Days passed as days sometimes do. Victor kept to his daily routine of smoking pot, writing, and scouring random philosophy texts to find any potentially useful theories for his book.

He sometimes felt he was simultaneously getting so smart and so stupid that his mind would be forced to split apart and he would go completely ape-shit schizo, like the psychiatrists in horror movies.

Some of the stuff Victor read made him so angry. He couldn't deal with philosophy sometimes. These people have wreaked havoc upon the psyches of entire civilizations. How much better would Western Civilization be right now if we didn't have Saint Augustine or Thomas Aquinas in our psychic history?

Schopenhauer was the intellectual father to Nietzsche, who detailed with pen and paper the horrors of the world and society. He put it in such bleak terms you were sure he was gonna drink some hemlock and say something brilliant about life being "a long sickness" before passing on.

Yet Kant, with his learned rambling has ruined more souls than Schopenhauer could have dreamed. Kant makes crunchy noodle cakes of life. He is rational to a fault. He is topsy-turvy and self-negating. You can't understand him without becoming him, walking around with your head pointed at the ground and thinking like a tweek-head. It's almost as unhealthy as tweek, Kant. Keeps you up for days in a panic. Makes you paranoid and see and feel things that aren’t there.

On the other hand, Nietzsche makes you laugh and want to frolic naked in the woods with adolescents. Nietzsche may have only shagged his sister, but at least he knew how important ecstasy and genius were. Craziness. Nietzsche was hip to craziness. Nietzsche had a sense of humor, an attitude for partying, and a healthy disdain for authority. His Overman was nothing if not passionate, sexy, and daring.

Every hour or so Victor paused from his work to think about Shanta's  wonderful pierced belly button and juicy pussy, or Gert-Jan's adventures in Amsterdam and what a wonderful time he must be having.

After 5 minutes he tried a booty to call Shanta, but her father answered the phone and he hung up. The last thing he wanted was to get the cute little cunt in trouble.

He decided to relieve his boredom by wanking off to a particularly inspiring passage of Foucault's History of Sexuality. Then with no jism left in his balls, no drugs except bad acid, no friends around, and no ego to massage, he had to spin some old Orb CDs to forestall thoughts of throwing himself the nearest tower in existential horror.

He hadn't seen Shanta at all since they went crazy on each other with mad passionate and wild sex on Ecstasy. Apparently she was trying to keep him a secret. He had initially hoped she would spread the word and he would get more surprise visits from teenage cuties. But some teenage girls are reluctant to share their finds.

It had only been three days.

Victor couldn't understand why he was so bummed out. He thought about dropping a few tabs anyway, bad or no, but his rational brain wouldn't allow it. It had flat out refused to let him drop. Victor hated hearing no from anyone, even his rational half. But he overcame his rebellion. It just hadn't cheered him up at all the last time. It was quite evil, in fact, like Satan's used car dealer had prayed over it. It made him trip balls and revel in hateful visions.

Needing Valiums like a hyena needs a holler, Victor scrambled to the bathroom, grabbed the Ny-Quil and took a big swig.

Blegh!

Fearing the icy grip of deathly boredom upon him, he cut half a row off the sheet of bad blotter acid and ate it.

"COME GET ME YOU FUCKERS!", he yelled to the Universe around him.

Maybe his visions would help him write another chapter of his book.

When life is bad it is totally unbearable. Dr. Alex Patterson (of the Orb) seemed to know that as well as anyone. Sometimes only ambient opium beats can kill the pain.

If opium were legal Victor might have lived happily as a high school Political Science teacher or something silly like that. Without opium he was forced to think about reality because opium is so hard to score in Indiana. Reality can be so unkind.

techno dub, dub, dubness is blissful outside as a mountain river at dawn, but even more chillin' with a gram or two of opium hash coming down from an E-bomb. The pretty colors swirl then melt and disappear, and the angels of darkness cowers in fear. I first took a puff with a Parisian raver squatter, and now I love it more than food, air, or water.

Boredom is only slightly less painful than torture. And what is the fun of taking a pill if you have no one to suck and fuck or even talk with when you come down and feel miserable again? As Victor came up he got immediately scared for his life. He sensed an evil presence in the vicinity that wanted to kill him. It was that fear of imminent death that makes you sweat.

