The Trigger Warning #11



Slowly. Steadily. Carefully extracting the clear naphtha layer the from purple-brown mash. “Mash” isn’t a technical term, but then I’m a trained pastry chef, – not a chemist.

Making dimethyltryptamine at home is about as complicated as whipping up a batch of Rice Crispy Treats, – but it does take time, and there is some technique involved.

My first batch turned out okay, and I nailed the second …

Of course, this is fiction.

This, the eleventh installment of The Trigger Warning is pure fiction.

A writing exercise prompted by, (what do they call it on WordPress) … The Daily Prompt?

The word was, Slowly. And slowly the words come, at first, and then a bit faster. That I am writing about a drug classified as a Schedule One Narcotic is just a coincidence. Words and images purged from  a brain that has absorbed too many Youtube videos.  Been taken on too many walks through the blinking, beeping casinos  just to get out of the heat. You get off a 4 hour shift of randomly calling people on the telephone and asking them how many children live in their household; then ride the bus down The Las Vegas Strip on your way home in the ghetto, then come and tell me the words and images coming  to you in the morning don’t tend toward the psychedelic …

Anyway, – I call bullshit on DMT!

But you judge for yourself.

I don’t know what you would compare it to,  I can compare it  to a Full Blown Kundalini Awakening,   and I can tell you without reservation, – a fifteen minute trip on DMT pales in comparison.

The funny thing is, I recommend you try dimethyltryptamine if you should ever get the chance; while  I would caution you not to force open a  Kundalini Awakening unless you are a seasoned seeker of the truth.

I’ve been thinking about going back to dealing poker.

After ten years of pitching cards, I was burned out. My back was killing me and my spirit ached. The game of poker is an accurate societal indicator. Poker used to a game where people of every race, creed and color –  from all walks of life, from all around the world, could sit down at a table and politely try to trick each other out of their money …

But no more.

Most players don’t even bother to bath before sitting down for a session of play. Protocol and decorum have gone out the window. Desperation has set in. It seems like nobody can take a loss without having a fit, and of course, – blaming the dealer.

Has  no one read  Kipling’s IF, and learned the hard lessons of that poem?

Whatever happened to those colorful characters that blew into town with bags full of cash and a twinkle in their eye? Where is the kid ready to make a “hero call”,  lose, and laugh about it? Even the drunks have all become  an infestation of tight little nits, folding every hand after the flop.

Conversation has been replaced by staring down at cell phones. Or by , vulgar, verbal diarrhea … I don’t know which is more annoying.  And the women, – worse than the men! Society is sliding down a hill of Cultural Marxist bullshit on it’s way down to a burning swamp of tribalism and the game of poker is a canary in a coalmine, letting us know that it’s all over, – the social engineers have won. We all think in binary terms of black and white, nobody thinks for themselves, everyone looks for the nearest consensus and holds onto it like a life preserver in a shipwreck.

And with it’s dyeing breath the canary sings!

Get out of Dodge! Run to the hills! A shit storm is coming! Take shelter!

The storm will come, and the winds will howl, but in the end everything will be alright. It will clear out the old, and make room for the new … with a little luck.

With a lot of luck.

Pretty sure this time next year I’ll be dealing poker.



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