Seeing as I'm in the most laid back hostel that ever existed, I decide to see if I can get ahold of a certain cactus derived substance that's quite rare North of the border. Mescaline. A potent hallucinogen found in peyote and san pedro catci. Word to the adventurous, san pedro can be legally bought in the United States and is easily converted into a drinkable tonic. Never having experienced this delicacy, I head off into the back neighborhoods. The easiest way to get into mischief is to find other like minded ne'er-do-wells so I pop into a local bar with a cute, albeit slightly pudgy bartender.
One, two, three cervezas later I've questioned everyone in the bar to no avail. No one knows where to score any mescalina. Well balls. I go out to my bike and begin to work the combination lock, but with a little buzz going on it takes me longer than usual. Just enough time for a 4 foot 9 inch mexican prostitute with a speech impediment to walk up to me.
I shit you not, the following is true.
She starts talking to me in spanish. Except it doesn't sound like spanish. It sounds like a mexican Kermit the Frog with a mouth that has sucked far too many dicks. Her mouth is filled with silver teeth, scars on her lips, breath like a sewer rat, and the body of a twelve year old boy.
I've had worse.
Tonight though, I'd like to avoid a morning dose of penicillin. She offers her sevices which I quickly decline. She lowers the price from 4 dollars to 2. As tempting as this close out sale is, I continue to say, "no gracias". Unless she has mescaline, peyote, or some other potent mind fuck, I ain't buying.
What's that you say, street whore? Through drowning cat spanish she leads me to believe she knows where to get it. Well lets vamos! I hand her one american dollar as a tip and she stares at it like she just won the lottery. That dollar... That was too much for what happened next.
She leads me to bar after bar where pimps try and throw scores of whores my direction. Every time I ask for mescaline it leads to a 10 minute conversation of, "NO GOD DAMMIT! I don't want a slag, a shot of mezcal, or a donkey show! I want mescaline do you understand!? Peyote! Alucinogentes, COMPRENDE!?"
This is fucking useless, and on top of that she keeps wanting to kiss me. Everytime she catches me by surprise and shoves her tongue down my throat I taste the cock of 500 dirty mexicans before me. It takes every bit of southern politeness and congeniality to not puke down her esophagus. Every dead end she leads me too, she gives me the same promise that the magic cacti is just around the corner.
Finally I run into a guy, Isaac, who speaks english. He's selling mezcal and chupalines from a street stand. I ask him for any ANY hallucinogens or where to get them. The dude is mad chill and tells me he'll look and to come back in an hour. I ditch the street walker and return a half hour later.
-"Nah dude, I checked but you can't get any of that around here. Just mota and blow."
"Aw dammit. Thanks though... So, umm, ya wanna smoke some pot?"
-"Fuck yea white-o! Lets go!"
He hands me a shot of mezcal for the road. It burns like fire and makes my hair stand on end. I eat a chupaline, a grasshopper covered in chile to get rid of the taste. Once done we score nearly 50 oz of green and smoke on his roof.
-"You know whitey, you're the first white guy I smoke with."
I look at him, take a puff from his aztec pipe and say, "Well dude, you're the first mexican I smoked with who I didn't think was gonna rob me."
We both laugh, and enjoy our newfound international friendship.
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