’t. But you know how it goes. One thing leads to another, a friend offers a mere six shots (light work), and suddenly I wake up in some old man’s basement left to pick up the pieces of my fragmented memory. The old man, adorned in an unusually tall wizard hat, is rambling about some sort of prophecy, saying I fulfilled some ancient rite last night. I would like him to ramble about handing me a glass of water instead.
As I begin to piece together the night before, I realize that the old man is none other than Merrill (he goes by “Big Stash” in the streets), my drug dealer. But why? Why would I be hanging out with this 70-year-old man? Snippets of red and blue lights flash through my mind, sweat dripping down my forehead. The word “oracle” keeps coming back to me. What does it all mean? Suddenly, my drug dealer speaks. “Oi lad, are you gonna leave or not?” His weird, gravelly (Scottish? When did he become Scottish?) voice shakes me out of my thoughts, and without thinking, I decide to ask him what the hell happened last night.
A large grin spreads across his face,“’Twas a momentous night. We fought the forces of evil and protected me sacred treasure.”
Sacred treasure? I think about what that could be for a second, but then I recall that he referred to his drug stash as his prized possession. The flashing lights, forehead sweat, and sense of doom and despair make just a bit more sense now, but why was I there? Why was I my drug dealer’s getaway driver? And just what was this prophecy?
Just as I’m starting to piece together what could’ve happened, Merrill begins hysterically screaming that “the forces of evil doth return to the kingdom! They be here for me fortune!” He follows this with a chant in a language I can’t quite understand: “تو مرا به مواد مخدرم خواهی رساند، مواد مخدرم را به من بده” (“You will deliver me to my drugs, give me my drugs”). The “forces of evil,” otherwise known as the Department of Homeland Security and a bomb squad, begin banging on the door.
“Open up, Merrill! We know you’re in there! If you cooperate, this will be a whole lot smoother for the both of us!” an officer shouts.
“ARRGHHHHHHH, lad, I can’t go back. Take me treasure, lad. Remember me tale of heroism!” He brings me to the garage and begins hotwiring a Peel P50 (really?). “Get in, lad. ’Tis me noblest of steeds.” He then shoves me into the driver’s seat and I’m off — at a whopping five miles per hour — wait, does that say five kilometers per hour? I have no time to ponder on what the hell a kilometer is, as I am being chased down the street by approximately 50 dudes in strikingly good-looking uniforms. They ditch the cars and just start chasing me on foot (how slow is this thing?) before finally catching up to me. Long story short, I got charged with aiding and abetting a criminal, speeding (how?), domestic terrorism (what the hell happened last night???), and to top it all off, a DUI (does this even count as driving under the influence? It was five kilometers an hour. I still don’t know what that means). I’m serving 173 life sentences, while Merrill got therapy for being a victim of kidnapping and a popsicle during the trial (WHAT!?).
I still don’t know what the prophecy is.
I will never drink again.