But there was no one around he could call and confide in or even relate to. Then he started bugging out hard. Victor was normally fine by himself for long periods of time but now insane and downright lewd thoughts were penetrating his mind- things like bestiality, living dead, crack whores, sewer hyenas, men that looked like big hairy tits, and Christian soldiers marching onward. He had no control over his thoughts and shadow creatures began to prance menacingly around him.

His rational mind assumed this undesired effect had stemmed directly from the combination of "the spins" from his alcohol poisoning coinciding with the LSD trip wreaking terror on his philosophically weakened mind. He attempted to get up and pour himself some water. But he knew it was too late and stumbled for the bathroom to let his stomach empty it's contents into the toilet bowl.

But as he was puking he noticed he was standing on a balcony looking out the window of his Marais apartment and gazing into the Seine. From the bubbling waters something large and red was emerging. It was fiery and smelled of barbecue sauce.

Just as Victor began to put together what had just happened to him into some rational and/or logical construction, he noticed he was still in fact sitting on his sofa in Evansville. Had he breathed the future? Who or What was calling out to him?

The vision made him high and he felt good. He knew he would survive to live in Paris again. Everything would be good again. He would get up at noon, read and bathe, and then walk down to the caf and have a coffee and flirt with the demoiselles. He would buy cool British magazines and read about new techno releases and emerging styles. He had no idea why a large red thing smelling of barbeque would be coming out of the Seine, but he didn't care. Fuck the large red cunt, he thought, and stood up to pour himself another drink.

Victor stood up, and as he started walking towards the kitchen he noticed an assortment of strange creatures wandering through his living room with him: some alive, some dead, some human, and some not unlike large mutant grasshoppers. He froze mid-stride, paralyzed by an electric current of sorts as he walked into the kitchen.

He felt something snag his foot and wrench it skyward as he fell face forward and banged his chin on the metal strip that divided the abrasive living room carpet from the cold hard linoleum flooring of the kitchen.

As his chin collided with the floor, his left canine tooth bit deeply into his tongue and blood squirted and then seeped from his mouth.  The intense burst of pain made him go momentarily to a new degree of insane anger and self-loathing.

He cursed his parents for birthing him and his grandparents for birthing his parents.

"GODDAM YOU ALL TO HELL FOR BRINGING ME INTO THIS WORLD YOU FUCKING PARASITES!!!", he shrieked in a shrill high pitch that carried blocks.

The scream of anger caught Victor off guard and he thought for a second the noise hadn't come from him but from one of the creatures in his living room.

He looked ahead of him and noticed he had been transported to an endless white plain that stretched out in front of him in every conceivable direction. He felt small, very small, and bodiless, like a poorly rendered pixel head floating in an old Atari video game.

Then he caught another glimpse of the eternal...

When I jump, it will be great. I will gain true knowledge of gravity. I will cum my pants. I will have an orgasm of terror. I've never had one of those except on mass 2CB derivatives. The most intense experience I will ever have is when I jump off the I-5 bridge over Lake Washington. Or should I go whole hog and drive to SF and toss myself of the Golden Gate? I will be falling and not knowing if I will live or die... sweet bliss.

Suddenly Victor began to laugh at candy necklaces and LSD and how nice a mouth feels when encircling his aroused member. He thought of Plastikman in '95 and Dr. Alex Patterson and chocolate milk and brandy.

Fuck the Richard Nixons of the world and their bad vibes. Fuck 'em, cause deep down inside they wanna be fucked, pray to be fucked everyday. They like it anyway, fucking. It gives them something to talk about, getting fucked.

Don't ever pity the losers unless you have no choice, dammit !

His trip was turning better. Acid will turn people on forever. LSD will outlive the United States "government",  and will probably outlive humanity as well. Fuck them when they say acid kills. Everyone smart knows that good drugs save more lives than they take.

Victor was glad to be out of his deep and dark mental woods and into a clearing. But then...

A strange voice played inside his head. Victor didn't recognize it from any memories. It was speaking mockingly and derivatively which made Victor distrust it immediately. It said, mockingly:

"It doesn't really matter Victor, because the new humans will be able to manufacture their own drugs internally. They will evolve right around evil plots like the DEA that only serve to stagnate evolution. Evil does exist and it is well established. Love is much more tenuous. Hate seems to be a certainty like the rain in Seattle. Love seems to disappear and reappear at random, twinkling on and off like stars in the sky. But when you most need it, it is rarely there..."

