Camp Puk….chapter 3

20 Jun

Who said writing on LSD was a bad thing?  But to keep up with the lackluster plot of said before draft, I arrived at utter demise.

“Hi”

“Hello.”

Hugs and hugs.  ‘Bring that braut sauce?’  ‘You’re an asshole.’

Point to the next buddy you haven’t seen since last week and yell, “Fuck you, too.” Repeat atleast 15 times.   As boners weaken, “How was last night?”

“Dude.  Dude.  Wait, DUDE.  Last night was crazy.  Some of the gents ate what we thought was Molly and nearly died.”

What?  “Oh yeah it was bad.  People started puking, and once one person pukes its like puke dominoes you know? Then the bad started happening.”

What bad?  What the fuck is happening already?  We just got here and people have done got themselves in some rubble?

Come to find out some of the new found “friends” had given the people dxm instead of molly.  I called it, and people grunted in return.  After a few more small camps met with the same whoopsie-doo story, it was back to business.

Edit:  Come to find out after recent use, I can surely say the “Molly” was in fact 2C-B. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2C-B

Smash tomatoes on A’s head.  Run.  Smoke cigarette.  Run back with tomatoes charged.  Smash tomatoes on A’s head again.  Loser.  Haha.  Run away.

Camp has a sort of barter system unlike any third world country or festival I’ve encountered.  It basically runs on cash, but if you lack cash, hot dogs become a measuring tool for the inflation or deflation in value of commodities.  If an economist came to camp, he would not only have his mind blown by currency theory but by the way in which somethings become sentimental.

“I bought this fucking steak for me and only me.”

Some of these particular steaks are greazy and marbled.  Worth 3 hot dogs.  Nope, he/she bought it at the store, JUST FOR ME.  Thus, the value of all commodities fluxuates with the logic of drunken and drugged campers of all sorts.

Now, we’ll come back to this part later, but in the final day of camp, you would think the NASDAQ was bought by the Chinese.  Nothing makes sense, no order.  Thieving a string cheese stick from a cooler in front of the cooler owner, yelling ‘Thanks’, and running became a viable yet shitty way of staying hydrated.

Smash a tomato on A’s head.  This will continue throughout this story, just as it did throughout camp.

Reason to bring up the barter system is that I must check my inventory.  Never to mimic a great like Hunter S. Thompson, but I come prepared.

First lets check ammo.  Ohh wait, didn’t bring my gun this year.  Shit.  Well, the dudes will let me shoot some of theirs.   Ok, shaving kit.  Open side pocket.  That’s where the cocaine resides.  Good packing job (as I pat myself on the back.)  Other pocket, reefer.  Not enough.  Shit.  Just have to trade some shit.  Middle pocket.  Fuck, I forgot I put airline bottles of rum in here.  Giggle.  Dig, dig.  Ohh yeah, the sid.  Ohh yeah, mushrooms.  Oh yeah, deordorant?  Fuck, good enough.  Twenty four beers.  Half gallon of rot-gut rum.  Gang of cream soda.  I can make John Minks.  Fuck yes.  Need ice.  Oh yeah, ice outside tent.

Step out of tent.  Zip up tent.  Drugs in pocket.  Drink in hand.

“Let’s mingle.”

 

 

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