These two words, our bat-signal to the apartment, usually begin each day for us now that the project is in full swing. When I woke to them in yesterday's text from Quux, I knew it meant more recording that day (we haven't been recording at night to avoid undue attention). I should have seen the night coming.
Most nights so far have been Quux and I getting lit, emptying some bottles, and mixing the day's work. Sometimes it's all three of us, choking on the ever-thickening smoke cloud, horsing around, spilling beers, pissing out the window, and flaring up in arguments over whose tracks are loud enough or whose turn it is to do a quick scan for cops (nobody ever wants to, it's a creepy building to roam alone at night).
As it was a Friday, we came to play. Bar unloaded an assortment of six-packs and liquor and said he'd be back later with food and to put down some riffs. Quux and I got to work. Hours went by, still with no word from Bar. Eventually we figured he wasn't coming back, said fuck him and invited a couple of friends to finish out the evening.
By midnight, most of the beer was gone and we were onto the booze. Suddenly, we heard a maniacal scream and laugh in the hallway and BANG, the door comes crashing in, followed by a Cheshire-grinned Bar hoisting bags of burgers in his right hand and ziplock bags in his left.
"Surprise, assholes! Didja miss me?" he belted.
"You muthafucker!" yelled Quux as he lobbed a beer can at Bar's head, "Gimme a fuckin' burger and what's in the fuckin' baggies?! And you broke the fuckin' DOOR!"
Bar, ducking the can, flings the baggies at him. Bud in one, shrooms in the other. Cool.
Having had so many beers already, I passed on the shrooms and tamped some of the bud instead. The party carried on as I noodled away on my bass. Got some really bad tingles washing over me and I closed my eyes for a second, then it was gone. But everyone was looking at me. "What?" I muttered.
"Dude, you've been passed out for like 15 minutes," laughed one of the friends, "but you were playing the whole time!".
"WHAT?! Did anybody record it?!" I asked. But before an answer came, I felt a tidal wave of puke rolling up within. Or so I thought. The next three hours were a haze of cold sweat and hanging my head out a window, trying to puke to no avail. Finally I managed to pass out on a cold, dusty, concrete floor in one of the back rooms.
I woke to the bustle of the urban morning below, and an obnoxious fart and groan from the front room. Eventually I summoned my wits to get up and move around. Someone at some point had kindly dragged me out to the carpetted hallway and thrown my heavy coat over me, else I'd have surely died from exposure. Staggering back to the main room, head swimming, I belly-laughed at the appaling scene of four rotting, bloated bodies sprawled over each other, bespeckled by beer cans of all colors, a festering pile of fast-food garbage on the mixing table, and the effluvium of puke stench wafting in from somewhere.
Kicking Bar repeatedly in the ass, I harped, "Hey fucker, what was in that shit?"
"Whu??" he whimpered.
"The weed! What was in that shit?!"
"Didja like it?"