The voice stopped and Victor's mind went blank.

"Who the fuck was that?", thought Victor.

Hours later, Victor picked himself up off the floor and noticed a small pool of blood spilling from his mouth. His tongue throbbed like a stabbing victim. He had tripped on some shredded shag carpet and landed on and smashed the 40 oz bottle of Jim Beam.

"Fucking 70’s shag carpet is only good for shagging," thought Victor.

He was bleeding from the forehead and mouth and had no more of the Jim Beam poison left to dull his throbbing body. He had no recollection of what had happened to him or how he ended up on the floor bleeding.

He did notice that he was only semi-conscious so he returned quickly to the couch and noticed that the Teletubbies were on TV. Just as he was about to fall blissfully asleep he remembered the creatures who were previously prancing around his living room were still there and encircling him with ropes, handcuffs, and jars of Vaseline. He screamed and they were gone, disappearing quickly into the wallpaper.

Victor was worried, because he was still tripping, so they might come back. He pulled his under the covers and attempted to sleep it all off.

In his dreams he was coherent and sober, almost analytical. He was in a white room replaying his freak-outs on a movie screen. He could see the creatures who attacked him in slow motion. He hoped they were aliens and not demons.

His rational brain could deal with aliens existing but not demons. Aliens were much more likely...

But they could not be aliens! Aliens would understand him and would probably  be cool to him and might take even take him with them back to Arkturis or wherever they came from.

Maybe they had read his book on the Internet and were coming to party with him but he was too trippin' and scared them away.

DAMN!!!

As he fell back onto the sofa and pulled a blanket over his head the darkness abated and another film began to play in his mind.

Due to his overwhelming inability to adapt to adverse situations, Victor had the power to resurrect dead memories and play them back to help him cope with any moments of impending weirdness or sadness that his mind was unable to process. Sometimes he would make up new scenes and play them out exactly as reality would happen. Once or twice a dream even came true, like fucking a boy and loving it in Amsterdam.

He loved his mind for this ability to create beauty out of ugliness and used it to escape from anything, even studying for exams or conversing with squares. He could leave his reptilian mind alive to communicate on their level while his higher mind was enjoying a scene from his past.

Example: (breathe, fart, wink, make a joke about Democrats, etc, meanwhile daydream swimming naked in the Amazon with Bo-tee, a cute native girl he knew when he was ten).

Worked like a charm and it gave the illusion that he was both paying attention and enjoying himself.

If he was talking to a really slimy person, like an actuary or a insurance lawyer, he would just imagine himself himself giving the bloke's daughter a large dose of psilocybin mushrooms and then playing hardcore techno while exploring her body with his tongue until she screamed for his cock to penetrate her and take her virginity.

This activity would continue in dream time for many hours even if the conversation lasted mere minutes in real time. Then slowly, as the banker / lawyer's anger at being humiliated subsided and his true personality revealed itself, he would get aroused by watching Victor fucking his daughter and plead to be allowed to snort a big line and join in himself.

Victor would grudgingly relent, letting him have a nice healthy nose-full, and then bludgeon him to death with a large baseball bat and leave his bloody body to rot and be eaten by mutant squirrels and rats. He would next send the girl home to her mother and fuck both of them passionately for months while living off the insurance money. Everything would go according to the merry ways of Nature. Victor really hated bankers and lawyers, but thinking about fucking their female kin made it all good again. Otherwise it would be too painful to listen or talk to them.

Victor couldn't quite figure out what actuaries or lawyers were for anyway. They seemed like mysteries without any clues or suspects. All just whodunnits personified, them.

Victor's mind-film began. He could smell the scents and feel the textures of Paris alleys and the cold stare of the young demoiselles that dutifully ignored him. He talked casually to a young Parisian with no body, just legs and a head, but she walked away when he mentioned Ecstasy and raves and how much he loved to eat out Sarah. It was all too weird and his mind spun in circles.

The scene changed. He was now in Amsterdam.

He once met this really hot Swiss German art student, Gretchen, from Zurich in the Amsterdam Virgin Megastore who sold good pills. He used to go scam with her on the weekends with Gert-Jan when Sarah and Donna would go visit their junkie / painter friends in Boulogne. Ingrid knew how to fuck and loved the way Victor would finger her clitoris as he slid his tongue in her rectum. But most people like that.

