Ship stranded on Tau Ceti F.
My memories of getting to Vince’s rental house in Blacktown, western Sydney are pretty much nonexistent. I remember walking home from the New Theatre and picking up Haidi, Kerryn, Sam and perhaps Gabrielle. And I know that as I got closer to Vince’s, I became more and more excited and nervous.
When we arrived, Vince and his girlfriend Melanie already had guests- a big burly chap with long, straggly blond hair and a few others. Rebecca and co. would show up a little later, having been deeply lost for nearly an hour.
The acid was a little square with a glyph of some sort on it, and it cost me about twenty-five bucks. I do remember having a moment of naked, full-on fear as I put it in my mouth, wondering if the changes wrought by this drug would be more than I could take.
The house itself was a three-bedroom fibro cottage, and Vince’s landlord was a prick, so he’d announced that the walls were up for anything: art, demolition, whatever. Art won, mostly.
I guess it’s different for everyone, but the onset of acid that night was like seeing a distant car in your rear-view mirror, noticing that each time you spot it, it’s closer to you, gaining, but almost invisibly so. And then, WHAM! It blasts past you on the highway. And your mind is completely, utterly gone.
I, too have wandered Sydney’s streets, wild on LSD. I was lucky enough not be attacked by thugs, lucky enough not to do stupid shit. Lucky enough to not encounter the fucking police.
Lucky enough not to then be chased by the most corrupt, contemptuous and fucking worthless police force in Australian history.
I was lucky not to be killed by these state sanctioned bullies while I was on LSD.
I was lucky my parents did not have to hear the vile lies and limp justifications of these same murderous, bungling monters, who return to their lives and jobs as if nothing had happened, and have the gall to justify their savagery at an inquest.
I was lucky they didn’t have to hear the idiotic sound bytes about LSD by psychiatrists hired, no doubt, by the police union.
To him I would say: I’m sorry. I’m sorry our police let you down. I’m sorry you were so afraid. I’m sorry your friends couldn’t look after you, as they fucking should have. I’m sorry our police, armed with tasers and capsicum spray, killed you “by accident” because their training is useless and their anger is unchecked.
I’m sorry that the inquest will be regretful, but will change nothing.
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What a bunch of f-