Victor just couldn't get enough of Ingrid, the coffee shops, or Gert-Jan's retinue of little followers whom he dubbed "The Cute Brigade". The Cute Brigade were teenage Dutch ravers who were into Gert-Jan's happy hardcore sets that he spun for fun on Sundays at The Fanky, a local rave club.

These kids did not seem to do anything but revel and holler and laugh and poke fun at authority and be cute. Dutch kids are all mad for happy hardcore and pogo and vibrate around the dance floor like tweeked out kangaroos.

If you were down and needed cheering up, The Cute Brigade were never far away. But the drawback was never, ever, being able to shake them once they spotted you. They would tag along gleefully for days. They followed Gert-Jan around like ducklings and sometimes even into the bathrooms.

"Let me shit in peace", he would have to yell at them.

"But we like to watch you poop", they would reply in unison.

Since Victor liked all the attention he could get from sexy teenage heathens, he decided to move to Amsterdam for a few months and soak up the good vibes. He had always thought that it would be a good idea to work in a coffee shop in Amsterdam and smoke joints all day, serve people coffee, sell bags of weed, and generally loaf about and be positive. The idea began to obsess him and he talked of nothing else for months.

Gert-Jan got him a job through a friend at a coffee shop called Seventh Heaven, a local raver coven in the old city tourist area. Aside from being visited by famous DJ's around the world, it was the main hangout of the Cute Brigade who would sell pills to the rich tourist kids from around the world at way-inflated prices.

The Cute Brigade loved Victor and his stories of Brazil and touring with Gert-Jan across Europe and Asia. He eventually worked out an agreement with them and would score them fresh pills for cheap if they worked the cafe for him and kept things in order.

Victor had exceptionally good hook-ups because he met a Scottish chemist / philosopher who taught at the University in Rotterdam named Dr. Michael Scollen. Michael was into psychedelic research and was always mixing up new concoctions from Alexander Shulgin's fine work, Pihkal. They tripped balls together on several occasions and harbored a mutual love for Nietzsche and experimentation with mass phenylamines.

Life was not too difficult for Victor at Seventh Heaven because the owner was literally never around so he could basically get away with reading and writing poetry and chatting about new techno records with visiting DJ's or tourists- if he wasn't too fucked up on the new 2CB derivatives, that is.

Still, Amsterdam is not Paris and it's a place that can make you go mental after a few months if you have no self-control. There is only so much sex and drugs and techno that the human mind can stand before it reaches meltdown.

Unfortunately, when you crash on phenylamines you can crash right through the floor. Victor started to see visions and hear strange voices in his head. He would chat people up in the street and reveal dark secrets, only to later realize that he was talking to a trash can or a bicycle. Then he would wander around confused and get lost and eventually pass out on a bench by a canal until he was rescued and resuscitated by the Cute Brigade. 

"No more ugly pill-testing", some of them would plead. "Let us do it for you", others would demand. They would bathe him and feed him pastries and sweet iced coffees until he started to make sense again. Then they would drag him to a club and feed him ecstasy pills like candy dots and make him dance until dawn. Then they would take him home, tie him up and fuck him all morning.

Victor needed this hefty mind-expansion to channel his viral masterpiece. He was, after all, trying to destroy Werstern Civilization. He surfed the web for hours, hacking into archives of the Vatican, the remnants of the Yippies,  and the Libertarian Party. He had to de-program himself and live naked in a sea of light. The Ultraworld seems to have some sort of prejudice for only channeling really druggy fucked up people.

After a few months, Victor needed to see a doctor and meet more mature people than these boys and girls who catered to his every whim.

They would sometimes offer to suck him off for a bag of weed or a pill and then leave without taking it. Ten minutes later another one would be back, or two even, and strip stark naked and attempt to sit on his face.

Fucking teens three times a day is both pretty fantastic and gross after a while. Kind of addicting too. You begin to feel like a king. Women over thirty might as well be corpses, snorting cocaine just brings you down, LSD makes you feel secure and safe, you could be on fire and not notice the pain through the pleasure.

The really young ones were scary though. A fourteen year-old Lolita still smells like a child and goes berserk when she spies a twenty-three year-old cock standing at attention for her little cunt. It was so erotic as to be heart-stopping. The pleasure so intense it brings stinging pain to the mind when it tries to catch up and comprehend the event rationally.

Victor awoke in Indiana in a wet spot. He lit a cigarette and leant back on his sofa awaiting the moment when Star Trek was on again. He was getting so demented lately that he actually enjoyed Deep Space Nine now as well. The television has sprouted bat wings and alien tentacles but Victor watched it anyway. Anything makes a nice break after dream-fucking teenagers on acid and reading philosophy all day and night.

 

Chapter 6: Part B

 

Even if it is no sane place to live, a vacation in Amsterdam is a real cure for the artistic or existential blahs. A walk through the streets inspires one to seek what is free. With it's funky fresh architecture and giant wooden stairs the city has a strong psychedelic appeal that would make it a must-see spot even if you couldn't score any drug on any street corner.

It's not too hard to see why The Dutch are so against the "German-style" drug policies pushed by the United States. Candyflipping, the city seems a cartoon fairy tale. The silicon implants in the breasts of the prostitutes radiate more love and warmth than the entire population of The United States.

Amsterdam, the capital of Western freedom. Amsterdam, the capital of human dignity. If every city was more like Amsterdam than human life might be worth preserving in tact.  

Donna and Gert-Jan were happy together and almost believing it. They knew nothing at all yet about the Supersloths. They enjoyed each other's company even though they openly hated each other's guts. There was a respect there that this trip would be their last dance, their last make-up in a series of break-ups.

Gert-Jan managed to stay relatively alcohol-free and loved up. He was doing it as a special favor to Donna and his utmost respect for her as the Queen Bitch of Universal Calamity. He only drank beer with meals, normally keeping it under 4 pints. It took all his strength to suppress his fear and dread of the future.

After lunching they would journey to a coffee shop and get a hazelnut coffee and smoke some super skunk before checking out the Rijksmuseum or another of the spots that litter the old city.

People in Amsterdam talk and point at the beauty inherent in art and laugh at the levity in their souls. The squares and the freaks intermingle and meld. The worker bees temporarily don three piece suits of painful remorse and vow to keep the country beautiful and free for the freaky artists.

And the artists are everywhere in Amsterdam. You can't spit without soaking a couple aspiring painters who all want to be the next Picasso. They are cool to hang out with for about a day or so before their impossibly complex neuroses become intolerable. They are all openly homosexual and not prone to psychotic tendencies, yet would sooner rape a crippled nun than put together a gallery opening or a show. Art for art's sake and no one else's.

Among these artists was a deformed young man named Marcus. He wore a gray turtleneck and hoody that hid what appeared to be several large third degree burns. He approached Gert-Jan and Donna smiling. Gert-Jan looked at him in the aghast horror of a five-year old spying a hairy monster about to eat him. The Artist looked like a big burnt hairy droopy breast and was carrying a paintbrush and palette.

"Hello Gert-Jan, I am Marcus The Artist, and I have survived the fiery pits of Hell", was his opening line of choice. 

"Oh yeah, I once survived the company in Indiana for three days", was Stanley's comeback.

"You laugh because you don't know. You weren't there with me. You have no knowledge of my ordeal. You wouldn't be laughing if I were you and you were me. I haven't had sex in seven years and no one checks out my bum when I exit McDonald's anymore. You won’t laugh when it’s Victor who gets burned like me, and you won't be laughing when he lies six feet under in the cold hard ground."

"Are you going to burn my soulmate Victor?" questioned Gert-Jan.

"Me? Heavens no. The fiery pits of Hell will burn him."

"Well if he's in Hell then he will be dead."

Marcus began to laugh and it looked like his head was going to slide off his body.

"You jump to too many conclusions for such a smart young lad. I am laughing now because I survived the fiery pits of Hell and lived. People freak at my body, but my alternative to these burns was non-existence."

Donna was exasperated with this talk and started digging in her purse for loose change.

"Why are you telling us this, dear?", she inquired looking up, "Do you need money for a new tableau or something?"

"Fuck art", Marcus replied and looked up at the sky and continued, "I am just here to relay a message to you about Victor. He will die and no one will know it because they will be too wrapped up in their own emotions at the time. You must save him. The world cannot continue to exist without him. Once he goes, everything good will turn bad."

"How do you know so much about Victor?"

"We were friends at the Seventh Heaven. Hooked me up with some wicked 2CB. I was given the gift of clairvoyance. In Hell when I searched for the Eternal Kodiak Bear of Pain. I know all about the future and your role in it. You gotta clean yourself up, my boy."

"Egads!", said Gert-Jan, this being one of his favorite colloquialisms in any language.

"The Eternal Something of Pain?  What the fuck is that?" mocked Donna.

I was in Hell searching for The Eternal Kodiak Bear of Pain. I wandered off into Hell and found it but not before Satan got me first.

So you found it, eh?", inquired Gert-Jan.

"No, I found Satan, as you will. Satan sucks, but he can't stand kodiak bears for some reason. It's too confusing for even a super-enlightened Supersloth like myself. Victor can sort you out. He doesn't have much of a choice. When you see him, tell him The Stranger is looking for him. And take these two hits of ecstasy tomorrow at the Chemical Brother's concert. It is a super refined crystalline negative MDMA substance we call AMOS. It will fuck you up nice and proper. Good to dance to, too, for a while anyway."

"Will do", said Gert-Jan and took the pills and placed them in his wallet.

The night before the Chemical Brothers show they went to an all night techno-trance club and decided to drop the AMOS even though Marcus was a particularly dodgy young punter and not to be entirely trusted.

Gert-Jan knew as soon as he bit into the pill that it was not MDMA, for one never forgets the horrible yet distinct flavor of this chemical. It tasted not like anything at all, maybe a bland salty powder. When Gert-Jan told Donna this she replied,

"Could be anything in there, dear. That man who scored us these pills was a right tit."

"I have a funny feeling we should take it, that's all. I recognize him from a strange dream."

"You are such a drug tart", was Donna's reply. "I think I'll wait and see what happens to you before dropping mine. I'm going to dance for a bit."

One hour and three drinks later, Gert-Jan felt the buzz rush and immediately skipped out to the dance floor. Sarah relaxed and dropped her pill and strode out alongside him with her drink and they fell helplessly into the enormous and speedy booming bass lines of junglism.

Gert-Jan was in heaven. Sarah was sober but happy to see her old Gert-Jan back again, happily taking merry drugs and dancing instead of drowning himself in liquor and self-loathing.

Suddenly Gert-Jan knew something was wrong. He had known all along the drug wasn't an E-bomb or anything like it. He was inwardly hoping that it wasn't an alien spore that would mutate him into an evil grasshopper-man. But it felt good up to that point so he didn't especially care.

He grooved for an hour and  when he should have been peaking and phreaking, he started to get a little ill. Then he started getting a lot ill. Then he was face to face with Satan battling for his sanity. Gert-Jan was quickly vanquished.

This is not what the rest of the people in the club saw however. They couldn't see that his brain was undergoing thermal meltdown nor feel the hot and stale crack breath of Satan on their faces. They only saw his stomach suddenly empty its contents onto the dance floor. Red and yellow ooze erupted onto wooden floors.

The crowd around him continued to groove on once he hit the floor, only a few dancers stopping to see if he was still alive or not.

Other groovers remarked loudly and poignantly that Gert-Jan was a twat and a has-been who was getting what he deserved for quitting the decks at so young an age.

"He coulda been a player!", shouted a particularly annoying New York club kid on vacation. "I used to dream about your sets and now I only dream of sorrow!"

As Satan gripped his meat hooks into Gert-Jan's lifeless soul and began to shred him like an Oliver North war crime document, Gert-Jan body began to sweat a mixture of vomit, blood and bile from his pores.

If you are trying to picture the scene think H.R. Geiger on DMT on Pluto.

A crowd of dazed groovers encircled him and watched as he lay wriggling and convulsing on the floor. Some of them were sympathizing with him and some were just staring disapprovingly as if to say "passing out dancing and seeping blood from your orifices went out with the Happy  Mondays."

Donna, getting tired of repeatedly asking the mostly rhetorical question "are you all right?" to the convulsing mass of flesh that once represented a boy named Gert-Jan Theunisse, now realized the answer was a resounding "No Way!" and fucked off to get some help.

Gert-Jan, unconscious as he was, managed to focus on a single shining thought. He had recognized Marcus the Artist from a dream, a terrible dream, and he now knew that this act was a deliberate one and his worst nightmare might come true. He had to warn Victor!

Donna, knowing that she would be in the same state soon herself, got doubly nervous and started puking and screaming for help at the same time. Several members of the Cute Brigade were in attendance and pushed through the ring of dancers to catch a glimpse of the scene and then recoiled in horror like angels witnessing a murder.

Soon the paramedics were on the scene and they carted off what was left of them to the hospital. Due to their 90's lifestyle, they tested positive for almost every single street drug available and Donna was deported back to England immediately for psychiatric treatment while Gert-Jan had to call his cute and loyal retinue to help him escape from the rehab hospital.

"What's happened Gert-Jan?" questioned Tobias, the unofficial leader of The Cute Brigade, a beautiful blond boy with long hair and eyes like cobalt.

"I was being fucked up the ass by Satan", replied Gert-Jan.

Tobias eyes widened and then glazed.

"Why do you say such things, master?"

"Because they are true, that's why."

"Why was Satan fucking your ass then?"

"I don't know, but I can assure you it wasn't very pleasant. Satan's got a huge horny pecker."

"Then I would rather be fucked by you then Satan any day", replied the boy as he removed his shirt.

"Not now. I need some drugs. I could be up for a go if I had some coke,  but I'm not in the mood right now. Go buy me some while I pack. I am going to need to get pretty loaded if I am to pass for normal at the airport."

"Airport!" cried Tobias, "Where are you going?"

"Alaska. I need to meditate in the last known spot of Vurt Vlassic, a quirky adventurer that found a secret portal in space-time to a mysterious land of lost artifacts."

"But you cannot leave!" Tobias wailed, "you just got back!"

"I am on vacation! I cannot live in Holland, it's just not French enough for me."

"Then I will come and live as your lackey."

"Okay, If I ever make it back to Cassis alive you can come and be my servant. I'll give you a call. It'll be great. I never had such a cute and eager domestique before."

Tobias parted and Gert-Jan scrambled around his room trying to collect his belongings. He hid a bar of cellophane-wrapped hash in a plastic travel soap case and hoped for the best. He had only been caught once at a border with drugs, and he didn't ever want to repeat the experience.

The boy returned and handed Gert-Jan a bag of white powder. Gert-Jan cut a hefty line and tooted it up.

Tobias cocked his small round head and attempted to sound intelligent. "Freud snorted up a small mountain back when it was legal".

"Yeah but cocaine is a very powerful and evil concentrated herb that is to be treated as such. Coke is not for kicks. It's for making you go when you can't but must. And it gives a total shit-head the ego of a General."

Tobias looked genuinely uninterested in Gert-Jan's morality speech as he eyed the contents of the plastic bag.

"Can I please blow some coke? You know I'll suck you off for it. I love to have your cum in my belly, it makes me high."

"OK, but hurry up, I'm gonna miss my flight."

Gert-Jan caressed Tobias' nipples and made them erect before he took a pinch of the white powder and held it under the boy's nose. He snorted it up and tears fell down his face. He smiled and Gert-Jan licked the tears from his face.  

As young Tobias wrapped his plump red boy lips around Gert-Jan's knob and started sucking, Gert-Jan began to think of Donna and how he would probably never see her again, either. When he felt the young tongue slide up and down his shift and the small hands grasp his balls, he whimpered and fell lax almost loosing his bowels. Gert-Jan figured this lad's mouth may be the last sex he ever has if Marcus the Artist succeeds in killing him in Prudhoe Bay...

...although maybe he was not trying to kill him, but simply attempting to scare him into hiding... or worse yet maybe the dude was actually on his side and trying to awaken him to the horrors of his new life mission...

Gert-Jan gasped and felt his hips contract and milk rise to the tip of his cock and spray into the boy's mouth.

"Finished yet? I gotta go!" Gert-Jan quipped as he pulled up trousers.

He then laughed and took the bag of coke from his pocket and tossed it casually on the bed, spilling a bit. He walked to the window and grabbed his travel bag beside the desk.

"When are you coming back to Amsterdam to lead us to Utopia?" the boy asked his beloved techno idol.

Gert-Jan thought about whether or not he would ever see the boy again and walked towards the door. He felt he had to say something positive. He could think of nothing.

As he left he turned around to catch a final glance, Tobias was standing right behind him. The bag of coke on the bed was gone. He kissed the boy sensuously on the lips and hugged him.

"There is no Utopia, Tobias. There is only murder and suicide."